Can't Go Without Page 3

  “Yes, room 3716 at 9:30 a.m. Just send up one of everything… and a pitcher of mimosas.”

  Thursday squeals and says, “Mmmmm,” licking her lips.

  “Yes, then at 10:30, send up a masseuse. Doesn’t matter. Male or female. Whoever’s available,” I explain, finally buttoning my pants. “Perfect. Thanks. Yeah, just put it all on my bill. Yep, O’Donnell. Thanks. Later.” I replace the phone to the cradle, feeling lousy.

  “Well, aren’t you just pulling out all the stops,” she says, rolling over to the edge of the bed. I pull my hand away, just as she’s about to grab it.

  “Listen, I had a great night. Good times. But, I’ve got an early morning. The room’s yours,” I say, tucking in my shirt.

  “What?” she asks incredulously, and bolts upright in the bed. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yeah, but enjoy the room… have fun,” I say, grabbing my keys.

  “Tristan! Wait,” she yells, as I stop without turning around. “That’s it? We didn’t even do it,” she says in a whiny high-pitched pout.

  I turn around and look at her, sadly, “Yeah, I’m just not into it tonight.”

  “Will I see you again?” she asks. I can see the familiar look of remorse setting in on her face, as her eyes look at me with hope and desperation.

  I need to seal the deal, make sure she doesn’t come looking for me, doesn’t try to latch on to me, like a lost homeless little puppy. “Not if I can help it,” I remark, turning toward the door.

  “You asshole,” she yells. “Fuck you!” Not turning around, I nod, and walk out of the hotel room.

  I hear something shatter against the door just as it closes behind me. I hope it’s the hotel glass and not the rest of the Cuervo. That’d be such a waste.

  “Anything else, Mr. O’Donnell?”

  “Nah, I’m good Lafferty. Thanks for picking me up,” I say gratefully.

  Growing up, the only person the O’Donnell kids could truly count on was our driver, Lafferty. He was more than a driver; he became our butler, our “manny,” our confidante, and most importantly our friend. Niles Lafferty has gotten me out of my fair share of problems throughout my life. I owe him and then some.

  “I must say, sir, I haven’t seen you this inebriated in quite some time,” Lafferty states. “But it is refreshing how responsible you are whenever you’ve had a wee bit too much.” Imagine that. My driver knows how responsibly I drink, but my own father thinks I’m a drug-using alcoholic who can’t keep it in his pants.

  When Piper was really young, just a tad older than a toddler, she refused to call my father, “Daddy,” because she was convinced Lafferty was her dad. My parents put Lafferty “on paid leave” until Piper understood who her real father was. It took six weeks; she kept crying that her real daddy left her. When Lafferty returned, Piper was sad and skittish. She had no idea how to treat him.

  About a year or two later, Piper started calling Lafferty “otosan.” We had a Japanese gardener who taught Piper certain Japanese words. One of the first words she wanted to know was “father.” She immediately started using her nickname for Lafferty without ever getting into trouble. Man, she couldn’t have been older than five or six when she realized our dad was a piss-poor excuse for a father.

  I however took much longer to figure it out. I was seventeen when I realized who my parents really were. My dad took me on a business trip to Austin, Texas. He thought it was time I learned how real businessmen negotiated and spent their time on the links, golfing and carousing with clients. It wasn’t as exciting as I envisioned it to be.

  Around 6:00 p.m. on our first night there, my father gave me 100 bucks and told me to go find something to do. I was 17-years-old in downtown Austin, and had no idea what to do or where to go. I tried to get into a few dive bars, but it was a no go. I ended up walking around by myself for a few hours and then headed back to the hotel room, three hours earlier than I was told to do so. Not thinking anything of my early arrival, I swiped into our room, only to find some woman, some ugly-ass, middle-aged whore, riding my father for all she was worth. He threw the remote control at me and told me to “get the fuck out.” I slept on the couch in the lobby until 3:00 a.m. when my father finally decided to come and get me.

