RealDad

Crazy was versatile. If one were young, it meant creative; old, senile; rich, eccentric. That Christmas Eve, Mother, in the glow of her 59th year, was very simply: Crazy.

"Gossamer wants to enjoy cigars and brandy in the sunroom before we sit down to eat," Mother announced, collecting our coats and kissing several cheeks. "Please open a window in there, he's delicate and sensitive, I don't want him developing a cough."

I had arrived with my brother, Dale, and his ten-year-old, Sue. They were much more tolerant of the mad woman's antics. Sue was young enough to find her Grandma endearingly kooky, and Dale was a middle-class artist who celebrated out-of-the-box behaviour and weirdness as individuality.

Mother ushered us out of the foyer and past several of my late-father's hunting trophies (ranging from modest deer, to epic bears). Mounted up high, they oversaw the main landing with eternally-captured expressions of sincerity and oblivion - resembling most, the unassuming guests who'd look up at them in passing. We were welcomed into the castle-turret style sunroom where my step-father, Gossamer, sat in his wheelchair with his gaze fixed out upon the vast acreage of the estate.

"Cigars before dinner..." was a new family tradition that came along with Gossamer and Mother's union the year prior. "It makes me a little sick, to be honest," I complained. "I'm not really a smoker in my normal walk of life, so it feels weird to just start up now."

Mother protested and waved her hands through the air to scatter the 'not-nice' words away: "It makes him so happy to vicariously enjoy his old vices through you boys! Ever since his tracheotomy, he's been so blue; just imagine, forced to be a mute after a lifetime of sweet crooning between casual cigarettes..."

I had never heard Gossamer sing or speak. I doubt he ever would (and private from my mother), I doubt he ever had. Gossamer sat poised and framed by the bay window because Mother had surely rolled him to that spot. She placed him there the same way she placed Sue and Dale by the hearth of the fire; the same way she was placing me by the drink cart - we allowed her, as always, to conduct the tea party of our lives.

"Well?" She asked with bulging, manic eyes; brows raised and seemingly yanking her eyelids open all the more. "I think everyone would like a drink, Flipper!"

Flipper...

"I hate that name, Mother..." I really do.

"It's such a funny name! Why would you hate something so funny?" She asked, completely inconsiderate towards its origin involving me, a terrified ten year old drenched in urine, and an overturned mattress I woefully thought could hide my midnight shame forever.

"I'm not laughing. I'm never laughing at it, I'm rarely enjoying that name-"

"Oh, but Gossamer loves it so! Please don't take it away from him, he has so little to live for besides me - Oh!" She giggled and fanned her blushing neck, "I'm sure he'd say I'm sufficient enough, his love language is that of a poet, but..."

"Brandy!" I announced, to derail her sappy rant and anesthetize my evening. I poured Dale two fingers worth, Mother one with a splash of soda, and four fingers for me in an act I can only describe as preemptive.

Little Sue's preferred beverage amongst adults changed with the season. The preference ran with Shirley Temples in the summer, and virgin Brandy Alexanders throughout the winter - on this occasion of the latter, I splashed in eggnog to give her an extra flavour of holiday cheer.

"Happy Christmas!" Mother shouted with a wet upper lip from her sloppy stolen sip. I felt vindicated in watering down her booze and held my own cheers high up with glee as we marked the occasion and drank.

"Maybe when Ma' gets senile I'll pre roll these cigars with an herb we can both actually enjoy..." Dale promised me in a hushed voice. The cigar was cut and lit, and he was failing to puff out stable smoke rings between promises of weed.

"Whadd'ya mean when she's senile? Have you met our step-father?" I felt sick to my stomach; it could have been from thinking of Gossamer, but it was more likely my having forgotten that one only tastes and does not inhale cigar smoke. I coughed violently before confessing much-too-loudly "I don't even like these God damn things..."

GASP.

"How dare you," Mother spat as she wheeled Gossamer in front of her, storming-out like runaway train on fire with a cow-catcher in the front.

"Is Grandma coming back? Or is she going?" Sue asked, with the most adorable moustache from her drink.

"She's not going," I told Sue, "she's already long gone."

"Hey..." Dale said, hushed and to my shoulder. "Did ya smell him as he went past? Did ya? You get a whiff of Gossamer?"

Even if I hadn't smelled the distinct odour of vagina, Dale's immature smirking and guffaws let me know he wasn't selling me some highbrow, ironic joke or observation.

"She's entitled to a healthy sex life, Dale-"

He choked on his laughter and brandy, "healthy?"

