Just Breathe. Honey Perkel

      I could tell there were differences between Brian and the other children. At birthday parties, at preschool, when playing with other kids, he stood out somehow. Brian was always the loud one. The more active and daring one. He was unafraid of consequences. Strong-willed and gutsy. A look at things to come.

      Chapter 17

      As Brian grew, so did his stubbornness and insistence to do things his way. He fought us on everything. If I said the sky was blue, he would argue. If I said we were having macaroni and cheese for dinner, his favorite, he would argue. He would pick a fight over the smallest things. I was worn down and exhausted.

      Once again, writing became my escape. Keeping journals, composing poetry, even taking on the daunting task of writing my first novel, The Faithful Daughter. Writing was my saving grace. It got me through the pain and fear that I was living with — along with my pills.

      Chapter 18

      Brian was quite comfortable with the knowledge of his adoption. We’d always spoken of it freely in our home. Even before he knew what the word meant, he understood how special an adopted child was and how wanted he had been.

      Many times he would catch people off-guard with his casual approach to the subject. Like the time when my parents asked my aunt and uncle and us to dinner. Brian was three years old. We were sitting in the family room when all of a sudden Brian walked over to my aunt. Standing directly in front of her, he put his little hands upon his hips and announced as bold as could be, “I’m adopted!”

      My aunt stared at him. She was shocked, not expecting this to come out of his mouth. Not sure how to react.

      “Yes, I know,” she finally answered.

      It was a bit startling for all of us, but Brian just stood there with a big grin on his face.

      Chapter 19

      By the time Brian was three, he was in preschool five mornings a week. He loved music, watching Sesame Street, and playing with his friends. Our days were full. Preschool. Lunch. Nap. Playtime. Dinner. On weekends, we usually took a drive. Trips to the coast — my Paradise. We visited with family and friends.

      My parents purchased a swing set for Brian, reminiscent of the one I’d had as a child. Together Bob and I set it up in the backyard beside the garden that Brian and I had planted.

      Mom and Dad loved it when Brian slept over at their house and he loved to be with them. But Mom could see signs in Brian that she questioned. Things that led her to believe something may not be right. His determination. His anger. She didn’t like it when I described how filled with rage he could get.

      “You be nice to my daughter,” Mom often said to Brian when we visited. I think she was very worried.

      Chapter 20

      We didn’t travel much. I was the one who scrimped and saved the money so we could take Brian on vacations. Bob always said we couldn’t afford it. With each trip, I hoped Brian wouldn’t have a tantrum while we were away. That we could relax and enjoy ourselves. That we could be a normal family.

      When Brian was five years old, I decided we needed to take him to Disneyland. Besides that, I’d been writing to Mom’s cousin Frances in Oakland, and I really wanted to see her. But when Frances insisted we stay at her house, I began to worry. Brian had acted out all too many times. He didn’t exactly have a positive track record when it came to going somewhere. But I couldn’t disappoint Frances. She’d feel hurt if we stayed in a hotel.

      I had my own memories of staying with Frances and Petrov as a kid. They had lived in Berkeley then. My parents and I were on one of our rare summer trips to California when I was about eight and we stopped to spend a few days with them. They were a couple of characters, all right. Free thinkers. The original flower children before it was “cool”.

      The Couches lived in a tall, old house, I remember. Three or four stories. It looked like a gray cardboard box with lots of windows, or some sort of hotel with a wrought iron gate out front. They opened their home to college students in the fall, a sort of dormitory, renting out eight of their ten bedrooms. And they had a dog. An Airedale, named Mojito.

      They were different, but they somehow fit into the California scene: Frances dressed in gypsy garb, her long, black hair halfway down her back, and often barefoot. Petrov clad in patched jeans and a black turtleneck, Love Beads hanging around his neck. They were forty-ish, for Pete’s sake. As old as my parents. But I loved them. You couldn’t help it. They were just so much fun.

      “They’re vegans,” I heard my mom whisper soon after we arrived. She made it sound like some sort of religion. Not until we sat down to dinner in their black paneled dining room, did I understand what a vegan was. With the table covered with a feast of earthenware bowls, I studied the tossed greens, mashed beans, pickled sprouts, and pulverized fruit. My father groaned and my mom gave me an apologetic sigh. We were meat lovers at my house. Broiled steaks every Sunday night and hamburger on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

      “We don’t eat anything that has a face or a mother,” Frances said tearing off a hank of flat bread and putting it on my plate. “No dairy. No eggs. No honey. No meat or poultry. No fish.”

      “What’s left?” I inquired.

      Frances gave a hearty laugh. “You’re look’n at it, Kiddo.”

      She served us sliced squash pie with whipped tofu cream for dessert. It wasn’t half bad.

      After that, my dad offered to take everybody out to eat for lunches and dinners and we were introduced to the best vegan restaurants Berkeley and the surrounding areas had to offer.

      Frances was great at telling stories. She and Petrov had just returned from a trip to Europe.

      “We were driving in the countryside one afternoon when nature knocked on my door,” she stated as we sat grazing on weeds and paste in a small cafe´ in Sausalito. “All I saw was a hut, an outhouse of sorts, so I hit the trail.” She ate a chic pea and continued.

      “I stepped inside and all I saw was a pit. A hole in the ground for me to do my business. So, I squatted.” Frances took another bite of salad as Petrov began to chuckle.

      “As sometimes happens, I was taking my time and Petrov began to worry. He opened the door just a crack and asked me if I was all right. ‘I’m fine,’ I told him. He closed the door and all of a sudden water began to gush from the four walls of the tiny shed.”

      My parents and I were laughing hysterically by now.

      “What happened?” My mom asked her cousin, wiping tears from her face.

      “Apparently, when the door was opened for the second time it was assumed that I was leaving. That’s how this thing flushed. Door opens, you come in. Door opens again, you go out. So, I’m squatting there and the waters are coming. And, of course, I got drenched. I was furious with Petrov for the rest of the day!”

      It was a great visit for all of us, even my father came around to the vegan diet, though I did catch him eating a candy bar now and then. Since it was summer vacation for the college, we’d had the entire third floor of the house to ourselves. Now it was time to move on.

      At the end of the four days we began to prepare to leave the Couches and continue our drive south. Frances was determined to get up early and make us breakfast before we left.

      “Franny, it’s just too early for you to bother.” my mom told her. “We want to get on the road by five.” Cars didn’t have air conditioning back then, and my dad wanted to get an early start before the heat advanced on the highway.

      “Nonsense,” Frances insisted. “I want to see you again before you go. Why don’t you leave at six, and I’ll make you breakfast.”

      My mom thought about it. “All right.”

      But my father had other ideas.