Freaky Green Eyes Read Free Page A

can expect from my wife is emotional support, I guess?”
    â€œYes, Reid. You’re right.”
    â€œAm I right ‘with a kiss’?”—this was one of Dad’s favorite things he’d say to all of us. You had to laugh at Dad—it wasn’t enough for you to agree with him (even when he wasn’t one-hundred-percent right) but you had to kiss him on the cheek, too.
    Mom had laughed, giving in. Mostly Dad was so funny, you did give in.
    You would think that Dad would take us all traveling with him, but actually that wasn’t the case. Except for summer vacations of maybe two–three weeks. Because Dad was so busy, and TV competition was “cutthroat” (Dad ran his forefinger across his throat when he uttered these words, with a certain zest like he enjoyed the feel of an invisible razor), he hadn’t much time to himself. That was why he disapproved of Mom taking Samantha and me to visit our grand-parents in Portland just for a few days. (Something must have happened between Dad and the Connors, because my mom’s family almost never came to Seattle to visit us. Nobody ever stayed at our house as guests except sometimes friends or professional acquaintancesof Dad’s.) I guess Dad was old-fashioned at heart—he didn’t like anybody in the family traveling far. Like when Mom’s older sister, Vicky, was hospitalized with dysentery in Mexico City a few years ago, Dad said, “See what happens when you leave the U.S.? Especially a lone spinster.” Dad was joking but always he was serious, too.
    I asked my brother Todd why’s it such a big deal with Dad, if Mom goes away for a few days? “It isn’t like Mom is flying to the moon,” I said. “She’s coming right back.”
    But Todd always took Dad’s side in any disagreement. He said, with this put-upon-older-brother expression of his, “’Cause Dad wants Mom home.” Like that was all it was: so simple.
    Anyway, Mom had left for Santa Barbara that morning. At the time of the Good News Celebration she was one thousand miles south of Seattle. When she called home, she said, sounding guilty as a naughty little girl, “It’s summer here, can you believe it? The ocean is shimmering and beautiful. I’ve beenwalking barefoot along the beach. . . .”
    Here it was cold, misty, and mushroom gray, like there was a sticky membrane over everything. Typical spring weather in the Pacific Northwest.
    I loved Dad’s Good News Celebrations. But I couldn’t help wishing that Mom had taken me with her.
    Just this once! To the Santa Barbara Arts & Crafts Fair. Where we could slip away and walk barefoot along the beach . . .
    On the phone, Mom had said hesitantly, “Francesca, please say hello and love to your father, will you? I can’t seem to reach him through his office or cell phone. He hates e-mail messages unless they’re business. But he knows how proud I am of him. . . . Francesca?”
    â€œSure, Mom. I’ll tell him.”
    There was something strange about this conversation. I didn’t want to think about it at the time. An almost inaudible quavering sound to Mom’s voice. Like she is pleading with me. Why?
    â€œLove ya, honey!”
    â€œLove you, Mom.”
    It was our usual sign-off. It was really hard for Mom and me to say “love” like we meant it, even when we meant it; the words had to be jokey, casual.
    When I tried to relay Mom’s message to Dad that evening, he waved me quiet. “No hypocrisy, ‘Fran-ces-ca.’ Now that your mother is absent from this house, let’s have some integrity, please.”
    Dad usually called me Franky. When he called me Fran-ces-ca in that emphatic way, it meant that he was mocking Mom, who called me Francesca and never Franky.
    Todd heard this and sniggered. He knew what Dad was doing.
    Samantha heard and just looked from one of us to the other. Too young to gauge