I blush, like she’s heard what’s inside my head.
And I’m so used to doing whatever Eleanor tells me to do, I almost share with them what Mom said, about the maybe-sister. Almost, almost, almost. These days it’s my favorite word.
I almost tell them everything, but they look so sleepy and I feel so excellent and the opposite of anxious—UnWorried—that I decide it can wait.
Nine
The next morning Mom’s got her mug of hopefully-coffee and a plate with three slices of burnt toast. She likes it black. The kind of toast that makes the whole house smell like it’s burning down.
“Have breakfast with your mom?” she says. Her voice is sweet so I can officially confirm she is drinking coffee, not wine.
“Sure. I’ll make my own toast, though.” Mom’s burnt toast is one of those family jokes that never dies. It probably should have stopped being funny years ago, but we’ve kept it going, and it always gets at least a small smile from Mom.
“I can make you something. You want eggs? French toast? I haven’t made French toast in ages.” I notice she’s not in her bathrobe or her ratty, worn-through jeans. She’s in a khaki skirt and this yellow shirt that isn’t quite dressy but isn’t sad and tired either.
“Yeah, French toast,” I say. She makes it with cinnamon and hums to herself while moving the egg-soaked bread from a bowl to the pan. It’s all going really well, until the fried cinnamon scent turns and the French toast starts to burn in the pan.
“What did I do?” she says. Her hands are shaking. I hadn’t noticed until she picked up the spatula. I try to imagine myself back in the warm light of my closet. I wonder what would happen if I brought eggs in there. Would they hatch? Would something spectacular emerge? There’s a pack of Post-its on the counter, and I grab one and scribble out the word eggs as a reminder. It looks like the start of a grocery list, but it will turn into a list of things to try in my closet.
“That’s okay, it still looks good!” I say. “I’ll eat it. It’s all about the syrup anyway, right?” My cheeks hurt from how hard I’m smiling, and everything inside me has the same kind of ache—tired and trying too hard.
“I used to be so good at this,” Mom says. She’s not crying, exactly. She’s flushed and embarrassed, I think, and it’s actually much worse. I know what to do with the crying. I don’t know what to do about this. Her hands won’t stop shaking. I hate it.
“You’re a great cook!” I say, although Mom hasn’t cooked since long before we moved to the New Hampshire house. The correct statement would be: When you’re not sick, you’re a great cook.
“Forget it,” Mom says. The spatula is loose in her hands now, like she’s given up so completely that she is fine with dropping it on the floor, mid-sizzle. The egg batter on the pan makes a sputtering noise, and the smell of burning egg mixes with the fried cinnamon scent. Mom puts the spatula on the counter with a sigh and turns off the burner.
“You don’t have to eat it,” she says, shrugging before leaving the room. I wonder, the moment she’s gone, whether she was ever there at all.
I take a few bites of the French toast, but the taste makes me sad.
The house is quiet and Mom has floated back to her room, but Dad must be somewhere, so I look in all his usual hiding spots: the couch in the living room where he watches TV, the reading alcove upstairs with a book on myths and fairy tales and the yellow legal pad he takes notes on when he’s in professor mode, the front yard with the tiny vegetable garden he’s trying to grow, the back porch where he escapes with his paper.
Bingo.
“Silly!” he says, looking up at the sound of my hippo-slippered feet.
“Dad!” I say, imitating his tone and smile. It makes him laugh—a hearty, full sound that I love.
“How are you doing, princess?”
“I’m okay.”
“Early morning for you, huh?” He folds his paper up, which means we are going to have a real talk. It rustles and flops in his face, and although at first he tries to make it neat, he gives up quickly and puts the whole messy thing aside.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say. He nods seriously and puts his feet up.
“Still getting used to the new house?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s big. And old. And . . . there are a lot of closets.” I don’t mean to bring up the closets and hate that my sisters are right to worry about me telling Dad all our secrets. I know not to tell him the details, but I want his thoughts, I want his advice, even if I can’t tell him what’s actually going on.
“Scared of monsters in the closets?” he says. He’s joking, but there’s a gentle look on his face that I think means he won’t tease me if that’s what it is.