A Man Named Dave

stepped back. “Oh, we just met.”
    I suddenly felt like a complete idiot, bringing a woman I barely knew over to my parents’ place and it wasn’t even a date. Alice, who continued to radiate happiness, plopped down between Patsy and me, snapping her head left and right to keep the conversation going. Every time she turned toward me, she would smirk and raise her eyebrows. I felt like an awkward teenager, trying to be kind to my mother while protecting Patsy from total boredom. I could only pray Alice didn’t slip up and tell Patsy something from my past. After some small talk I excused myself to spend time with Harold. Though I had seen him a few months ago, Harold suddenly looked years older. He appeared so frail, and he struggled to make simple conversation. His eyes were distant, while he did his best to hide his trembling hands. After a few minutes, I gave up and cupped his hands in mine. We spent the remainder of our time in silence. In the back of my mind, the memory of my biological father suffering came back in full force.
    When Patsy and I were leaving, I whispered to Alice as I hugged her good-bye, “What’s with Pop?”
    Her eyes darted toward the floor. “Oh, it’s nothing. Harold’s just got a touch of the flu. He’s been working too hard lately. He’s got an appointment to see the doctor next week. Listen,” she said, “don’t you fret, you two have fun. And I tell you something else.” Alice looked at both Patsy and me. “You two look good together.”
    “It’s not what you think,” I again whispered. “We just met a few days ago, okay?”
    “Well,” Mom said, “if you ask me, I’ve got a good feeling about you two.”
    “You’ll have to forgive my mom,” I said to Patsy as we pulled away, “I think she’s playing matchmaker.” I did not want Patsy to get the wrong impression. “Besides,” I added in a Yiddish voice, “I think she’s seen Fiddler on the Roof too many times.” I was making a reference to the movie’s persistent matchmaker, but I could see Patsy did not get the joke.
    “So,” Patsy asked, “are they your real parents?”
    “Well, yeah,” I immediately responded. But after a few moments of silence, I exhaled, saying, “They are to me. They’re my foster parents. My mother, my real mom, well, she had a drinking problem and sometimes used to, you know, go off on me. Sometimes …” I trailed off, hoping not to scare Patsy off. I had no intention of telling her about my former life. I clutched the steering wheel, afraid Patsy would suddenly fling open the car door and bail out. I had never exposed my childhood to anyone like this before, let alone the magnitude of my mother’s twisted sickness.
    For some time now I had been resigned to the fact that my past would probably keep me from being with someone. Even at age twenty-three, with all I had been fortunate enough to accomplish on my own, against the odds, I had the self-esteem of an ant. I was deathly afraid of women. I felt unworthy even of looking at them for more than a few quick seconds, let alone talking with one. That’s why I was so overwhelmed, confused, and yet enchanted by Patsy’s interest in me.
    I found myself rambling about how I came into foster care. At least I had sense enough to graze the surface. Since my past was so mired in lies and deceit, I valued honesty above everything else. I believed that if I was to have a relationship with anyone, it was important to me to be as truthful as possible, yet at the same time maintain a veil to protect that person from whatever pain or embarrassment that came from being with me. I knew I was walking a fine line and in doing so was now living a true lie. I had been doing so for some time in the air force, especially during the extensive psychological evaluations that I had to undertake to become an air crew member. I had simply deflected what I felt necessary in order to protect my security clearance. I could only pray someday it didn’t backfire on me or on anyone else. The last thing I wanted was to cause anyone any pain whatsoever.
    “I know what it’s like … I was the black sheep of my family,” Patsy confessed.
    She went on to explain that she was picked on as a child, felt out of place among her siblings, had trouble getting along with her overbearing mother, and as a teenager felt the only way to escape was to run away. “I hooked up with some guy. We both worked to get by, partied a lot, ya know.” As Patsy opened up, not only could I relate to her feelings of being alienated,