American Cheese

"Who DID IT?!"

It had been long months, long weeks, and long days since I had seen my sisters. And even longer since I had seen my parents. But what a homecoming.

His fists pounded against the kitchen counter. His eyes, hooded and drooping thanks to poor sleep and significant stress, darted towards everyone present. Of those present, there was my tiny grandmother, my mother, myself, my two sisters, and one culprit. One person was entirely to blame for this outburst. My father again shouted, "Who did it?" He moved to rummage through the refrigerator once more.

The old man pounded his fists for a final time, demanding a sole target for his anger. His wife, more commonly known as my quiet and somewhat unproblematic mother, stood awkwardly aside, simply observing, dark eyes wide and lips pressed together in a fine line. There isn't much to be done in these instances of his ridiculous rage.

Well, your options are limited, but there are options. First, you could yell back. An obvious choice, but not for the faint of heart. Second, you could simply leave the kitchen. With no audience, the chance of another outburst is unlikely. And third, you could drive the 0.5 miles to the grocery store and pick up some more Kraft singles to replace the ones you threw out.

Yes, I am the culprit. The middle child, renowned stirrer of the pot, and generally regarded as the only unproblematic gay known to my parents. That is, until now.

It was supposed to be an easy job, to clean out the fridge. I had just flown up from Florida, on leave, vaccinated, and excited to finally see my sisters. A lot had changed, and a lot hadn't. My grandmother was one of those changes, both a good and bittersweet one. Her addition to my parents' household was, to the outside world, a splendid thing to come from something sad.

In March 2021, I received a call from my father informing me that my grandfather had passed away. My only grandfather, smart and determined to remind you of it often, fell and hit his head. I immediately called my little sister, who was already sobbing from the news. So, I reminded her of that weekend we spent with our grandparents in 2005, when our grandfather hung out with us for an entire day, chased us around their house, let us try coffee, and took us to see Narnia at the theater (he had to carry us both out screaming when the wolves appeared).

In May 2021, I received another call, around 11:30 pm, from my mother, who, uncharacteristically, was not unproblematic. With the wisdom her third glass of wine brought, she decided to tell me the truth. Something my grandmother, who was prescribed a daily dose of Xanax in March, asked my parents to swear never to tell anyone; something confidential--to stay between just the three of them.

My grandfather did not fall. He had woken up at 4:00 am, unable to sleep. He made coffee for himself and my grandmother, laid out her favorite mug and spoon for cream, and had his cup. Exiting the kitchen, he took his pistol from the hall closet, stepped into his bathtub, and ended his life himself.

My mother, sobbing and regretful, asked me to not disclose this information to anyone--especially not any family member. So, of course, my next call was to my older sister.

By the time I arrived at my parents' house, on the day of the tragic missing Kraft singles, both of my sisters knew, and neither my parents nor my grandmother knew that they knew. And my father and grandmother didn't know that I knew. But my sisters knew that they couldn't know that they knew or that I knew, but that my parents and grandmother didn't know that we knew. Phew.

My mother called me often after her initial revelation in May, always crying and missing my sisters and myself and angry with my grandfather. And every time I suggested she talk with someone, a grief counselor, therapist, priest, the lady that does her damn hair:

"That's something your generation does, not mine. Some people need it--they can't handle things themselves. But we're fine."

My father, mother, and little sister were slowly moving my grandmother into their home. They sorted through 80 years of her things and 60 years of their things, picking what to keep, donate or throw out. My sweet, tiny grandmother, thanks to the Xanax and the shock of it all, was indecisive regarding what to do about anything. She wasn't quite a person, and she definitely wasn't my grandmother, but she wasn't completely detached from the goings-on. However, her uncertainty was going to give my father a heart attack. Let's get back to it.

It was supposed to be an easy job. My mother, who was always terrifyingly good about household cleanliness (as my father neither offered nor wished to help), lacked the time and desire to clean out the fridge for over a month. Thus, I volunteered. Unfortunately, the expired turkey juice had found its way onto the now infamous Kraft singles. I exhumed the fridge's evils--tossed, cleaned, reorganized, it sparkled. A job well done.

"Who did it?" he shouted once more. I fessed up.

"...turkey juice."

His eyes widened as if what I said was the most ridiculous thing going on at the moment. He moved to rummage through the trash can, internally comparing the garbage he found to me, his not-so-unproblematic daughter.

"You do not throw away perfectly good food!"

It was bold of him to assume that we all felt the same way about Kraft singles.

The matter was settled after an apology and my promise to pick him up replacement cheese after dropping off donations from my grandmother's house. We loaded up my older sister's Honda Odyssey (she's a cool mom, though, I swear) with various paintings, pillows, lamps, and their respective shades.

"Mom, Dad, and Nana need to go talk with someone," my sister said as we pulled out of their driveway. I told her I'd already suggested it to Mom and how great she'd received the advice of a 23-year-old. "Dad's going absolutely insane."

On our way to the donation drop-off, my sister played Macklemore's "Thrift Shop" to be ironic and, sadly, it was the best part of my day. We stopped at Food Lion and I purchased my father's replacement cheese.

That evening, my sisters and I hid from everyone in my little sister's room, which, unfortunately, appeared to have been decorated by her five worst personalities.

It was almost as if no time passed since we all last saw each other. However, some things were unmistakenly different. Both sadness and anger clung to the atmosphere of our childhood home. That home had witnessed all manner of shock, grief, and even passion (e.g. the rager I threw when my parents were out of town, 2015).

That house had welcomed many, watched as my sisters and I learned things the hard way, and heard our dad mix up our names every day since the summer we first moved in. Now, things were so coldly changed. I felt no joy in resurfaced memories.

My mother was grieving. My dad was stressed. My grandmother was zonked. I was angry.

But thank God for the constant that is our relationship as both sisters and friends. We sipped on wine and laughed about our little sister's awful painting of a sunset on her wall, her overflowing wastebasket, and her tapestry of the Grim Reaper surrounded by flowers. We heckled her for the crumbs that somehow littered her bed. She laughed with us, as our favorite pastime together over the years has been taunting each other, ourselves, and also our Dad.

And that's when our little sister had the most delightfully ridiculous idea.

We snuck down the stairs, folding our hands into guns and pretending to clear the rooms as we moved in silence. My older sister, head peaked out towards the kitchen, mouthed to us that our parents were outside on the rain-warped back porch.

We giggled like sneaky maniacs as we unfolded a Kraft single from its plastic. We three gave soft cheers and chugged our wine, heading towards the back door.

Our parents conversed quietly in their chairs, their backs to us, peacefully oblivious to what was behind them. And three grown, adult-ish women--ages 19, 23, and 35 respectively--tiptoed up to our parents who hadn't noticed the stifled giggles and creaking of the old deck.

Our little sister inspected the piece of flaccid, shiny cheese in her hand and licked it. My older sister and I gasped as she threw the cheese with all her might, yelling:

"Go to therapy, please!!"

She threw the cheese with such force that as it smacked and stuck to our father's bald spot, the sound echoed off the porch and into the woods next door.

We ran back into the house quick as mice as my father shouted from the porch:

"You do not waste food!"