I turn up the volume on the baby monitor until it’s slightly staticky and I can hear the soft splashes of the rainfall setting on her white-noise machine. Instead of soothing me, the rhythm makes me feel useless. I need a distraction, a purpose, an outlet.
There are four remotes aligned with military precision on the coffee table. These are framed by a neat stack of parenting magazines and a pink basket of teething rings, bibs, pacifiers, and burp cloths. I pick up the remote on the left and study it. Pick up the next one and compare them. I press the power button on the third one and the stereo blares to life with, “My teddy loves me. He’s got a big red bow—” I jab at the button again and hold my breath. The music dies instantly and the sound isn’t replaced by crying. Returning the remotes to the coffee table, I double-check the baby monitor. Sophia’s still sleeping and I still have nothing to do.
I cross to the bookshelves. Since I don’t want to read What to Expect When You’re Expecting or during the First Year or any portion of a child’s life, I hope there’s something tolerable and diaper free in their library.
On the top shelf is a book I recognize too well. It’s stuck between a battered copy of the Mayo Clinic Guide to a Healthy Pregnancy and a hardcover bio-thriller. I pull it out and sit on the floor with it cradled in my lap, tracing the cover lettering like I did when I was seven and Mom would bring me to visit Dad at his office. This cover is different—a newer edition. What new criteria have they added to Teens in Flux: Adolescent Psychology by Ethan Waterford, Ph.D. And who is Roberta Schell?
Why does the cover advertise that she’s written a brand-new introduction to my father’s book? I flip the pages—turning past highlighted passages and pencil notes in the margins—wondering how a book like this would assess me. What would Dad think about how I’ve turned out?
If Dad were still here, would he be able to explain how to make Teflon work in my favor? How to let that barrier down occasionally and who to let in?
If Dad were still here, everything would be different. Tomorrow we’d be making pancakes and going golfing. Maybe I’d even finally figure out how to play. I used to tag along just so I could ride in the cart, hand him clubs, and have four hours of his attention. If Dad were still here, tomorrow I wouldn’t be putting on black and dueling with my grief.
I don’t want to go to the memorial tomorrow. I’m not ready to say good-bye again. I want to shut the door on those feelings—the ones that might consume me if I ever allow myself to acknowledge them—and run away. I thumb through the index of Dad’s book, knowing there’s probably a section on “repressed emotions”—and that’s the closest I’ll be able to get to him helping me deal with his death.
I shut the book’s cover. I should have told Mom “no” when she asked for my help with planning. Instead, I chose caterers and florists; picked out hors d’oeuvres and flowers. Called all our relatives to invite them, which meant listening to all of their reminiscing and tears. And I made sure we were stocked up on tissues, because every time I had to ask Mom a question, she would cry and I’d feel guilty for not being able to answer it myself.
There’s a quiet sneeze over the monitor—it isn’t followed by any other sounds, but I click on the video. Sophia’s in the same position as the last fifty times I checked.
I wish I had something to do—anything. Anything but sitting here thinking about Dad … or Jonah.
Which is just pathetic, because I’m sure I haven’t crossed his mind once since he walked away and left me standing at his locker.
11
Jonah
6:20 P.M.
TIME TO BEG
On the drive back to Carly’s house I plead with her to listen to me, but she’s stubborn. She’s always been stubborn. It’s a cute personality quirk when she’s arguing about which movie we should watch, or which MLB pitcher is best, or with her father about extending her curfew, or with my mother about making me move to Hamilton for the second half of senior year. Tonight it’s not cute—it’s damn infuriating.
There’s no convincing Carly the flyer is nothing more than a piece of paper—one Brighton had shoved in my hand a few weeks back as part of her never-ending campaign to save my soul through volunteer work, and that I, in turn, had tossed on my backseat.
No, Carly had found it, googled Brighton, and decided she was the kind of girl I’d go for and the reason behind my so-called change.
“She’s even got dark hair—I know that’s your type and why you were so weird about me dyeing mine.”
“I wasn’t weird about it; I was surprised.” I reach out to touch her hair, but she leans away. “And Brighton’s definitely not my type. There’s not a girl in Cross Pointe who is less my type.”
“How many girls did you have to go through before you figured that out?”
“I’m not a cheater,” I say through gritted teeth. After two years together, how could she even think that?