In our family, 'healthy' simply meant an absence of total bad. If something wasn't fully, wholly negative, it was deemed: Healthy. Our Christmas dinner consisted of delivered Canadian-Chinese food (Battered chicken balls with sweet and sour sauce) four different clear shell-cased grocery store treats (a triple variety of powdered donuts; an onslaught of mini-cinnamon rolls, and Pecan Butter Tarts), and a Costco roasted Turkey (when did that start?) adjacent to green beans and diet cola. The presence of both traditional and sugar free sustenance next to the junk food made the whole affair, by our family's standard: Healthy.

"He's lost his entire appetite after your rebellious display back there," Mother informed me at the table where indeed, Gossamer's plate remained untouched. "I just want us all to be happy, and to share things together."

"Like show and tell!" Sue said with delight at the opportunity to be part of the grown up conversation for a moment.

"I'll go first," Dale announced. "We're mounting a new production of Shakespeare's tragedies this fall at the Atlas Theatre! I'll be personally directing two of my favourite-"

"Oh, Dale, I absolutely adore your optimism and - and passion! Really."

"Thank you, Mother."

"It's only that," she started, and by Dale's reflexive tension I could tell he knew as well as I did where she was going. "...It's only that Gossamer worries about you. He worries and he loves you! But you have a child to think about, and a starving artist is one thing, but a starving parent is borderline illegal (his words, not mine)."

"I do wish you'd stick up for me, then..." Dale mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

"I think Gossamer doesn't know what he's talking about," I added. Dale and I had our differences, but I love my brother.

"I think he knows a thing or two!" Mother looked to be in disbelief of our ignorance, laughably so. "He only managed a music label for twenty years before retiring!"

"Yeah? What label?" I pressed for a follow up answer because it's my opinion that the more a liar unpacks, the dirtier their laundry looks.

"Well, I can't remember things like that! I'm just saying he knows the artistic world!"

"Because he owned a label," I added, and she nodded. "And because he was a professional crooner in lounges all over Vegas," I added, and she nodded. "He ever go to prison?"

"Jail, but it was a bogus charge."

"Serve in the military?"

"The reserves, but he tried to remain a cook and abhors violence!"

"Previous marriages or children?"

"Heart broken before the war, never settled down!"

"Allergies?"

"Fresh cut grass and a rare steroid-"

"A fucking what?"

"A rare steroid! He can't use certain foot creams or asthma inhalers!"

"That's insane!!" I found myself yelling high enough for my voice to break.

Mother and I had, without noticing, stood up and bore down on the table face to face like symmetrical boxers posing for a photo.

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Well, he's lived a varied life," Mother sneered, "which is more than you can say about yourself (his words, not mine)."

The colour drained from Dale's face on my behalf. Dangerous territory was breached and she was prepared to play dirty. Sue coincidentally covered her face while tipping back her drink and it rather seemed like she was hiding from the awkwardness.

"More than I can say?"

"You gave up on yourself, son. Gossamer's words, not mine"

"Tell me, Gossamer..."

"Don't you dare!" Mother objected, jabbing an accusatory finger at me.

"Gossamer: Why don't you tell Mother about the pretty young thing I saw you fooling with that one time-"

"You liar!" Mother wailed, fanning her face as if cooling it could steady her tears. "He's been ever-faithful, you don't know him like I do-"

"Ma, he's joking and it's gone too far - isn't that right, big brother?" Dale was trying to broadcast longer, more meaningful phrases with his glaring eyes and I knew to digress for a moment of peace.

"I'm going to ready the dessert..." Mother was suddenly despondent in a room laced with haze; "Or 'pudding' as my saucy Gossy calls it..."

"Jeez," I exhaled hard as she exited. "She almost made it out without saying something-something, ugh. Like that..."

"Come on. You know how Christmas with Ma's like: Enjoy yourself whether you like it or not."

"I'm not gonna plaster on a smile, I prefer uncomfortable authenticity to that any day."

It used to be worse. Mother used to storm out of rooms with only the intention of passive aggressively yelling out loud "about" the people she was cross with. If you happened to over hear her, well that was just your eavesdropping problem more so than her badmouthing compulsion.

"Why is Grandma sad?"

"I dunno, Sue, Why's your step-grampy such a douchebag?"

"Hey!" Dale censored, reaching over to press his hands against Sue's ears, which I had momentarily forgotten were as virgin as her brandy Alexander. Dale's quick gesture knocked a candle over onto Gossamer's lap, and I'm embarrassed to admit how tall the flames licked up before any of us noticed.

"Douse it!" Dale shouted, splashing the flames in futility with his bourbon.

"Dale, wait! What if we leave it?" Sue was screaming, but I knew she'd be okay. She'd be stronger and wiser; we could all agree on inaction without it being evil. "What if we - you know - did nothing?"

