It had to do with a girl named Tracey, her roommate. Marge was a junior in college at UNC Charlotte, and while she didn’t hide her sexuality, she didn’t flaunt it either. Tracey knew from the very beginning but it never seemed an issue. Often together, they fell into a close and natural friendship the way college roommates often do. Tracey had a boyfriend back home and after the breakup Marge was there to pick up the pieces. Eventually, Tracey noticed that Marge was attracted to her and didn’t discourage the feeling; she even speculated that she might be bisexual but wasn’t exactly sure. Then, one night, it happened. Marge woke in the morning feeling like she’d discovered the part of her that had been missing; Tracey woke, even more confused, but willing to give the relationship a try. They were discreet at Tracey’s insistence, but that was fine by Marge, and over the next few months, Marge fell even more deeply in love. Tracey, on the other hand, began to pull away and, after returning home for spring break that year, told Marge that she and her boyfriend had reconciled and that she wasn’t sure she and Marge could remain friends. She told her that she would be moving into an apartment that her parents had rented, and that what she and Marge had shared was nothing but experimentation. It had meant nothing to her.
Marge called me just before midnight. She was drinking and babbling, telling me bits and pieces of the story and slurring that she wanted to die. I’d just gotten my driver’s license and somehow, I knew exactly where to find her. I raced to the water tower and spotted her car parked beneath it. I made the climb and found my sister sitting near the edge, her legs dangling. There was an open bottle of rum beside her, and it was immediately clear that she was beyond drunk and practically incoherent. When she saw me, she scooted closer to the edge.
Speaking quietly, I was able to convince her to let me come closer; when I finally reached her, I put my arm around her and inched her back from the ledge. I held her as she sobbed, remaining at the top of the water tower until it was nearly dawn. She begged me not to tell our parents and after I promised, I drove her back to her dorm room and put her in bed. When I got home, my parents were livid—I was sixteen and had been out all night. They grounded me for a month, and I lost driving privileges for another three months after that.
But I never told them where I’d been, or how devastated my sister had been that night, or what might have happened to her, had I not shown up.
It was enough to know that I’d been there for her, that I’d held her in my arms when she’d needed it the most, just the way I knew she would for me.
Needless to say, after dinner with my family, Vivian and my postponed date night didn’t happen. Vivian wasn’t in the best of moods by the time we got home. Neither was I.
Sunday morning began in a lazy fashion, one that allowed for a third cup of coffee after a five-mile run, my longest run in nearly ten years. London was watching a movie in the family room and I was reading the paper on our back patio when Vivian stepped outside.
“I think London and I need a Mommy and Me day,” Vivian announced.
“A what?”
“You know, girl stuff. We’ll get all dressed up and get a manicure and pedicure, maybe have her hair styled, things like that. Kind of a mini-celebration before her first day of school, where we’re not having to rush around like crazy like we did yesterday.”
“Is any place open on Sunday?”
“We’ll find something,” she said. “I could use a good mani-pedi, too.”
“Does London even know what a mani-pedi is?”
“Of course she does. And it’ll be good to have some alone time with her, you know? I’ve been working so much lately. And it’ll give you a break, too, to do whatever you want. Goof around, work, whatever.”
“When do I ever goof around?”
“You know what I mean,” she said. “Anyway, I have to go help her pick out some clothes. I want to get all dressed up and make it special.”
“That sounds like a very girly day,” I agreed. “I hope the two of you have a good time.”
“We will.”
“How long do you think you’ll be out?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It depends. We might not be back until dinner if London wants to have lunch. I want the day to sort of play out in a relaxed sort of way. Who knows? Maybe she’ll want to see a movie.”
Forty-five minutes later, they were out the door, and I had the place to myself. These days, it wasn’t all that common, but I’d grown so used to rushing from here to there that I wasn’t even sure what I should do. Because everything was pretty much arranged with Taglieri, there wasn’t really anything in the way of work, and other than a few dishes to place in the dishwasher, the house was tidy. I’d finished my workout and the paper and I’d visited with my family most of the day before, all of which left me wandering the house aimlessly after I’d been on my own for less than an hour. Something was missing—or rather, someone—and I realized that what I really wanted to do if I’d had the option was to ride bikes through the neighborhood with London, the two of us together on a wonderful lazy Sunday afternoon.
Vivian and London didn’t return home until nearly seven and I ate both lunch and dinner alone.
I would have loved to have been the kind of guy who’d gone to the gym or meditated, or spent the afternoon reading a biography of Teddy Roosevelt, but the low-key day led to a low-key energy level without a tinge of self-improvement ambition. I ended up spending the day surfing the Internet, one click leading to the next, whatever caught my interest. I read about a giant jellyfish that had washed up on the beaches of Australia, the ongoing travails of various countries in the Middle East, the impending extinction of gorillas in central Africa, and the “Ten Best Foods to Eat to Reduce Belly Fat Fast!”
If there was anything about the surfing to be proud about, it was that I didn’t read a single item about any celebrity. It wasn’t enough to make me hitch up my pants and walk a bit taller, but it was something, right?
Vivian and London were both weary by the time they came home, but it was a good kind of weary. London showed me her fingernails and toenails and told me that they’d seen a movie and gone shopping, in addition to eating. After her bath, I read to her as usual, but she was yawning steadily before I turned the final page. I kissed her, inhaling the scent of the baby shampoo she still preferred to use.
By the time I was downstairs, Vivian was in her pajamas and sitting in the family room, holding a glass of wine. The TV was on—some show about housewives, most of whom seemed emotionally unstable—but Vivian was more chipper than usual. She chatted about her day, gave me a coy expression when I made a suggestive comment and we ended up in bed.
It wasn’t exactly a planned date night, but I was happy nonetheless.
On Tuesday morning, London’s first day of school, Vivian and I walked with her through the parking lot, toward the classroom building. When I asked if she wanted me to hold her hand, she hooked her thumbs under the straps on her backpack.
“I’m not a little girl anymore,” she said.
Yesterday, Vivian and I had received an email from the teacher saying that the first day could be traumatic for some children and that it was best not to linger over goodbyes. A quick kiss or pat on the back and let the teacher lead them into the classroom, the email instructed. We were discouraged from standing by the door and watching, or gazing through the classroom windows for too long. We were warned against letting our children see us cry, no matter how emotional we might feel, because that might heighten our child’s anxiety. We were given the phone numbers of the school nurse, and told that the school counselor would be available in the lobby, if any parents wanted to discuss what they were feeling about their child heading off to school. I wondered if my parents had ever received a letter like that when Marge or I started school and laughed aloud at the thought.
“What are you laughing about?” Vivian asked.
“I’ll tell you later. It’s nothing.”
Up ahead, I saw my mom and dad, waiting by the car. Dad was in his plumber’s outfit, which consisted of a blue button-up short-sleeved shirt with the company logo, jeans, and work boots. My mom, thank God, was sans apron or a red hat; she blended, which I appreciated even if London didn’t care.
London saw them and started running. My dad scooped her up as she jumped. He called her Pumpkin, which I’d never heard before. I wondered if it was new or if I was completely oblivious.
“Today’s the big day,” my mom said. “Are you excited?”
“It’s going to be fun,” London said.
“I’m sure you’ll love it,” my mom assured her.
My dad kissed London on the cheek as he lowered her to the ground.
“Will you hold my hand, Papa?” London asked.
“Of course I will, Pumpkin.”
London walked ahead with my dad while Vivian told my mom a bit about the email we’d received from the teacher. My mom frowned in confusion.
“They have a counselor for the parents?”