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All five of us are stuffed into a one-bedroom apartment. But I can’t complain because it’s a fun family vacation. It’s always humid in south Florida—you can smell the stink of the Damp-Rid. My grandmother stores bread in the microwave—something to do with tropical cockroaches. The ugly wallpaper is covered with gigantic green leaves—maybe they’re supposed to look like palm trees?
My parents are asleep behind the only closable door. My brothers and I are stuck on two pull-out couches in the living room. There isn’t even room to walk, and I have to climb over them—trying not to get punched hard for stepping on something I shouldn’t.
My father banished my grandparents to some other apartment, but we didn’t even ask where. My grandmother sneaks in early and makes a beeline for the thermostat. She wants the apartment hot but won’t admit it and adjusts the temperature to 85 degrees. I pull the covers up, pretending to be asleep even though I know I will pay in sweat. My father storms out of the bedroom within a few minutes, screaming.
“Mother! You fucking did it again. I told you not to fucking touch it!”
She doesn’t even flinch.
“I didn’t,” she lies in her Eastern European accent. Does she actually believe that? I have never heard her speak a word in either Polish or Yiddish—her first two languages.
“The thermometer is wrong. It’s actually much colder in here.”
Another lie.
He stomps back to the bedroom.
“Goddamn stupid bitch.”