Free Soul Catcher by Katia Lief

thinning brown hair parted far over on the side, and wore wire-rimmed aviator glasses. He was dressed in brown pants, a tweed jacket and a white shirt, which struck me as dull but appropriate for his age — I guessed forty-five. It seemed to me he was the only normal adult in the room. He just leanedback in his chair, with his wine glass balanced on his knee, looking all around. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. He had twinkly brown eyes topped with these incredibly bushy eyebrows. He winked at me, and one eyebrow angled up.
    Then he really surprised me. He said, ‘I knew you when you were a baby.’
    ‘You did?’
    ‘Yup. You had red fuzz all over your head. You looked like a peach.’
    ‘Do you know my mother?’
    ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ve known Max and Molly for almost twenty years. We were in law school together.’
    Apparently he was on Dad’s side, since he was here as a guest. Maybe I didn’t like this Jerry so much, after all, not if he was one of Dad’s conspirators in his secret life.
    I was a little drunk, so it slipped right out, when I said, ‘Well I think all this sucks.’
    Jerry nodded. I didn’t know if it was because he agreed with me, or wanted to shut me up. Suddenly I was angry. A storm was whirling up inside me and I wanted to run. But then Lisa marched in with a gigantic tray of hors d’oeuvres, and distracted us with explanations of what they were. The white roll was chevre rolled in fresh pepper, the sickly beige lump was foiegras, the wrinkled black things were oil-cured Greek olives, and the pruny red stuff was sun-dried tomatoes in virgin olive oil and fresh herbs.
    ‘I have potato chips for you,’ she said to Patrick and me. He looked relieved. I was insulted. Then she said, ‘But sorry, no dip.’
    I hated her. I couldn’t help it. ‘I see one,’ I said under my breath as she walked away.
    Jerry smiled. And I knew: he was on my side.
    Vladimir dug right into the bowl of potato chips. I kept hoping Lisa would notice, but every time she floated in and out of the room, he was nowhere near the bowl. She thought I was eating them all. When she refilled the bowl from ahuge bag, she slid me a look that said here you go, you nasty little glutton.
    Thanksgiving dinner was no better. We had turkey with wild rice and walnut stuffing, fresh stewed cranberries, new potatoes with dill, escarole salad, and kiwi pie. It tasted good, but it wasn’t normal; it wasn’t a real Thanksgiving dinner like we’d always had them, with chestnut stuffing, sweet potatoes, boiled onions, cranberry sauce, peas in butter, and homemade apple pie. Lisa’s version had no history. I sat between Dad and Patrick. Every now and then Patrick would look at me and smile, with real love in his eyes, as if we were all alone. He could bolster me even with silence, his silences were so full. Dad kept looking at me, too, but with him it was different. Every time one of Lisa’s creations came my way, he would slip me an understanding look. It was as if he knew in his gut exactly how I felt about everything from his woman to her food, that I didn’t like them, that I couldn’t fit into his new life.
    I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
    Patrick and I slept on the living room floor in sleeping bags. We lay them down next to each other and crawled into our separate sacks. The only parts of us that touched were our hands, clasped loosely between us.
    ‘Don’t you think you were a little extreme?’ he asked me.
    ‘No.’
    He let go of my hand, and I felt abandoned and cold. He rolled over, leaned on his elbow, looked at me. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight coming through the unshaded turret windows to see him. He reached over and smoothed my hair back from my forehead. ‘You have to accept it,’ he said softly. ‘Your father made a choice. This is his home now.’
    ‘I hate her.’
    ‘You don’t hate her,’ he said. ‘You hate your father living with her. That’s different.’
    ‘Not