His words melt my residual concerns about this visit.
He’s beaming—in his element—as his dad searches for the game show episode and puts it on.
His sister comes in and glances at the TV screen, and then at me. She points at me on the TV. “That you?”
I nod.
“Wow,” she says. “That’s awesome.”
When I participated in the game show a couple of years ago, the topics were randomly assigned, and mine turned out to be Spelling—so I kicked ass and won five thousand dollars for me and my game show partner to split.
His family watches with rapt attention, their admiration for my performance genuine. The doorbell rings, and his mother rushes to the door.
It’s Timmy’s older brother and his wife, Emma, who Timmy had mentioned earlier. They’re friendly and excited to meet me, and to see Timmy, who they haven’t seen in quite some time.
His cousin Janet even comes over. It sounds like she and Timmy were close growing up. “You’re going to love her, too!” he’d said with excitement. “You’re into a lot of the same stuff!”
I blush profusely when Phil insists on replaying the game show so they too can watch it.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel seen. Not as a victim or a burden, but as someone capable and accomplished and welcome.
The rest of the night is merry, and we eat well as Timmy and his family reminisce about visits gone by and childhood stories.
I smile, content at the normalcy of the evening, and beyond thrilled at the way Timmy is behaving. He’s sociable,entertaining, polite, helpful—the requisite ‘good son’. He’s behaving in a way that makes me proud to be with him, even.
Maybe there’s real hope for him yet.
The rest of the visit is fairly uneventful, with Timmy on his best behavior the entire time. I’m honestly shocked he’s able to maintain an even keel for so long given how he behaves back in the Cay.
I suggest an outing on our last day, to a brunch place and a butterfly pavilion I’d visited with a friend on a prior trip.
Everyone is agreeable, and we have a wonderful day enjoying good food, each other’s company, and some gorgeous butterflies. I even get to hold a tarantula.
Timmy was right—Janet and Idoget along very well. We exchange contact information and promise to stay in touch.
But, while everyone is very friendly, I can’t help but notice the way Phil speaks to Timmy’s mom.
Phil, so calm and composed in public, has a condescending tone in his voice that makes my stomach churn, his words toward her carrying an undercurrent of frustration over even the smallest things.
The sheer volume of his voice is enough to make me wince. I can hear him from the guest bedroom we’re staying in, all the way on the other side of the house.
I’m shocked, honestly, because he seems like a very calm, good guy. Until he speaks to his wife.
And because if this is the way he talks to her with a newcomer around, as well as two grown men who love their mother, I can’t even imagine how he speaks to her when they’re alone.
She just seems to let it slide, brushing it off with practiced ease, her demeanor serene as if nothing happened.
I really feel for her, because she seems like such a sweet lady.
But I can’t unhear the harshness in his tone, or the way he seems to expect her to absorb his anger without protest.
It reminds me of Timmy—how he can be charming and warm one moment, and then cruel and cutting the next. I wonder if this is where he learned it.
And becauseshe’sso chill about it, I figure maybeI’mthe one with the problem.
God knows, my parents didn’t have the healthiest communication style. I think about their volatile arguments, the way they could go from screaming matches to silent dinners as if nothing had happened.
Is this just how families are? Or is this family—like mine—built on a foundation of things left unsaid?