Lemon House: Anna

I'm going to record all this. To set the record straight. Here it goes:

My name is Anna. It's December 24, 2016.

My ex-husband Leo's resonating prediction still hurts, even though the verbal wasp foray was uttered long before strands of gray and hip fat materialized. After running away from a contentious, jaw-dropping family dinner party a half hour ago, I still can’t shake the bitter warning from 1998. I will never forget the washed-out glare on Leo’s scruffy nineteen-year-old mug, peering over a cracked car window on Christmas Eve: “You’ll never be content.”

Four simple words—venomous stingers that sliced their way through the dry air—have returned to haunt me two decades later. It took me until tonight to realize he was right.

Good job, Leo. You understood me better than anyone. Maybe you shouldn’t have deserted like a coward. 

I’m not flawless—I get that. Call me egotistical, spoiled, or shrewd, and I probably deserve it. More concerning, though, is that I'm a sudden believer of prophecy, a half-step away from fairies and zodiac forecasts or the edge of the walkway on this shitty fucking bridge. The second I make my life-changing decision, I doubt any of these disparities will matter.

There will be no going back—sorry, Dad. 

Not so sorry, Kris. 

Kaaa-riss. 

I’d say ‘kiss my ass,’ but please, stay away.

My only regret is for the lack of editing and shakiness because (as our fake maternal monster Kris belted across the table) I am a “first-rate OCD liar throwing a hissy fit.”

Yeah, mistakes annoy me more than they should, even now as I record this rushed video. 

Her rant started OK, a shred of truth delivered in Kris’s typical anything-to-get-my-way junior-high dramatic fashion—whatever.

But never, ever, ever, for the love of god, call me a liar.

Anything but that.

I can't help but notice the churning current below, the stars above, and the finger-numbing tingle thanks to a temperature in the teens. The phone says fifteen the last I checked. But, potential frostbite is still better than my thirty-nine-year-old stepmom and her ambiance of putrid yellow.

I’m forty, believe it or not. 

I had a real mom until twenty and never wanted a stand-in. Some call the unmistakable age gap eccentric, progressive, or old-fashioned, but I’ve called it pretty sick since day one. As horrendous as the decor Kris pays sizable sums for and the artsy trash that shadows her, hoping to get donations for their galleries. It could have been different. Kris could have been authentic, pleasant, and decent. Or a little older. Happy to reap the benefits of unearned wealth. Leo got greedy too—big mistake.

Nope. The sour snob wasn’t even grateful for a split second.

Thanks a lot for the backstabbing, Kris. For pitting me against two brothers and an emphysema-ridden parent on the verge of death. The kick below the belt was unwarranted. 

It is frigid—bone-aching cold—I’m shivering over this foamy murk, but I don’t care. 

Kris can keep my coat and get it dyed something garish to match everything else. I will not go back to the defiled house to listen to that tart lemon spew more filthy lies, and I refuse to step on the ugly as sin piss yellow rug ever again. Who picks that color, anyway? A Mickey fucking Dees hue in a Victorian dining room?

This metal bridge looks so rusted. Even the oily brown-stained gray is better than Kris’s toddler-level palette. Will it collapse if I sneeze or shout her stupid name again? Kris often defaults to a nasally shrill when things are not going her way. Just thirty-five minutes ago, her panting turned to a shriek as my hand gripped the antique iron handle, one foot on the marble step outside.

“Sell out!” she wailed.

I refused to relent. “Hell no, lemon drop!”

The best she could retaliate with was “liar!” as I slammed shut the magnificent stained-glass, oak door. At least she hadn't painted that yet—I'm sure it’s on the list. 

Liar?

Please.

Do you genuinely want some brass knuckle crap, Kris? Mommy?

Yeah, she hates that title, and I don't blame her.

Here is the ugly truth: Kris is miserable, lonely, bored, dumb, and untalented. Nice legs, but not as good as they once were. She probably needs a second husband or an oversized pillow because her aging and ill benefactor spends more time on the yacht and at the country club than with her. And that’s when Dad is not in the doctor’s waiting room.

