THE STRUGGLES OF A WANNA-BE ANGEL - Part 3

3. A MISTAKE IS MADE  (Melanie)

I had thought things were going well. I’d made a chocolate matcha marble cake, worked on it all morning. The kids were splashing in the pool, and I was making small talk with Lawrence’s sister--my sister-in-law--Kelly. I’d known that Lawrence had a close family and it might take a while for them to accept me. In fact, I was talking to Kelly in hopes that I could somehow break through her mistrust of me, which she tried to hide, but which I could plainly see. Now, his mom was always kind to me, and I actually felt like his dad and I had a special bond. What I learned as I went along, though, was that Lawrence was actually the black sheep of the family. That is, if you can call being a successful corporate attorney with a beautiful home and a wife who--well, how do I say this without sounding vain? I am often embarrassed by people telling me how attractive I am--if you can call that a black sheep. To be honest, I just don’t think that’s happened too often to his sisters. Not judging them, it’s just the reality.

Anyway, we all get together for supper almost every Sunday, sometimes at Lawrence’s parents’ house, sometimes at one of the sisters’. Every once in a while, I make the effort to convince them to come to our house. Our house was made for entertaining, with a big table that can accommodate all of us, which can’t be said about all of the homes, and a nice patio where we can sit when it’s warm. There’s even something for Sheri’s boys, because we have a pool table. Point being, with all that, I have to convince them. Well, envy is not pretty. The Bible says to take pride in yourself and not compare yourself with anyone else, and I think they would all be a lot more at peace with themselves if they took that to heart.

But that day I made a mistake, and I take responsibility. The kids really like swimming in our pool, so it didn’t take much to get the family over on a hot Sunday. As I said, I was talking to Kelly, Lawrence’s youngest sister, who is a couple years older than me.  

“Hey Kelly,” I said. “What’s new, how are the kids?” I wasn’t talking about her kids. She and Bill have been married for five years, but no kids. She loves Angelica, so I don’t know what’s going on there, if they don’t want kids, or maybe it’s just not in God’s plan. Anyway, I was asking about the kids she teaches in school.

“They’re okay,” she said. “Well, actually, a few of them are kinda tough. Can’t settle down. Traumatized, is what that usually means. You never know what they’ve seen: domestic violence, overdoses, been abused themselves…”

I know these things exist, but who does it help, to focus on them? “Poor kids,” I said. “I was just listening to NPR, a program about child development. They were saying that singing to your toddler, counting with her, reading to her, all that is so incredibly helpful to their brain development. Of course, we do all of that with Angelica, but I wish all parents knew this. Are you able to educate them at all?”

“Educate single moms who are struggling to survive, lucky if they have clothes for their kids to wear to school? Who come from generational trauma and poverty? Not to mention mental illness and addiction. No, I’d say that’s above my pay grade.”

Now, I run a program for kids who’ll be the first in their family to go to college, helping them prepare. So, I’m not ignorant, much as Kelly might like to think I am.

“If the parents of the kids in my program—a lot of them single moms--can support them on their course to college, then why can’t the parents of your kids learn a little something about child development? They just need the will. I wish you could pray with them like I do with mine.” A little prayer goes a long way, but some people don’t want to hear that.

“I don’t know, Melanie. Not everyone’s situation is the same. Not everyone has the advantages your kids do.”

Well, that was ridiculous, the kids I work with are the last ones you would call advantaged. But no point pressing the issue with Kelly. I don’t think I could ever say anything she’d agree with. She’s a strange woman, doesn’t seem to do much besides her job, and, if I’m honest, I think I intimidate her.

I excused myself to go deal with the food, get it on the table and round up everybody to eat.

Dinner started out fine. No one laughed or humiliated me when I insisted that we say grace, the way they did that one time at the hospital. Then Sheri’s boys got a bit rambunctious, laughing at some private joke--private except to Kelly, who seemed to be egging them on--until Martin, Jocelyn’s six-year-old, made it public.

“Melania,” he called to me, giggling like a little fiend. “Can you pass me the salt?”

So that was it. They thought it was hilarious to call me by the name of the First Lady.

“Melania Trump is a lovely woman,” I said, “but my name is Melanie. Please remember that. Kelly, you should be teaching them to respect the office of President, not encouraging this kind of behavior.” And maybe that’s where I went off course. As a family, the McCabes are kind of sensitive to criticism.

Sheri was cutting her eyes at the boys, and Kelly was cutting her eyes at me, and if looks were knives there’d have been blood all over the table. I decided to go get dessert.

I’d really hoped that they’d appreciate the effort I went to for them, making that elegant cake. Everyone dug in, and I can’t say they raved about it, but Lawrence’s parents and the older sisters did comment on the unusual flavors, and of course the guys wolfed it down. Martin announced he didn’t like it, for which Jocelyn, very appropriately, reprimanded him. Then the next thing I know, Sheri’s youngest, Jacob, is sitting with his feet in the pool and a piece of my cake floating on its plastic dish in the water. I yelled “Jacob!” and the whole family just turned and stared at him, didn’t say a word, except Kelly, who apparently found it hilarious and was trying to hide it, but not very hard. Martin, of course, was over there in a flash with his own cake, while John, the fifteen-year-old, was smiling and saying, “That’s sick, dude,” which Jacob seemed to take as a compliment. When I saw Kelly walking over there, I just couldn’t take it.

“What is wrong with you people?” I screamed at them. I admit it, I was out of control. “Do you know how long it took me to make that cake? To try to make you happy? And you’re putting it in the swimming pool?” My voice was getting louder and louder. Martin’s cake had tipped over and was sinking toward the bottom, and his mother rushed over yelling “Martin, get out of the goddamn pool.” She was wading in in her clothes, trying to catch the cake. I closed my eyes and prayed to God to give me patience. But He had other plans for me.

“I need all of you to leave, right now! Right now!” I’m sure my face was so red I looked sunburned, or on fire, which is how I felt.

Lawrence said later that I was hysterical, and maybe I was. He and his mom were on either side of me, him with his hand on my shoulder, and her rubbing my back. I yelled at them to leave me alone. “I don’t know what kind of Christians you all call yourselves, but this is not how Christians act.” I was staring straight at Kelly when I said this, and she saw me. I think my message got across. Anyway, they all grabbed their stuff as fast as they could and hustled out to their cars, accompanied by Lawrence. He was probably making excuses for me, as if I were the one who was in the wrong.

The truth is, maybe I was in the wrong. Or maybe I was in the right, but I handled it wrong. Of course, they all called the next day and apologized, except Kelly, who texted me: sorry I couldn't get to Martin's cake in time. I don't know if she meant it. That woman does not like me. I don’t know why, but I do pray for her, and I hope it helps. I pray for the whole family. What God will see fit to do with those prayers, I don’t know.  I’ll just have to trust Him.
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