I like talking to Rory. She’s philosophical without being condescending. She’s softer than Paige, and more real than Aunt Meg. I feel older around her, smarter. “What else do you remember about the campus?” I ask.
Rory licks sauce off the side of her lip. She’s a messy eater. “Let’s see. I remember Brian telling me that everyone called skipping class dicking, which I thought was a riot. And everyone referred to the cafeteria as the fishbowl. But I guess that makes sense when you’re in it.” She looks to me for confirmation.
“Wouldn’t know. I haven’t been on campus yet.”
Rory plops the pizza on her plate. “You’re kidding. Why not?”
“My dad’s boss is an alumni, so he did the interview from here. We never really had a reason to make the trip.”
“Ahhh—so you can see the place you’re going to live?”
I didn’t find it at all strange until she repeated the situation back to me. “Well, when you say it like that…”
“It’s only an hour and a half away. Don’t you want to see the campus before you arrive with everyone else?”
“I guess, but it’ll be fine. It’s not like I can change my mind at this point.”
Rory scoots her chair closer to mine. “Never box yourself in like that. You have options. If you give it a fair shot and you’re unhappy, do something about it. I guarantee you and your dad can figure out a Plan B.”
She waits for acknowledgement. “Okay,” I agree. I won’t back out, but it’s sweet she cares.
“You need to learn your way around before the first day of class. You’re taking on enough unfamiliar faces and new routines; you can’t afford to be disoriented on top of it.” Just as her lecture starts to freak me out, she smiles. “I vote tomorrow we skip math and go to Exeter.”
“Sounds good to me.” We both grab another slice.
“Are you nervous about going?”
“Tomorrow?”
She flaps her napkin at me. “No, you goof, when school starts.”
“Oh, no. I’d be more nervous if I was staying.” I see no reason to sugarcoat it. “Or not nervous, but like, depressed. I can’t move on in Wellesley. I can’t show up my senior year a completely different person and expect everyone to accept it. They all feel sorry for me. It’s this constant reminder I’m supposed to be sad.” I look up at the clouds to keep from getting weepy. “I don’t know. It’s like you said the other night: something will always be missing, but I don’t want to wear it as a badge. Yanno?”
Rory looks proud. “That’s good,” she says. “I’m glad you aren’t blindly running away. There’s no distance where you won’t miss her. A fresh start I can support.”
I find a smile. This is the first time I’ve talked about leaving and been happy afterward. Everyone else is burdened by why I’m going instead of that I’m going.
Brady
I don’t totally understand what I’m out to accomplish with this trip, and not having a set goal leaves me anxious. My gut tells me to dig deeper, but my mind wants to return on the next flight to Boston. Envisioning the first moment of our interaction doesn’t help. To hug or not to hug? Bring a gift? Coffee and doughnuts?
It’s not in a trailer park, but the house would best be described as a double-wide. When Marie answers the door, it’s obvious there will be no hug, and I feel silly handing her fresh flowers. She laughs in my face, something women seem to do a lot lately. “We going on a date I don’t know about?”
“I didn’t want to come empty-handed.”
Marie is fat and loud, exactly what I pictured from our call. Paul is thin, quiet, and positioned in a spot that blocks me from entering. I extend an arm for a handshake. He reciprocates, which I appreciate because the marine tattoos snaking up both his arms are intimidating, even on a senior citizen.
It’s possible Marie is drunk. Between her odd sense of humor, coughing fits, and half-angry, half-pleased bursts of laughter, it’s hard to know how to respond.
Paul and I sit on the couch, and Marie follows us in with a lawn chair. “I’ll sit on this,” she says. “Never anyone here but me and Paul, so the love seat’s usually enough.” I offer up my spot on the couch, and not just to be polite—I’m not at all convinced the lawn chair can support all Marie has to offer. “Huh, a gentleman. How about that? Paul never would’ve switched.”
“You’re right ’bout that,” Paul says. He mumbles such that his words are almost indecipherable.
I direct my first question to Marie. “Can you tell me about your father?”
“I can tell you he was a hell of a lot better than the SOB that raised you.”
I choke on my coffee. “You knew my dad?”
“Only from what Beth’d say.”
“How often did you two talk?”
“Oh, she hunted me down as much as she could, least once a week until I graduated high school.”
So while hiding their existence from me, she advertised my existence to them. I don’t know which of us should be more offended.
“What did she say about my father?”
“She was trapped. I was eleven when Dad died and we became the state’s problem. She bawled like a baby in a wet diaper. Got married about two years after that. Things got worse over time. I know that for sure. Our dad was encouraging of Beth’s free spirit. But yours—what’s-his-name, Bob?—he had a set place for a wife.”
My hands stiffen on my lap. “I wouldn’t say that.” Would I? It’s not as if she wore sunglasses from the lessons Dad taught her. My parents walked around each other, the way Eve and I do sometimes. They didn’t fight; it was more like there was no affiliation between them whatsoever. When my father got home, my mother went quiet. Things stayed perfectly still until he left for work the next day.
Marie brushes my reaction aside. “Who knows? Maybe she carried on about him so we’d feel sorry for her. But she hadda sneak out of the house while he was working to see us because Bob didn’t allow it. We weren’t his problem, far as he could see. Can’t say I disagree there. Never did get why Beth kept on us. I’ll say though, hearing everything she went through with your dad was one of the reasons I never married.”
I have a hard time picturing anyone asking Marie for her hand in marriage, but keep that observation to myself. “When did you see her last?”
“Sheesh. Let’s see. I reckon the last time we saw Beth was two, maybe three years before she died. Right, Paul?” Paul starts to say something but gets cut off by another of Marie’s coughing fits. She waves her hand to move us along like it’s nothing, but it would be like talking over a blow-dryer. When the hacking subsides, the three of us stare at one another in a moment of silence I spend grateful Marie didn’t just drop dead. Then I ask if my mom and Phil were publicly dating.
“Oh sure, they were the real deal. Lot of good that did us. If only they’d married. Then our life would’ve been different.”