I nod. She tosses a hasty “thank you” in my direction and shuts the door to the garage behind her.
Carly’s first impatient text arrives ten minutes later. Where R U?
Haven’t left yet. Soon. It’d better be soon. Paul better be home soon like Mom promised.
My phone beeps again and I hope for a teasing pout-faced picture or a tempting: If u were here right now …
For the first couple of months after the move my phone never stopped beeping. She flooded it with I MISS U messages and updates about everything/everyone. But lately they haven’t been as frequent or friendly.
I click on her text:
I hope U don’t think Im waiting all nite.
I call. Voice mail. I don’t bother leaving a message. When Carly gets like this, face-to-face is the only way to reason with her. And I should be leaving soon, definitely before four. Plenty of time to have dinner and some us time before Jeff’s party.
I pace with Sophia in my arms. My sister’s like me that way: she craves constant motion. Paul, the king of not-fidgeting, says it’s a baby thing and she’ll outgrow it. I hope he’s wrong; it’s the only part of me I see in her. She’s got Paul’s blue eyes, while I have Mom’s brown. Her hair is dark like his—I was a white-blond and looked bald until I was two. Other than hair and eyes, she’s a mini-Mom in ears and nose and mouth. When I look in the mirror all I see are my dad’s features, and it reminds me all over again that he hates me now.
We pace and I bounce her, humming hybrid versions of rock anthems and the ABC song.
Twenty minutes pass. Then thirty. Forty. How long does it take to paint nails? Where the hell is Paul?
The garage leads into the kitchen via a half flight of stairs. Normally I’m startled by the alarm’s obnoxious beep-beep each time a door or window is opened, but I’m humming a particularly enthusiastic version of “Rubber Ducky” and trying Carly’s phone again, so I don’t hear Paul until he’s a few feet away.
“I would appreciate if you could show enough restraint to not text while holding my daughter. If what you’re doing is so important it cannot wait, then put her down somewhere safe until you can give her proper attention.”
His criticism hits at the same time as Carly’s voice-mail message. I hit the cancel button on my phone and wish I could mute him as well. He holds out his arms and crooks his fingers impatiently until I pass him the baby.
“You’re welcome,” I say, responding to a “thank you” that won’t ever come.
Paul doesn’t disappoint. He ignores me and starts examining Sophia—checking her hands and pulling out the back of her leggings to see if her diaper is clean. “Daddy’s home. It’s all right now.”
I get way too much satisfaction from the fact that in his arms, Sophia wakes and cries.
“Nice job. I just got her to sleep. And I think it’s pretty ballsy for you to accuse me of not keeping her safe or paying enough attention.”
He ignores this too, but I know I’ve hit him in his most vulnerable spot. His face turns a mottled red. It starts at his collar and spreads up to his ears. I remember this from back in the days when he was my physical therapist and one of the employees in his practice would arrive late or when a client would be a no-show. Back then it intimidated me—now, it’s my goal to inspire these angry flushes as often as possible.
Mission accomplished.
I head to my room for a quick shirt change, deodorant reapplication, and to check the contents of my wallet.
A quick text to Carly: Leaving now.
I take the downstairs at a run, earning a fly-by frown from Paul as I dash through the kitchen where he’s now singing and feeding Sophia a bottle.
“Does your mom know where you’ll be and do you need—”
I slam the door, leaving the second half of Paul’s question in the kitchen. Thirty seconds later I’m in my car—driving away from Mom, Paul, Sophia, and their game of Happy Family—sending On my way texts to Carly.
I’m speeding—not pushing it, I can’t afford another ticket—but I’m sixty-two miles per hour in the fifty-fives. At least I am until I hit rush-hour traffic—something I could’ve avoided if I hadn’t let Mom guilt me into waiting. The thirty-minute drive turns into forty-five, and I’m cursing every car on the road, counting down the miles until Carly’s skin is on mine, and I can taste her, taste the first beer of tonight’s party—and feel just a little bit like myself again.
It’s only Friday night to Monday morning that I exist anymore. Only once I’ve crossed the boundaries of Cross Pointe and come home to Hamilton.
8
Brighton
3:28 P.M.
21 HOURS, 32 MINUTES LEFT