As we pass the entryway to the living room, I try not to look at the formal family photo hanging above the fireplace, but my eyes wander over to it anyway. Shiri is thirteen and smirking. Randall Junior is haggard, in his last year of medical school. Auntie Mina is glamorous in a flowing burgundy dress. Uncle Randall stands behind her, smiling proudly, one hand on her shoulder.
I used to think he was dashing, and that they lived in a palace. When I’d spend the night with Shiri when we were kids, I’d pretend I lived here too. I thought she had everything.
It was only recently that I found out I was wrong. Of course she didn’t have everything. And some of the things she had, nobody in their right mind would want.
The oak table in their formal dining room is already set, but we pass it by and go into the den. Or, as Shiri called it, her dad’s man-cave. The décor is all dark wood and forest-green leather with mounted fish on plaques on the wall. Dad eyes the fish but doesn’t make his usual whispered joke to Mom about how they probably came out of an overpriced catalog. Instead, he jams his hands into his pockets and quietly whistles the first few notes from “Under the Sea.” Mom shushes him, but one side of her mouth is twitching. I stare at my feet, terrified that Uncle Randall’s going to notice and figure out the joke. Say something snide, even nasty. But he doesn’t seem to pick up on it.
“Have a seat, guys. Ali, Debby, can I mix you a drink?” Uncle Randall strides to the bar at one end of the room, where Auntie Mina is setting out bowls of nuts. With an unnecessary flourish, he pulls out a shiny metal tumbler and lid, and a matching ice bucket and shot glass. Show-off.
I try not to think about the fact that as a kid, I used to love watching him do that.
“Sunshine? I could mix you a Shirley Temple.”
I nod. I’m mortified, but I’m not sure whether it’s because Uncle Randall just called me by my full name, which I hate, or because I’ve just been offered a beverage suitable for a five-year-old.
Mom and I sit on two of the chair-backed stools next to the bar, and Dad stands behind Mom. I take a token sip of my cloyingly sweet Shirley Temple, remembering how Shiri and I used to pour them into martini glasses, sipping at them theatrically and pretending we were rich people at a fancy party. We’d spin around on the barstools until we were dizzy, but we only did that when Uncle Randall wasn’t there.
Everywhere in this house is choked with memories.
Suddenly I realize the room has gone silent. When I look up, everyone’s still—staring at their drinks, the floor, everywhere but each other. The tension feels almost tangible, like fog filling the air.
Auntie Mina is crying. She’s holding the scrapbook we gave her, the one I should have helped with more, and tears are flowing down her cheeks and staining her green blouse. I clench my jaw, not wanting to watch but unable to turn away. Mom’s sniffling a little herself, helping Auntie Mina flip through the decorated pages of photos and handwritten memories. Uncle Randall peers over the bar for a closer look. I don’t want to see his reaction, so I get up, walk toward the nearest wall, and pretend to be very interested in a freeze-dried marlin. I try to focus on the fish, staring into its reflective, laminated surface.
I do a little meditation breathing, in and out, deeply and evenly, until for just one moment—a perfect moment—I’m not really there in the room, but simply a body and mind existing in space. Just me.
In that silent moment I hear someone, and it’s Auntie Mina this time.
oh, Shiri, my baby—
With the words comes a burst of incoherent emotion. Anguish, like a scab accidentally ripped open. Pain that makes my heart race in sympathy. And, for some reason that I don’t want to think about, can’t think about—fear.
I come back to myself, shaken, and find I’m staring at the reflection of the room in the glassy surface of the fish. There’s sweat on the back of my neck and I feel uncomfortably warm.
I turn my head. Mom is looking at me a little strangely, but everyone else is still absorbed by the scrapbook or lost in their own thoughts. I give my hair a little pat as if I was just settling it back into place, try to smile reassuringly at Mom, and make a beeline for my Shirley Temple. On the way, I look at the clock on the wall and sigh. Sliding back onto the barstool, I reach for my drink with a trembling hand. Two hours left. No way out of here. And that scared feeling still hasn’t fully gone away, but seems to have settled between my shoulder blades like a cold hand.
We all race through dinner in relative silence, as if we’re in a hurry to get somewhere. The only real “conversation” consists of Uncle Randall trying to convince my dad that he should have voted for some congresswoman because of her sense of fiscal responsibility, my dad nodding but obviously not listening and my mom butting in to say “fiscal responsibility begins at home,” looking pointedly at the imported Waterford crystal vase in the middle of the table. That effectively kills the mood.
I try to imagine being Shiri, sitting here, having to deal with this every day of her life. Even after she moved away, it didn’t seem to help. But why not? I press down my mashed potatoes with my fork as if I can squeeze an answer out.
After we finish eating, the table is a disaster zone of crumpled white linen napkins, silverware sitting on empty china plates, and bread crumbs on the tablecloth. With a satisfied smile on his face, Uncle Randall starts regaling my parents with the story of how Randall Number Two met his latest piece of arm candy, some convoluted misadventure involving a blind date and mistaken identity that sounds completely exaggerated. I jump up to help Auntie Mina clear the scraps of prime rib and curried mashed potatoes from the dining room. We both try to move through the kitchen doorway at the same time, and jostle one another.
“Sorry!” I back away and let her through ahead of me with a stack of dirty plates. As I follow her through the wooden saloon-style doors, my eyes fall on an oval bruise, nearly an inch long, yellowing the brown skin of her left shoulder.
“What happened?” I point at the bruise, wincing a little in sympathy.
“Oh, that?” Auntie Mina deposits the plates on the marble countertop next to the sink and pulls her green cardigan back up so it covers the bruise again. “I was cleaning the den yesterday and one of your uncle’s silly fish fell while I was dusting it. Can you believe it? Is that stupid or what?”
“Ouch,” I say. I drop my load of dishes next to hers and start pouring tea into the cups sitting ready on the kitchen island. Something feels weird about this conversation. The tension in my shoulders returns full force.
“Those fish are such an eyesore,” she continues, running water on the plates and raising her voice to be heard over the garbage disposal. “It’s not as though he caught them himself—the CFO of our company goes fishing in Ensenada every year. Randall goes with him sometimes, but he’s not much of a fisherman.” Uncle Randall is the Vice President of Finance at an investment firm, and Auntie Mina works there doing something in financial data analysis. I can’t picture either of them on a fishing boat.
“Randall’s dream is to make the den look like a fishing lodge.” She rolls her eyes. “A fishing lodge!” Suddenly, she slams a cup down on the marble countertop with such a clatter I’m scared it’s going to break. I jump, nearly spilling boiling tea.
“And Randall Junior just encourages him.” There’s a note of exasperation, of outright hostility, in her voice that I’ve never heard before, and it’s shocking. Auntie Mina’s always been the mild one in our family, even when compared to Dad. Shiri and I, and Number Two, were the loud mischief-makers, climbing up a tree onto the patio roof and hiding out or trying to spray passing cars with silly string.