‘Dad!’ I said, startled by his tone. My father stepped back, surprised. Rosemary glanced at me, equally surprised at my defense.
Today, Rosemary’s dark blonde hair was in a braid down her back, with various strands of hair straggling out from each braided lump. She wore a large piece of turquoise on her right pointer finger; my father had found it when they were on a vacation to New Mexico. They had gone there not long after the attacks, as a way to separate themselves from New York City, my father overmedicating himself to get through the plane ride.
She took an annoyed bite out of the apple, crunching loudly. ‘I’m going down to Duane Reade for some Tylenol. I have a headache.’
‘Can you get some packing tape?’ my father called. ‘I think we’re running out.’
‘It’s on the list,’ Rosemary responded, gruffly. She shrugged into her wool duffel coat and slammed the door.
For a while, my father just continued to shuffle around the boxes. Then he turned and examined the living-room wall. He reached into a blue duffel bag, pulled out a yellow and black measuring tape, and began to pull it from one side of the room to the other.
‘I can’t believe you can do that,’ I said.
He stopped. The tape remained taut. ‘Do what?’
‘You used to be afraid of measuring tapes. You used to hate using them.’
He thought for a moment. As he moved his head to the side, I saw a smattering of gray at his temples. It was arresting; I’d never seen gray there before. ‘I think that was kitchen knives,’ he concluded, glancing again at the blank wall. ‘I really don’t know if we should knock this down or not.’
‘I don’t think you should sell this place, Dad.’
He looked at me blankly. I pointed to my sternum. ‘I offered to take it over, remember?’
‘You don’t want to live here.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
I leaned back on the counter. ‘Why? Is someone else moving in here, instead?’ My mother perhaps? My mother and you? But did that make any sense? Why would he be putting it on the market? Why would he bother moving his things out?
My father pressed a button, and the measuring tape retracted back into its holder. I felt a big wave welling up inside of me, building, ready to break. ‘I know what’s going on,’ I said.
He whipped his head up. ‘Sorry?’
‘I…I know you’re talking to her.’
His mouth dropped open. No sound came out. I couldn’t believe I was actually right. I thought about Rosemary, strolling down the street, her nose into the wind, her purse swinging by her side. She knew a lot, but she probably didn’t know this. Perhaps they’d been communicating for a long time, and my father hadn’t had the heart to tell her. Of course he’d still find it hard to tell people difficult things. Of course he’d still avoid conflict whenever he could.
‘I wondered if you knew,’ he said.
‘It’s okay,’ I said quickly. ‘I mean, I don’t blame you. I understand.’
‘You do?’
‘I do.’
His face crumpled into a smile. He perched on the edge of one of the boxes, his hands in his lap. ‘Wow.’ He let out a sigh. ‘Did you tell Steven?’
‘Well, no. I haven’t said anything.’
He sighed, staring at his palms. ‘So.’
‘So.’
‘Well…perhaps this is a strange question, but would you like to see her?’
I fluttered my hands to my throat. Right now, Rosemary was weaving through the narrow Duane Reade aisles, pausing to buy Tylenol, tape, cough drops. Philip had asked me plenty of times what my mother was like. Each time, I stopped in my tracks. I knew what she liked-cashmere sweaters, imported olive oil, Himalayan cats, cooking utensils she didn’t need, exercise crazes, her oversized cell phone-but not exactly what she was like. ‘She was very particular,’ I always ended up saying. ‘She had very specific tastes.’
All I knew was this: she’d still be beautiful, but cold and dismissive. She’d be effusive but mercurial and impatient. I’d still find her mysterious, another species. She’d be the same person as when she left us, her feelings out of arm’s reach, always unspoken. And, as usual, I’d try tirelessly to snatch something from her, to coax her to tell me that I was, indeed, loved.
‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘I’d like to see her.’
‘Okay.’ My father smiled shyly at me. It felt like the first sincere smile he’d given me since before he’d admitted himself into the Center. Once there, his smiles became hazy, bogged down by medication or resentment. ‘I’ll call her, then.’
‘Okay.’ My heart beat fast. It was happening, whether I wanted it or not. I pointed to the door. ‘I’m going to…I have stuff to do.’ I didn’t, but I felt like I needed to feel some air on my face. I wanted to walk to the river and stare at the buildings.
‘That’s fine,’ my father said. ‘And…Summer?’