nostalgic melancholy . . . but Nat is still standing by the record player, confused and afraid.
“Son.”
I spin around to find my dad, tanner than what’s acceptable in the middle of December, standing emotionless and unaffected.
“You son of a bitch,” I seethe.
Natalie stops the record and pushes us out of the room. “Not in here,” she whispers.
“Zacharie, it’s nice to have you home. Shall we discuss our business in my office? Your friend can stay with your moth—”
“Her name is Natalie and she needs to hear what I have to say to you.” I take a deep breath and let it fly. “Jack Schaeffer emailed me last week about Mom’s will. From my understanding, I will be the beneficiary of her 60% holdings of Parker and Parker. Is that what you want? Of course it is, you greedy bastard.” Natalie grabs my arm to make me stop, but I can’t. “Mom built that company out of a broom closet, and you just can’t wait to sell it! What is it, a house in Greece or a new wife on Long Island?”
“Zach, I will not have you speaking to me like this. I love your mother very much and you are making a mockery of our family in front of Natalie. When you enlisted, you made it very clear that you wanted nothing to do with us – Claire wanted to sell the company years ago, she wanted you to have a different life.” Dad remains stoic, like he’s the one being victimized.
“Fine. It’s yours to sell.” I shrug my shoulders, not in defeat, but because I’m fuming mad and I’m trying not to hit my father. “I’ll tell Jack to draft a contract giving you full ownership upon Mom’s dea—” I clear my throat. “After Mom’s passing, you can sell to the highest bidder.” I smirk. “What’s she worth to you anyway?”
Natalie squeezes my arm tightly and pleads, “Zach, stop.”
“And what do you want in return?” Dad asks smugly.
“In return? Unbelievable!” I shake my head in disbelief. “This is what I want Pops . . . Jack will be instructed to withhold every goddamn penny until you make a large donation to Mt. Sinai. So much money in fact, that the hospital will name an entire fucking wing after Dr. Claire Dumas Parker. And then, you will hand over a generous check to the September 11 th Memorial Fund – be the face of goodwill for once. And one more thing, if Natalie’s parents bring you a fucking lasagna, you better acknowledge their kindness.” I plant my feet firmly and stare down at the man I’ve never really known, and pray that my children never have to experience this type of pain.
“Now, if you will excuse us, Nat and I are moving Mom back to the garden room.” I extend my arm to shake my father’s hand. This is my closure.
Raymond Parker places his other hand on my shoulder and mumbles behind a fake tan and an even faker smile. “Son, be safe over there.” He nods apologetically at Nat and clears his throat. “Natalie, please wish your parents a Merry Christmas and tell your mother the lasagna was delicious.”
I place my hand on Nat’s back and lead her into Mom’s little room. We silently gather her quilts and slippers and all the picture frames Aunt Patty displayed throughout the room. I stand over Mom’s bed and smile down at her fragile body. I wonder if she’s even coherent . . .
“Claire, you would be so proud of Zacharie!” Natalie exclaims while packing up the records.
“Nat? Can Mom even hear us?” I ask in a hushed voice.
“Of course she can!” Natalie falls in next to me and takes Mom’s hand. I look down at her pale face and her dark blue eyes, alert and content. Her limp hand rests in Nat’s palm, donning decorative nail polish.
“Why are Mom’s nails painted red and green?”
“Because it’s almost Christmas, ya dork!” She turns her attention to Mom and giggles. “Claire and I have manicures every Sunday night. Her French manicure was so last week . . . we decided something a little more festive would be in order!”
“You come
“Son.”
I spin around to find my dad, tanner than what’s acceptable in the middle of December, standing emotionless and unaffected.
“You son of a bitch,” I seethe.
Natalie stops the record and pushes us out of the room. “Not in here,” she whispers.
“Zacharie, it’s nice to have you home. Shall we discuss our business in my office? Your friend can stay with your moth—”
“Her name is Natalie and she needs to hear what I have to say to you.” I take a deep breath and let it fly. “Jack Schaeffer emailed me last week about Mom’s will. From my understanding, I will be the beneficiary of her 60% holdings of Parker and Parker. Is that what you want? Of course it is, you greedy bastard.” Natalie grabs my arm to make me stop, but I can’t. “Mom built that company out of a broom closet, and you just can’t wait to sell it! What is it, a house in Greece or a new wife on Long Island?”
“Zach, I will not have you speaking to me like this. I love your mother very much and you are making a mockery of our family in front of Natalie. When you enlisted, you made it very clear that you wanted nothing to do with us – Claire wanted to sell the company years ago, she wanted you to have a different life.” Dad remains stoic, like he’s the one being victimized.
“Fine. It’s yours to sell.” I shrug my shoulders, not in defeat, but because I’m fuming mad and I’m trying not to hit my father. “I’ll tell Jack to draft a contract giving you full ownership upon Mom’s dea—” I clear my throat. “After Mom’s passing, you can sell to the highest bidder.” I smirk. “What’s she worth to you anyway?”
Natalie squeezes my arm tightly and pleads, “Zach, stop.”
“And what do you want in return?” Dad asks smugly.
“In return? Unbelievable!” I shake my head in disbelief. “This is what I want Pops . . . Jack will be instructed to withhold every goddamn penny until you make a large donation to Mt. Sinai. So much money in fact, that the hospital will name an entire fucking wing after Dr. Claire Dumas Parker. And then, you will hand over a generous check to the September 11 th Memorial Fund – be the face of goodwill for once. And one more thing, if Natalie’s parents bring you a fucking lasagna, you better acknowledge their kindness.” I plant my feet firmly and stare down at the man I’ve never really known, and pray that my children never have to experience this type of pain.
“Now, if you will excuse us, Nat and I are moving Mom back to the garden room.” I extend my arm to shake my father’s hand. This is my closure.
Raymond Parker places his other hand on my shoulder and mumbles behind a fake tan and an even faker smile. “Son, be safe over there.” He nods apologetically at Nat and clears his throat. “Natalie, please wish your parents a Merry Christmas and tell your mother the lasagna was delicious.”
I place my hand on Nat’s back and lead her into Mom’s little room. We silently gather her quilts and slippers and all the picture frames Aunt Patty displayed throughout the room. I stand over Mom’s bed and smile down at her fragile body. I wonder if she’s even coherent . . .
“Claire, you would be so proud of Zacharie!” Natalie exclaims while packing up the records.
“Nat? Can Mom even hear us?” I ask in a hushed voice.
“Of course she can!” Natalie falls in next to me and takes Mom’s hand. I look down at her pale face and her dark blue eyes, alert and content. Her limp hand rests in Nat’s palm, donning decorative nail polish.
“Why are Mom’s nails painted red and green?”
“Because it’s almost Christmas, ya dork!” She turns her attention to Mom and giggles. “Claire and I have manicures every Sunday night. Her French manicure was so last week . . . we decided something a little more festive would be in order!”
“You come
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