  Each night, we met Jenny Mimslee for dinner, and then I was given 100 bucks to disappear for a while. By the end of the week, my father had landed his client, Jenny’s aging, ailing husband, and I was four hundred dollars richer from the hundred bucks he floated me each night. On the flight home, my father announced that I never saw a thing and that if I gave him a week, he’d have the crotch-rocket motorcycle I’d been begging for.

  I think the weeklong waiting period was more of a loyalty initiation; my dad was biding his time to see if I was going to squeal like a pig to my mom. Once the motorcycle was in my possession and I’d gotten a few good, thrill-seeking rides out of it, I sold it to a friend for $5.00—five measly bucks. That’s twice as much as I thought it was worth. Then, I took my mom to a spa for the day with my “dirty lechery” money. During our “healthy” dinner at the funky seaweed spa, I dropped the bomb on my mother, holding her hand for support.

  My mom looked me in the eyes, jerked her hand out of mine, her nostrils flaring, eyes squinting, and she said, “You know nothing. You saw nothing. Period. End of discussion.”

  I was the oldest, but I learned the latest that my parents were some fucked up people with no sense of morality. I guess I could believe that my father was a lecher, but I was stunned that my mom was a spineless Stepford wife. I thought she was stronger and more independent than that. Man, was I wrong, so fucking wrong.

  Ironically, a month later, in my high school American literature course, we began Arthur Miller’s A Death of a Salesman. The parallels in Biff’s and my life were eerily astounding. I related to him like I’d never related to a fictional character before. I even saw so much of Happy’s character in Adrian. I was convinced that the play was written about us. We were the Lomans, the Lomans with money that is. Too bad my dad hadn’t offed himself after all that, making all of our lives better.

  I wrote a paper, an allegory really, of how the O’Donnells were the modern-day Lomans, earning a 100% on the composition. I even submitted the same essay for college admissions, as well as scholarship consideration. Everyone raved about how wise and introspective it was. Luckily, my parents never wanted to share my successes, so they never even bothered to ask about the essay or the scholarships. The essay was phenomenal, insightful, despite its accurate depiction of the deterioration of not only the American dream but of what I believed was my “dream family.”

  “Will there be anything else Mr. O’Donnell?” Lafferty asks, bringing me back from my reverie.

  “No thanks, Lafferty. It’s all good,” I say, walking toward the doorman of my apartment high rise. Stopping, I turn and add, “Thanks again for picking me up ‘otosan.’ I really appreciate it.” Lafferty’s head bobs; the emotion is evident on his face as he closes the passenger side door. I’ve never used Piper’s name for him before. Looks like it’s time for some changes in my life.

  Just as I’m about to enter the lion’s den, aka O’Donnell Industries, to meet with Chet O’Donnell, my phone rings. It’s my father’s ringtone; My Wish, by Rascal Flatts, sings from my satchel. My dad is the one person who can ease my fears and ignite a sense of pride and confidence in me.

  “Hi Dad, what’s up?” I ask, walking to a bench outside of the building.

  “Hi Leah-wouldn’t-wanna-be-ya!” he shouts in the phone, jovially. And there it is, the complete annihilation of all my fears and qualms. Most people would describe my father as a grumbling, crotchety, old curmudgeon, a Walter Matthau-type character of sorts. However, those people don’t know the real Vincent Franchetti, a hale and hearty fellow. I wouldn’t say that he’s a big, lovable teddy bear either; he is quite cranky 98% of the time.

  “You would wanna be me, because I rock!” I giggle out my expected line. Jill started this phrase
, this banter when I entered an art contest and was too terrified to read the finalists’ names.

  Jill opened the envelope, looked at me, and said, “Leah, I wouldn’t wanna be ya.” I shrugged my shoulders, knowing that I didn’t make the finals. Then she grinned and said, “Yes, I would, because you rock. Repeat that.” Jill truly made me repeat it over and over again before she revealed to me that I had in fact made it to the final judging of my art pieces. Then the phrase became a “boost Leah” thing. I’ve needed quite a bit of boosting in my lifetime.

  “Well, gas is $2.97 a gallon at the station on the corner,” my dad says, “thought you might swing by after your… your… meeting.”

