The cab pulls away before I can hear what Derek thinks I really don’t want to do.
It doesn’t matter what Derek thinks. It isn’t up to anyone else to decide who I’m going to be.
*
My plan was to take a cab from the airport to my parents’ house. But I called Audrey while I was waiting for my flight to board, and Audrey called Dad, and Dad called his secretary, and his secretary called a car service. So when I come through airport security at BWI, the first thing I see is a bored guy holding a white sign that says Miss Antonia Fasseau.
I don’t like car service drivers. Cabdrivers don’t give a crap about you and will do what you ask as long as you pay them, but car service drivers have a schedule. You can’t ask them to drive around the block twenty times while you make up your mind about whether you really want to go inside.
So when the car stops outside my parents’ house, I have no choice but to step out onto the curb and gaze at the house I grew up in. It doesn’t feel like home anymore. If it ever did.
It’s the middle of the afternoon. No one will be home except Consuela and my mother. Mom is home most days unless she’s out doing her “volunteer” work. Or shopping. Mainly the latter.
Consuela opens the front door when I knock. I can tell from the look on her face that Audrey called the house, too.
“It’s wonderful to see you!” Consuela says. “Such a surprise. I already made up your bed.”
“Thanks! It’s great to see you, too.” She hugs me, and I hug her back. I’m still getting used to how hugging feels. “I’m not sleeping over, though. I’m flying back tonight. Where’s Mom?”
Consuela steps back and points wordlessly toward the kitchen. I shed my coat on the bench in the entryway as I go. It’s so strange how different the house looks now that I’m not used to seeing it every single day. It was like this at Thanksgiving, too. The place is still huge, like always, but somehow it looks smaller than before. The kitchen countertops look like they’re slightly askew. The stainless steel appliances are so shiny they look fake.
I don’t see Mom. I reach into the fridge for a soda and wander to the sink so I can gaze out the window. I’m unscrewing the bottle cap when I hear her voice. It sounds as though she’s in the den just down the hall.
“No, I don’t know why she’s coming here,” Mom is saying. “You know no one tells me anything. That girl won’t say two words to me if I don’t pry them out of her. Neither of them will.”
She’s talking about me. And Audrey, too. This is so weird.
“No, I don’t know if she’s all right.” Mom sighs. It sounds like she’s on the phone. “I hope she is. I don’t know how to—no, no, please don’t speak to me that way.” She pauses. “Robert, I have asked you before not to speak to me that way.”
She’s talking to Dad.
I don’t want to be hearing this. I back away toward the opposite end of the kitchen, moving slowly, trying to stay silent.
My sneaker squeaks on the tile. Crap crap crap. My heart is pounding.
Seconds later, my mother appears in the doorway, the phone hanging silently in her hand. She stares at me without speaking for a moment.
“Did that idiot driver leave your bags in the trunk?” she finally asks. “Consuela, call Mr. Fasseau’s office and have the car sent back.”
I hadn’t realized Consuela was in here, but when I turn, she’s just ten feet back, reaching for the kitchen phone.
“No, don’t call.” I take a gulp of soda. It goes down the wrong way, making me grimace. “I didn’t bring any bags.”
“I was afraid of that.” Mom glances at Consuela, who hurries out of the room. “When I heard you were coming I knew it had to be the sort of rash, impulsive decision you’ve made before. Did you drop out of school?”
“No!” And she wonders why I don’t want to talk to her. “Of course not.”
“Then why show up here out of the blue? Are you failing?”
“Failing? No. Why would I be failing?”
“Maybe if you hadn’t studied for your exams enough.”
“We haven’t had exams yet. And all I ever do is study.”
“When you were here at Thanksgiving, you made it sound like all you did was sit around talking to your new friends.”
“Believe it or not, I’m capable of multitasking.”
This is how it always is with my mother and me. She makes accusations. I give rude answers.
But I spent the flight down thinking about how I wanted to handle this, and I resolved not to get caught up in our usual sniping. So I bite my lip before I can say any more. I have to talk to my mother like a normal person.