We all know why he ignores her—it is clearer than this cloudless winter night.

She is insufferably haughty and past prime. Nothing more than unclever cleavage with a peculiar citrus-colored fetish who got lucky after preying on an affluent widower. If only I could unleash the press and send her high-tailing back to the shitty row home street (god, she probably has a forked devil tail). The tabloids love that shit, though. Thrive on it. Somehow it would backfire, bring fame and boost her ego. She'd stage a Gatsby-worthy bash and hand out lemon curd margaritas, and the very image is making my blood curdle. I should have stopped the diva years ago, but they ran off to Cancun and kept it a secret for a while. 

Kris will rot someplace for all this, I swear it! 

I’ll gladly send daisies to her funeral and tell everyone to wear bright, gaudy raincoats like that guy who marches around with a monkey on PBS. How about a matching casket, Kris, and “Yellow Submarine” playing on loop? Is that enough yellow for you?

Fuck.

Hard work is supposed to go farther than bronzed skin that inevitably sags and hair dye that washes out. But do you know what I absolutely cannot stand? Everyone else doesn't seem to care.

That’s what gets me.

This century-old span creaks a lot when the wind picks up, though it is calm again. I don't resent the subtle swaying. It's mellowing, reassuring—kind of peaceful.

That reminds me.

“It's mellow yellow,” squeaked that ridiculous voice when she revealed the color of the new Porsche 911 Dad ordered. 

That’s just great, Kris—fabulous. 

I might need to call 911 if I have enough battery left. I’ll lean a little closer to the railing in case I have to throw up. 

Ok, you know what, Kris? 

Keep the family you infiltrated and poisoned. Keep the cars, the big house on the hill, the quaint Pocono chalet, and the New York distillery. But know this: you will run the business into the fracked-to-hell ground like the land we need to sell in West Virginia—GUARANTEED.

I wish I had a cigarette right now, but I stopped smoking years ago. Times like these make me crave a dopamine hit, or maybe it's my ex I miss. 

Leo introduced me to cigarettes. 

Which reminds me—let’s get back to his prediction precisely eighteen years ago to the hour. Maybe it was pure luck. After all, he was a bad boy and stoner who ran around until “I forced him to run away.” I cried for a week when no one was looking. Sometimes, his ghost haunts me this time of year. The dinner I had just left fortified his waspy prognosis, and it reminded me of that surly, disappointed glare. 

Everyone at the table was doing a great job imitating it, looking at me like I was a puzzle. 

Yeah, I may be too demanding or a perfectionist, but crazy? Perhaps I’m used to getting my way because that's how we were raised. But that is not a crime. Ambition and conquest are no sin. We heard nothing else growing up, groomed for success and the presumption that we would take our respective roles in the family enterprise. 

“Never give in!” 

“Don’t you dare quit!” 

“Sue the hell out of 'em!” my dad would lecture. 

Shit, if you had to, call Uncle Chuck when all that failed because his unspoken methods never did (even though, as I found out, he wasn’t related). But he was loyal, unlike Kris.

God, I need to put the phone down for a second. 

Hold on. 

***

I’m back; I had to switch hands. It's getting numb, and I just realized my battery is almost dead. 

Anyway, let me go back to the dinner disaster. 

The second Dad started wheezing away between the swishing oxygen that his wife of five years was going to be named to sit on the board—I was an easy two-thousand-plus degree of molten steel foundry livid. Fucking torn apart while she mouthed every word Dad said as if she had fed him the lines in advance. 

She probably did. 

The steel and energy empire we own is a lovely capitalist nod to the good ole American dream that Dad’s father’s father built from nothing. Now, it’s being shared? Practically handed over on a silver platter (not for long, right?) to a former secretary turned trophy wife who panicked, alleging I was hoping to sell my shares and work for a competitor. 

Nice try, Kraaa-too-many-issues-beyond-helping. That’s one fan-fucking-tastic fairy tale if I've ever heard one. I laughed at the absurdity before threatening to tear her shriveled black heart out and feed it to the Shepherds, but Dad turned red and purple and started choking.