  This is my dad’s way of telling me that he’s thinking of me and wants to see me after I meet with Chet O’Donnell. “Sure, I was coming by anyway. I got ya a sandwich from Dirk’s,” I reply.

  “Thatta girl,” my dad compliments. “You do rock, Leah. Don’t let that bastard get to ya. Get in there. Do what you need to do, say what you need to say, and get out.”

  “Thanks Dad. I love you,” I say, feeling more confident.

  “You too kiddo. You too,” my dad replies, before hanging up the phone.

  My dad is an irritable man of few words, but to Jill and me, he’s the world. Growing up, he was pretty distant, never talked to us much, never did the “dad” thing, so to speak. Then, during my freshman year of high school, my mom’s remission ended; the cancer was back, and back with a vengeance. This time, the cancer decided it wasn’t taking any prisoners; it was annihilating all of us in one big, final swoop. The cancer attacked all of my mom’s organs, nearly at once, destroying each and every one of us.

  Looking back, I realized we were cocky the first time around when I was in middle school. My dad, sister, and I listened as the doctors told us that my mother, Marianne Franchetti, talented artist by day and doting wife and mother by night, had Stage 3 breast cancer. We’d seen so many movies, television shows, and whatnot we knew it was going to be a tough year—18 months max. However, we never doubted that she was going to beat it.

  This was Mary Franchetti we were talking about. Nothing kept her down. After two years of treatments, skin-frying radiation and chemo cocktails, my mom’s cancer was gone. Just as we all knew it would be. Sure, she lost her hair, lost her big roly-poly belly, and lost much of her feisty presence, but our lives really didn’t change—nothing changed. The Franchettis didn’t stop or slow down; this was just another bump in the road, another obstacle to make us stronger when we got out, relatively unscathed, on the other side. We went about our lives as if my mom was going to live forever. Or so we thought…

  Nearly three years later, during my freshman year, I was sitting blissfully happy in my Art 1 class, learning about the different effects of brush strokes, which I could’ve taught in my sleep since I’d watched and learned from my mother throughout my entire life. More realistically, I was really flirting shamelessly with one of the senior teacher aids from the Art 4 class. When I looked up from my notorious, notice-me-hair-flips, I saw my sister at the art room door. Being a senior at the time, Jill tried to avoid me at all costs, pretending that she didn’t have a little sister traipsing down the same halls as she. Therefore, I knew that this visit wasn’t for shits and giggles; the look on her face made the hairs at the nape of my neck stand alert, ready for battle.

  My father found my mother unconscious on her studio floor, covered in many hues of blue and purple paint. The cancer was back, brain tumor this time around. That cunt-filled cancer just wanted to make sure nobody thought anything other than it was going to win this round. We had two hard years of treatment behind us and only one full year of euphoric, celebratory “remission.” Cancer patients know better than to call the absence of cancer cells “remission.” A person is not truly in remission until she has gone a five full years cancer-free. Like I said, we were cocky. We thought that part of our lives was over; we were in the clear. We were wrong—dead wrong.

  The brain tumor was inoperable. What the fuck does that even mean? As a fourteen-year-old girl, and now as a 29-year-old woman, it still makes no sense to me. If my mom was going to die anyway, like they predicted, why not just give it a shot and try to remove the tumor. What was the worst that could happen? Death. Duh! Wasn’t that happening already? Made no sense. I’d rather die going down with a cold-blooded fight than just let that bitch take over my fucking breasts, brain, and body.

  The doctors told us to get my mom’s affairs in order and make sure she was comfortable. Comfortable? Who the fuck is ever comfortable dying? Christ. The cancer was fast, deteriorating her brain, jumbling her thoughts, and erasing her memories. As the morphine increased, the essence of my mother decreased.

  My sister sat with her hour-after-hour telling her stories, stroking her hands and face, cherishing the moments she spent with her. My father walked in and out, pacing nervously, grumbling about this or that, wiping his eyes, and kissing her forehead. I sat in the corner, sketchbook in hand, drawing everything I couldn’t say, couldn’t bear to voice aloud.

