The One In My Heart

I was, in some crucial ways, very much my father’s child. But whereas Pater lashed out, I dodged and sidestepped, when I couldn’t lie outright.

Zelda covered her mouth. “I should have seen it, shouldn’t I? Bennett has known you, what? Seven or eight months at the outside?”

“I’m really good at hiding my deficiencies.”

“There have been times when I’ve asked myself how it is that you’re never fazed by anything life throws at you. And then I say to myself, Of course you’re that graceful, and of course I’m that lucky to have you.” Her voice turned hoarse. “I should have been more observant. I should have realized you were keeping too much to yourself. I should have…”

Tears spilled down her face. And mine. I never wanted Zelda to see that I wasn’t as normal and well-adjusted on the inside as I appeared on the outside. She had been the best mother in the world. To be a cause of pain and doubt to her—my heart felt as if it had been scored with a sharp knife.

“Please, please don’t blame yourself. I’ve been an adult for a long time now. For better or worse, these have been my own choices.”

I wanted to comfort her better. To hug her and tell her that everything would be fine. But at this point, that would be only more lies, wouldn’t it?

I dropped the spatula in a stand and went back to unloading the dishwasher. Zelda joined me. Wordlessly we put away the pots and pans that remained on the bottom rack. Then I swept the floor, while she hung up fresh kitchen towels.

We often did household chores side by side—it was one of those little things I treasured. But now I could scarcely breathe against the sense of futility that permeated the air. Against Zelda’s bewilderment, sorrow, and guilt.

She broke the silence at last. “Do the Somersets know yet, about you and Bennett?”

“He was going to come clean today—that was the plan, in any case. I don’t see why he wouldn’t follow through.”

“I’ll make sure to ask him first before I bring up anything—they should learn from him, not me.”

I nodded, dumping the contents of the dustbin into the garbage can, and then tying up the bag and taking it outside.

When I came back, Zelda was biting into a Danish from the box of pastry she’d bought. I grabbed a gooey orange roll from the same box and sank my teeth into it with a vengeance, needing the solace of glucose and refined carbohydrates.

“So what are you going to do?” asked Zelda when only crumbs remained of her Danish. “And I don’t mean about Bennett.”

About myself then. I thought of my father on his deathbed, asking after Zelda, longing for the lovely woman he’d lost, because he’d been too set in his ways to change.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I have no idea.”

And for once, that was an honest answer.


IMOGENE SOMERSET WAS EVERYTHING A young woman ought to be. Her father’s doctors were very pleased with his recovery. And the family was suitably taken aback that there had been no real girlfriend, only an elaborate ruse.

All this Zelda related gingerly over dinner that evening, when I asked how her day had gone. The following week she had further updates. Mr. Somerset was out of ICU and then, a few days later, discharged from the hospital. He insisted that he was well enough, that everyone ought to return home and go back to work so he could recuperate in peace and use the time to try out some reality shows that he didn’t want to be caught watching.

Despite my reminder to Bennett that I was in breach of contract and therefore owed nothing, I received effusive thank-you notes from organizations around the city, pouring out their gratitude for the generous donations in my name. A check also arrived at my office, bearing the previously agreed-upon amount for my research, which I voided and sent back.

That night I took my phone in hand, prayed that it could be a force for good, and texted, How did you deal with your abandonment issues?

I set the phone aside. I used to know Bennett’s schedule, but not anymore, after the disruption of his father’s surgery. Even if he wanted to reply, it might be hours before he could.

The phone pinged a few minutes later.

It was easier with Moira. She was right that we wanted different things in life—near the end of our relationship I probably had more in common with Darren, her accountant, than I had with her.

With my parents the anger ran a lot deeper. Relationships end all the time, even for people who once believed themselves soul mates. But family is supposed to be forever, through thick and thin.

Even after I saw them at O’Hare and set the whole moving process into motion, sometimes the resentment still came back. Why was I the one doing this? Why weren’t they meeting me at least halfway?

Times like that I had to ask whether I was as blameless in the matter as I preferred to cast myself. And the answer was, of course, no. My dad might have acted out of anger, even pigheadedness, but I was the only one who had retaliated from spite.