My mother has moved from asking me when Jackson and I are getting married to asking me what I do at Stark International. Which would be a reasonable question if this weren’t the third time she has asked me that in the last ninety minutes. Everything I say to her seems to go to some other place, and it has been that way since Ethan got sick. As if once he got ill, she had no energy to devote to the other child, and so she tossed platitudes my way and hoped that I wouldn’t notice.
And that strange disconnect continued even after Ethan recovered. By that time, I was on my way out the door, but even when I would come home from boarding school, she never asked about my schoolwork or my friends or anything. And if I volunteered information, she would listen, but she wouldn’t really hear.
It’s something I realized early on, and I used to test her on it. I’d tell her something specific. Once, we were sitting down for lunch and I told her, “Donna bought a horse, and then she fell off and broke her leg.”
She told me that was just terrible and she hoped Donna was doing better.
“Did I tell you what happened to Donna?” I asked later that evening. “About the horse?” And she assured me that she’d never heard the story before.
She doesn’t have a memory deficiency. She doesn’t have Alzheimer’s. What she has is a son, and only a son.
The daughter doesn’t count.
I don’t know why.
I don’t know if she was complicit in the sessions with Reed. I don’t know if Ethan’s illness just made her snap a little bit. I don’t know if she is mad at me for something I did so very long ago.
I don’t know, and I no longer care. As far as I’m concerned, family is what you make of it, and the only reason I’m in this house of horrors tonight is that Ethan is still my family.
I make a valiant effort to describe my assistant duties to my mom, and then give her a rundown on what I’m doing for the resort.
“She’s doing an amazing job,” Jackson says, directing his words at both my mother and my father.
He’s been the perfect boyfriend so far. Staying by my side, squeezing my hand in support when my parents get weird. And, thank god, not saying anything that even hints at my past or those damn photos that he thinks we should show my dad.
Jackson starts to go into more detail about my job—about how I’m juggling my assistant and project manager responsibilities, about the quality of my work and the excellence of my ideas.
My mom’s eyes glaze over, but from the far end of the table, my dad says, “That’s what I’m talking about.”
I turn toward him, not sure if he’s talking to me and Jackson or to Ethan, whose ear he’s been bending all evening.
“Talking about what?”
“What Jackson was just saying to your mother,” he says. “About your job, and the extra time and work to essentially perform two jobs.” He turns back to Ethan. “That’s the way to get ahead. Hard work. Sacrifice.” He meets my eyes. “I’m proud of you, Elle.”
I feel cold. Both from his use of a name I abandoned long ago and from his statement of pride. I want nothing from this man, least of all his validation. And when Jackson squeezes my hand in solidarity beneath the table, I think that I have never been more grateful to have someone in my life who understands me so well.
It’s his support that gives me strength to respond. “But sacrifice isn’t always about work, is it?” I say, even though I know I should just keep quiet. Because silence is the only guaranteed way to keep my emotions in tight.
Except I don’t take my own advice. And I keep talking, the words sort of spewing out as if they have a life of their own. “I mean, some people sacrifice a kidney to save someone they love.”
I keep my eyes on my father and my hand tight in Jackson’s. I don’t want to see Ethan. Not right now. Not when I feel so hollow and raw. “Abraham was supposed to sacrifice his son to God. And in that movie, Sophie’s Choice, Meryl Streep has to sacrifice one child to save the other.” I deliberately take a sip of water, never breaking eye contact. “Must be hard.”