“I miss seeing you, bud. You’re always running off to Hamilton or you’re locked in your room.”
I open my mouth to say “then you shouldn’t have moved,” but what comes out is, “Miss you too.”
“Do your Sox play this weekend? Now that we get every channel known to man, I’m sure we get all their games. Want to order Chinese and watch? I’ll get Paul to take the baby to the park so it’s just you and me. It’ll be like old times.”
I want to give in—except it won’t be like old times. Dad won’t be there to spill popcorn whenever a batter strikes out, and Mom will pay more attention to whether or not I’m using a coaster than to the lineup.
I should say no, but her eyes are pleading. “Maybe.”
“Good.” She smiles. “Sophia looks so comfortable with you.”
“She’s pretty cute,” I admit.
“Am I making you late?” Mom asks.
“I’ve got a few minutes.” I don’t remember the last time Mom and I had a conversation that didn’t include her telling me everything I’m doing wrong. I can be a few minutes late to see Carly if it means prolonging this. I give Sophia a gentle squeeze; maybe I’ll put her in the swing after all. Then I’ll talk Mom into making her famous nachos while we catch up.
“If you’ve got some time, you don’t mind if I just duck out for my manicure, do you?”
“What?” I freeze halfway to the swing and spin around to face her.
“I won’t be long. Paul should be home any second. He’s running late because one of his clients needed a last-minute appointment before a race tomorrow.”
She says this with such expectation. All my nostalgia and goodwill vanish. None of it was real.
“What the hell? Are you kidding me?” This time I’m not swearing for her amusement, but she pretends not to notice.
“Come on, Jonah. I’ll give you gas money.” She reaches inside her purse and pulls out her wallet, looking at the bills instead of me. “Forty dollars for twenty minutes? Sound good?”
The way she holds out the cash is like she’s daring me to protest. And I could use the money. Back in Hamilton, I had a job, but Mom and Paul made me quit when we moved so I could “focus on school work and making friends.” Now, if I need money, I’m supposed to “ask Paul.” I don’t even like asking him to pass the salt; I’m not going to beg for handouts.
I take the cash.
“Will you make me nachos?” The question is a fragment of the conversation I thought we might have, and it slips out in a sulky voice.
She’s already putting her wallet away, leaning down to kiss Sophia on the forehead. “Right now? I’m on my way out.”
“What about for the game?”
“The game?” Either she’s distracted by locating her keys on their hook, or she’s already forgotten.
“The Sox game?” I prompt.
She pauses. “Right. Sorry. I really want to do that, Jonah. We’ll find a time and, yes, I will make you a huge plate of nachos.” She reaches for my hair again. I shift out of her reach. “Did I already tell you to say hi to Carly for us?”
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?