  When we were alone, my mother would nod, indicating her wish to see my drawings. Every time I showed her, she smiled faintly as tears trickled down her face. I knew she was awed by my talent and saddened by my obvious tortured pain. Art was our passion—what made us who we were. We shared our artistic expression just as all families share their hearts, their blood, and their love. It was our way to connect, to love, to feel. Just one look at what I sketched, my mother knew the agony I felt at loving someone who would be leaving me all too soon.

  Accepting the death of my mom was something that I couldn’t comprehend. How could I, could my family, ever go on without her? How could I spend the rest of my life without her advice, without her wisdom, without that smile that would spread across her face until her entire face looked like one giant smile? A teenage girl needed her mother.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but an adult woman needs her mother too. People need their mothers; life is incomplete without them. A mother is a lifeline, my lifeline. I’d like to drop kick the person who ever came up with the phrase “Time heals all wounds.” Fuck that. That person must’ve never experienced a wound that cuts so deep, so severely that the wound will never, ever heal, but will remain open, painful, and seeping, seeping the painful memories and even the future moments that will never happen, the moments you hoped for and dreamed about sharing with that loved one.

  That person who coined the phrase was fucked if he or she ever thought that I would ever go through one day, one single fucking day, without missing my mom, without longing for her voice, craving her presence, and needing her in my life. That wound will never heal—no matter how much time has come and gone.

  The only way “time” can heal the loss of someone so integral to one’s life is if “time” is some drug that soaks up the pain and suffering of that seeping, dripping wound, erasing it forever. Believe me, that drug isn’t out there, because I tried all of them. I smoked it. I snorted it, and God help me, I even injected it, searching for the drug that would cure the infectious pain of the incurable wound death inflicted upon me.

  Hell, I even tried to fuck the pain out of me, tried to get myself so fucked and fucked over that the pain would numb. Didn’t work, so people can keep their anecdotes, keep their words of wisdom, and keep their books of coping mechanisms, because they’re all shit. There is no cure. There is no healing. Death kills the patient, but infects and poisons the remaining loved ones, changing them for life, disfiguring their lives so wholly that the person and the heart is never the same. All that is left is an empty, horrifying hole that will never be filled, never feel compete, just loneliness and pain.

  After my mother died, each of us grieved in isolation, retreating into ourselves. We didn’t know how to be a family, how to be the Franchettis without the crux of our family, guiding us and centering us. Jill dove headfirst into her schoolwork and activities, focusing on “getting out” and going away to coll
ege. The thought of losing her too sent me into even darker doldrums than I knew possible. My father was like a caged animal; he despised being in our empty, wife and motherless house. He worked long and grueling hours at the butchery, sometimes not coming home, sleeping on the tattered and worn sofa in his back office.

  I was left to fend for myself, bottling my grief and torment inside, lashing out at friends and family. I gave up my art, my activities, everything that made me—me. Jill didn’t notice or didn’t care; my father had no idea. I went through the motions of high school, only attending when necessary. Once guys started noticing me after a horrendous rumor about my oral talents, I made horrifying decisions, jumping from guy to guy, not caring who used me or for what. I used drugs, alcohol, and sex as a means to numb the pain, only causing more ache in the long run. I had no outlet, no support. I was completely and totally alone in a dark state of anguish and turmoil.

  Then halfway through my senior year, my dad was clued in on the cold, hard reality of the clusterfuck my life had become. I had to tell him, reveal to him, that I wasn’t going to graduate with my class. I’d skipped school so many times that I couldn’t recover the credits for my senior English class or my United States government class. He was pretty pissed, but accepted that I could take those courses over the summer to receive my high school diploma in August. I never knew if he was more pissed at me or irate with himself for not knowing how shitty I was doing in school—hell, in life.

  The reality of the situation hit when I told him that I also had to take an art class, because I never earned an art credit in high school. I began skipping and fucking off in my favorite class of the day, the place that I once found complete solace and tranquility was now the epitome of my despair and loss.

  I will never forget the look on his face when I dropped that bomb on him. My father was once again shattered, shattered by the severity of the agony of a loved one lost. He was a broken man, but had never come to realize how truly destroyed Jill and I were as well. At that moment, he went from a sad, lonely man to Super Father.