I shrugged. You had to give it to her. “Ballsy.”
My mother closed her eyes. “Please don’t talk about balls at dinner.” Then she went on, “The good news is, it’s in Europe, so no one could possibly expect us to go.”
“Did you know they were going to invite everybody but me?” I asked, showing her the envelope.
From her face, she didn’t. “That must be a mistake,” she said.
That calligraphy did not look like a mistake to me, but before I could say so, my mom’s phone rang.
It was Kit.
My mom put her on speaker.
“Did you hear about the wedding?” Kit demanded.
“We just got the invitation,” my mom said.
“And I’m not on it,” I added. “They invited everybody but me.”
“I think it was an oversight,” my mother declared.
“Maybe they’re sending you a special one,” Kit suggested.
I gave my mom a look. “Unlikely.”
“Well,” Kit said, in her determined voice, “you have to come anyway. You have to crash.”
“Hell, no,” I said, just as my mom said, “We’re boycotting, like decent people.”
“Listen,” Kit said. “They invited Dad, too. Evelyn called him, since she knew he was ‘on sabbatical.’”
“I hope he is boycotting, too.”
“No,” Kit said. “He’s going.”
My mom frowned. “Why would he go? He doesn’t even like to travel.”
“He’s going,” Kit announced, “because I talked him into it.”
“Kit—”
“And I talked him into it because we’re going to Parent Trap him.”
My mother frowned, totally uncomprehending.
“We won’t tell him you’re coming,” Kit went on, “and you’ll show up looking devastating—and the shock of it will catapult him into your arms.”
“There may be some logic flaws here,” my mother said.
“He talks about you all the time,” Kit insisted. “He misses you all the time. I think it’s pride keeping him away. I think we need to give him a reason to get past it.”
“You want to surprise him into forgiving me?” my mother asked.
“Shock and awe,” I said, nodding. For a terrible idea, it wasn’t too bad.
“Exactly,” Kit said.
I shrugged. “It might be just dumb enough to work.”
But my mom was shaking her head. “No. I can’t.”
“Yes! You can!” Kit said.
“It’s too much,” my mom said, and she suddenly looked remarkably old to me. Smaller, too. She’d always been so forceful—so certain and bulldozer-like about her choices. It was strange to see her hesitating and uncertain like this. It was disarming to see her hang back and hesitate. The little frown lines between her brows seemed deeper. As disorienting as it was to see her this way—so timid—I have to confess, it humanized her, too. It made me feel almost protective.
“Mags and I will help you,” Kit offered then. “We’ll go with you. We’ll make it work.”
My mother lowered her voice, like I might not hear. “I can’t ask Margaret to do that.”
“Hello?” I said. “I wasn’t invited.”
“Skip the wedding, then,” Kit said, like, Duh, “but come to Belgium. Easy.”
But would it be easy? Traveling so far might not be easy. Leaving the safe nest I’d built this year might not be easy. Facing a thousand unknowns had definite potential to not be easy. And flying again—something I’d just assumed I’d never do—would be the exact opposite of easy.
But Kit was ready to make this happen. “Family trip to Belgium! End of discussion!” Kit said. “I’ll organize everything. Hit the mall and find something heartbreaking to wear.”
My mom squinted at me, like, Is this a good idea?
I gave her a nod, like, Hell, yes.
Was it a good idea? I didn’t know. It actually seemed pretty risky—for everybody. I had just barely let go of my suicide calendar, after all. I hardly even had my head above water, and it wouldn’t take much to wash me back under. Could I do this?
I suddenly thought maybe I could.
Especially as it hit me that Belgium was really not all that far away from Scotland.
It didn’t seem like such a bad idea to help my mother get some closure with my dad—and then maybe just pop over to Scotland for a little closure of my own.
A terrible, heartbreaking, foolish idea—but once I’d thought it, I couldn’t seem to unthink it.
The idea even woke me up from a sound sleep that night and gnawed at me until I Googled the distance. A nonstop flight from Brussels to Edinburgh took under two hours. Easy.
I could pop over for a day or two, maybe. Pretend to be in town “on business.” Call Ian in a super-casual way, like I’d remembered him as an afterthought. We could meet for coffee. I could be near him again, even for a few hours. But, as I considered the idea, I had to think about what that might look like.
I’d be—as ever—in my wheelchair. It would be gray outside. We’d meet at some café with a door too skinny for my chair, so Ian would have to leave me outside while he ordered us to-go cups, if they even had things like that in Europe. He’d lead us to a bench nearby, and I would be utterly saturated with longing—like a starving person looking at a fresh-baked loaf of bread—and he would be … What? Vaguely pleased to see I was still alive? Professionally curious about the state of my spinal cord? Polite? Even—oh, God—falsely friendly? Or worse! Maybe he’d be seeing someone by now, someone tall and able-bodied—a fellow triathlete—and he’d blithely bring her along so we could meet. You know, thinking that would be fun for me. I’d sit in asexual agony in my chair, watching the two of them on a bench with their able bodies side by side, smiling and stealing glances, but trying to keep it down for the desiccated, noodle-legged spinster in their midst.
It would be the worst circle of hell. My stomach cringed at the thought.
But I still wanted to do it anyway. Or maybe needed to.
Kit loved this idea—but then, terrible ideas were her favorite kind. She wanted details. “What are you going to do—show up outside Ian’s flat and surprise him?”
“No,” I said. “I’m going to surprise him on the phone, like a normal person.”
“You mean, like—once you’re already there. Like, around the corner, in one of those little red phone booths?”
I shook my head. “This is not a spy movie. I’ll just tell him I’m in town on business or something.”
“I love it. A sneak attack.”
“I’d just chicken out otherwise.”
“How will you even find him?”
“I have no idea.” I thought about it. “Maybe I’ll ask Man-Bun-Rob to get his address from the hospital.”
Kit clarified: “You’re going to ask a former PT to help you stalk his former colleague.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Perfect,” Kit said. “What could go wrong?”
Twenty-seven
KIT ARRIVED IN Texas three days before the trip to get us focused.
We spent more hours than I can count strategizing over outfits for my mom—and me, too. Kit wanted my mother in green—my dad’s favorite color—and she dragged her to four stores before they found the right look. After that, Kit insisted she get her hair and nails done and buy all new makeup.
“I don’t need a new lipstick,” my mother protested.
“It’s crunch time,” Kit said. “Go big or go home.”
Me? I was trickier. Kit spent more time on me than on my mother, and I wasn’t even going to the wedding. I could easily have just worn some clothes I already owned, but Kit wouldn’t hear of it. Nothing in my “sad closet” would do. Kit wanted me in something “smart, sophisticated, and with a just a touch of go-fuck-yourself.” But subtle. If I really was just going to “pop by” in Scotland to “say hello” to Ian, I’d have to meet the challenge of finding plausible business wear that could also “reduce a man to tears of longing.”
“We might be setting our sights a little high here,” I said.
“Hush. I’m working.”
It took Kit two days to find my perfect look: a gray pantsuit with a crisp white blouse that cost four hundred dollars.