What the fuck would our great-grandfather say to this?

Odds are we will never know, but I did my best to channel his perturbed spirit when the news dropped over prime rib and pierogies. I tossed my napkin and fork on the plate, balking at Kris’s low-cut “sunburst” designer dress.

“Over my dead fucking rotting corpse, is she going to sit on the board or make decisions with us!”

Dad glanced at her, appearing weak—some puppet now to this psycho. 

Kris pouted and rolled her eyes.

“Hun, listen. It’s just a legal matter. Nothing—nothing—nothing changes,” lamented Dad, coughing again. “You are still CFO.” 

My two brothers seemed uninterested, shaking their heads and wide-eyed at my outburst. They were more occupied with wives and kids getting in trouble—content to collect dividends every quarter and leave the work to someone else.

Anyone else? Really?

Both showed up at shareholder meetings, and I suddenly figured out why they didn't want me to go to the next one at the end of the week.

“Take a vacation,” they said. “Go skiing,” they urged. “Go to Europe, first-class, for a convention,” they pushed, desperate to avoid this scenario.

Everyone else knew this usurping bullshit would occur. I could see the guilt on two withdrawn, lazy, wimpy faces, cautious to avoid eye contact. So much for loyalty, ‘blood thicker than water, coal or crude!’ and all that crap I heard growing up. Every year after Penn State (family tradition, or else it would have been Yale), I put in the time, sweat, and tears—and here we have Kris waltzing in, leaping, lap dancing, or whatever she does.

And I am the liar? The goddam sellout?

“No, no, no—HELL NO! 

Dad sipped some water, unable to raise his voice like he used to. “Yes, I need to delegate more. That's what Paul said, right?”

Paul was the lawyer who ran the trust fund.

Kris nodded, “Yes.”

“I’m sick. I’m old. Tired of—arguing.”

I didn’t have the patience to listen to any more garbage. “This is not happening. She can be your wife, but Banana Peel Princess should have nothing to do with our company,” I insisted, standing, my fist hitting the table.

My brothers held hands to their mouths to conceal smiles. 

Kris was not laughing, cheeks turning to ketchup. I nearly commented that the complexion change somehow worked with the dress but bit my tongue. She was eying a steak knife. 

“It's already decided,” Dad sputtered, ruffled. 

Kris kept tapping his back, giving me that sly smile I wanted to slap. 

I stared back, picked up my full glass of expensive French swill, and drizzled it slowly onto the floor as I backed away. Kris gasped, nose even redder, lips puckered, at a loss for words because she didn't know that many. The scene ended when I stormed out, cursing and coatless (after the ‘liar! liar!’ assault that I could still hear at the end of the driveway), wandering in the cold for a half hour until I reached this ugly bridge they named after my grandfather.

They named a building at Penn State after him too. Donations and connections will get that kind of acknowledgment. 

What a coincidence. 

Perhaps it was my destiny to go out like this?

The structure's height sure is something, the water below pitch black—dare I say, magnetizing. The moon has furnished enough glow to help me see the city’s skyline, but now that I’ve settled down and thought this through, I’m confident I will delete this post.

I’m not giving in that easily, though one slip could change everything.

The low railing wouldn't do much. Good thing I’m wearing flats.

Unlike Kris—clicking and clacking around like a Budweiser horse.

Kris assumed she would win this one, as always. And she almost did. But that is not what my parents taught me, even if it's true—as Leo said—that I’ll never be content.

So be it. 

I have to fix this disaster; I worked too damn hard to see the tart torpedo sink it all.

Fuck, the phone’s telling me to charge. Ok, ok—almost done. I’m going to head back now. 

Anyway, I don't need to take a dip; see Mom or Leo just yet. Or Europe, or the damn chalet. Sure, I need a little outside help to deal with this tragedy. I don’t have a choice, do I? I’ve only made the request once (which haunts me to do this day), but I vow to repeat it: the carpets need cleaning.

Yes! Those poor, stained yellow carpets are spoiling the baptized-in-lemon horror house. 

What a fucking shame. 

And I know just the man for the job. Time to call Uncle Ch—