"We need to smother it!" Dale started pulling table cloths from all peripheral surfaces like a sloppy ballroom magician told to do magic at gunpoint. Luckily no broken glass, but a definite clatter of fallen valuables left me surprised Mother hadn't heard us yet. I could feel the heat from Gossamer's flames on my face from across the table and there was an incredible lifelike glow in his eyes left from them. He was in that moment the most alive I had ever seen him, and indeed, he looked like a bastard who hated me - true, actual fire in his eyes.

And then they went out. Dale successfully lay all the table cloths across Gossamer's lap and the flames were smothered just as Mother re-entered with a tray of ice cream sundaes.

"Whatever..." She began to sniff the air like a starved hound. "What's that smell?"

"Cigar. We wanted to enjoy the last of it with Gossamer by way of apology for earlier."

"Why is all this draped over his lap?" She asked, gesturing to the table cloths. We were fools to forget her Rainman-esque attention to detail of her home. As children, we used to leave all the cupboards slightly ajar and rotate all the appliances to drive her up the wall.

"I think it makes him look distinguished. Like Roosevelt!"

"Oh, my, you're right, he does look good. I've got a throw blanket upstairs that he'd find warmer, though..."

"Oh, I think he's pretty toasty as is..." My joke earned me a sharp, scathing glance from Dale, who looked like he was painfully holding in gas.

"Sue, darling, why are you crying?"

"Oh, Mother - she's not allowed to participate in the tradition yet!" I was impressed with Dale thinking on his feet so well, but then that's what 4 years of University-level improv lessons will earn you. To think all that training was about bringing him to that very critical moment, prepared. "But I know what will dry those tears: How about opening one present tonight? And then the rest tomorrow morning after Santa has visited."

Sue's face lit up faster than Gossamer's lap. She was elated, and we needn't worry about her spilling the beans just yet.

"Which one?" She asked, wiping the last of her tears away and composing herself with chin-up dignity.

Mother snapped her fingers, "Mine! She'll be overjoyed!"

"Sounds good, ma..."

"Gossamer and I splurged because we assumed Santa might not come for her this year (his words, not mine)." Mother had a talent of pulling pins and dropping cooked-grenade comments on her way out of rooms.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, baby-Sue?"

"I'm not a baby!"

"What is it?"

"I don't want a doll for Christmas."

"Okay, well it's a little late to make edits on any letters to Santa, cutie patootie."

"Where did Grampa come from?"

"China, I think"

"But...He doesn't look Chinese..." Kids say the darnedest things, and Sue made me sneeze-laugh a mouthful of food with that one. Dale looked thrown for only a moment before sticking to what he knew:

"Sue, Can you say Bunraku?"

She laughed, it was so far nothing more than a funny sound to her. "Boon-Rack-Who" she attempted.

"Great! Well there were these stories told by puppets, and each of these puppets took multiple people to operate just to make move human and perform like us - it was a lot of work."

"Why?" She asked. Sue was a picturesque little girl who still listened to her parent with awe and trust. I missed the days before enlightenment, before I knew better than my elders.

"Because there were stories too dangerous to tell with actual people. Sometime holding life at arms length, and having something represent us, or an idea, is safer than living trough it ourselves."

"Is Grampa gonna tell me a story, then?" Sue asked, taking a stab at deciphering her father's meaning.

"No, sweetie," I chimed in. "Gossamer is gonna say all the dangerous things Gramma doesn't have the cajones to say."

"Merry Christmas!" Mother cheered, coming back in with a tightly wrapped gift, topped by a bow. She handed it to Sue and let her tear it apart to reveal:

"A pocket knife!"

"A pocket knife!" Dale echoed with feigned enthusiasm. "Why ever did Santa tell you to get her such a thing?

"Your brother said he likes camping, and I heard Sue begging him to take her along."

Something outstanding about my mother that I wish were true about myself was her ability to hear and retain with genuine interest and care. For all her faults, she was tremendously thoughtful.

"Camping in the rough is extremely dangerous, and girls that do it too often are batting for the other team (Gossamer's words, not mine) - but I say at the end of the day, be your true self!"

For all her judgements, and for all her passivity; for her abrasiveness and tendency to manically control those around her: My mother never once objected to us being ourselves, and I discovered then how wrong I was to fail at returning the same courtesy. I'd be a bigger dummy than Gossamer to forget I love my family.

"Hey, ma - Thanks to both you and dad for having us over this season." I chose my words specifically, and she heard it how I hoped.

The woman who believed in me even when I stopped believing in myself touched her heart with one hand, and Gossamers artificial, silicone skin with the other.

When I gave up on my dreams, I allowed myself to see Mother's disapproval as though it had never been preceded by immense love and support. Now, she needed us to make believe along with her, and my Christmas gift was discovering how easy that could be.

"Let's raise our glasses to new family, new traditions, and new ways of expressing our truest selves: Which, like us or not; take us or leave us - we very well are thanks to our parents."