I’m almost back to the house when Susan Dundel pops out in one of those skimpy, expensive Lulu-whatever outfits and starts running next to me like we’d arranged it. Maddy’s laughter pops into my head and I grin. Susan misinterprets this as an encouraging sign.
“I could tell you wanted companionship out here,” she says, matching her pace to mine. “You pass every night, and even sometimes again in the morning, and yesterday I thought, ‘You know, there’s no reason I couldn’t change the time of my run to give poor Brady some company.’”
Poor Brady. My new, least-favorite popular phrase.
“Frankly, Susan, I don’t.” It’s not difficult to shut her down, which says a lot considering I haven’t been laid since April. “I’m training for a marathon next month, and I need to do these runs on my own.” I say it with authority, but when I look her way to ensure the message was received all I see are her fake breasts flopping with each stride. I immediately lose all credibility.
She giggles. “I know, isn’t it horrible? There’s not a sports bra made that provides enough support for these things. My ex loved them though. Good for some things, but definitely not working out.”
Eve drives by on her way home from therapy right as Susan makes an elaborate gesture to her chest. I shake my head at the bad timing. Susan giggles again. “It’s hard for kids to see their parents moving on, but as you get out more, she’ll come around. My son flipped the first time a man spent the night after the divorce, but now he’s good about it. He’ll eat breakfast with a smile on his face no matter who I bring home.” She winks.
Her pride at that statement brings me to a halt. “Listen, I’m not moving on and I prefer to run alone.” She jogs in place as I walk away.
When I get to the house, I brace myself for a sassy comment about Susan, but it’s immediately apparent Eve has her own agenda in mind. Something is up—the kitchen is too clean, Alicia Keys is playing, and I smell rack of lamb, my favorite, in the oven.
“Why don’t you tell me what you want,” I quip, “so we can enjoy dinner without me wondering how much it’s gonna cost.”
Eve gives an innocent smile. “I don’t want anything.”
“Sure you don’t.” I grab an ankle to stretch my quad. I’m up to fourteen miles on my long-distance days.
“Really, I just need to, um, tell you about something I did.”
My stomach tightens. Money is a quick fix. There are plenty of teenage mistakes that don’t have a fix at all. “What?”
“Time-out … first I have a question. Is there anything I could do that would result in you not paying for college?”
I run through the list of things that engulf parents’ nightmares: drugs, stealing, eating disorders, pregnancy. I carefully word my response. “No, I’ve committed to that, but there are things that could delay going.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, Eve. Like if you need time to take responsibility for your actions. Or get help.”
“I’m not pregnant, Dad,” she says with a laugh.
“Jesus, Eve, this isn’t a fun game. What already?”
“I got a tattoo,” she blurts.
I hadn’t considered that possibility. “What? When? Why would you—”
“Three days ago. ’Cause last week I was at Rory’s mom’s funeral, and Rory was saying how after her father died she did something symbolic to help her move on.”
She crosses her arms as though that explains everything, when in fact it leaves me with more questions. I didn’t know Eve left the house last weekend, or that she was close enough with her math tutor to attend a family funeral. But I’m not about to get distracted.
“Am I missing something? That doesn’t equate to being seventeen and getting a tattoo. Is that even legal?”
“It’s small.”
“That’s all you have to say? It’s small? Damn it, Eve, it’s permanent.”
She tries again. “It’s symbolic.”
“So are lots of things that don’t come with a lifetime commitment. Christ. Did you stop to think about what it will look like when you’re my age? Or what you’ll tell your grandchildren?”
Her head slumps to her chest. We wait to see who’ll speak first. It’s a game I usually lose, but not this time. I’ve given this day all I have to offer. A full minute passes.
“It’s that quote you said Mom liked,” she murmurs. “About learning from pain.”
My daughter could earn a degree in surprising me. “You tattooed that quotation to your body? Where?”
“On the right side of my stomach, by my hip. I can hide it, even in a bathing suit, even in a bikini.”
I have her show me. It’s written in plain, black script. As tattoos go, it isn’t that bad. I try to keep a stern face, hiding my relief, but my second thought makes me laugh.
“What’s funny?”
“I’m picturing how it will balloon out unevenly when you’re pregnant someday.”
“Huh. I didn’t think of that.”
I point a finger at her. “That’s why you should’ve involved me beforehand.”
She bites her lower lip. “Am I in trouble?”
I read the quotation plastered to my daughter’s abdomen. If we could learn to learn from pain even as it grasps us. The answer comes to me. “No,” I say. “You’re the one that has to live with it. But don’t go showing it off like it’s cool. It’s not. And don’t do anything this over-the-top for a while. You’ve hit your reckless teenage behavior quota for the year.”
Eve produces a closed-mouth smile she learned from Maddy. It was my wife’s I-won-but-I’m-not-going-to-rub-it-in-since-you’re-being-a-good-sport face.
“Did it hurt?” I ask.
“Like a bitch,” she says, forgetting to filter. A hand flies to her mouth. “Sorry.”
I think back to the drink on the Fourth of July and shake my head. Maddy can’t kill herself and still make all the parenting decisions. “No, you know what, don’t be. Swearing was your mother’s battle, not mine.”
“Really?”
I don’t know why I chose to take a stand on this particular point. I backpedal slightly, “As long as it’s used intelligently relative to the discussion, I’m fine with it.”
“All right. I’ll intelligently swear my ass off from now on.”
I massage my temples. When will I learn to shut the hell up?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Madeline