My mother told me the plan: She’s moving to a retirement community in Florida to live with my aunt, and he’s going to head out to Colorado to stay a few months with cousins. But it all sounded so surreal. Like I’d come back here and find out I’d made it all up in my head.
The truth crashes around me. This is really happening. They’re moving out and leaving this place, my home.
I whirl back around and realize my father is still staring out the door, as if Dax is hiding in the bushes, waiting to attack.
“Dad, we’re losing AC,” I tell him, pushing the door closed.
He nods and looks down at the book in his hands. “All right. You’re just . . . are you sure you and he weren’t . . .”
I snort. “What? Getting it on in his truck?” I laugh at the ridiculousness of it, and wrap my arm around him. My dad’s a slight man, and only getting slighter as he ages. In my pumps, I’m taller than him. “Come on, you know he’s the only mechanic around. What else was I supposed to do?”
“You could’ve—“
“I know. I could’ve called you. But what could you have done? You would’ve just had to call his garage, anyway. I just didn’t want to bother you, considering the. . .” I can’t bring myself to say those words. The divorce.
His eyes fill with storm clouds for a moment, but before I can ask him how he is, he says, “So, you’re looking sharp. How’s the job, my big shot legal eagle? Are you getting those applications ready?”
I force a smile. My dad will never be accused of having any fashion sense whatsoever, so “sharp” to him is anyone in decent shoes. And as much as I’d rather leave thoughts of my soul-crushing job behind, I can’t refuse to talk about it with my dad. Any time I get him on the phone, it’s the first thing he wants to talk about. He brags to all his friends that I’m the Smart Donahue who’s making it in the big city and going to take the legal world by storm, as if I’m soon going to be arguing cases in front of the Supreme Court or something. “Well, it’s—“
Before I can launch into my latest lie about how awesome it is, I hear my mother calling to me. Thank god. She appears in the doorway to the living room, throwing her hair into a ponytail. “Oh, hi, beautiful!” she says.
She comes up close to me, smelling comfortingly like her floral perfume I know so well, and plants a kiss on my cheek. “What’s this about your car? It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
I open my mouth to speak but my father quickly fills in: “No, Gloria. It broke down.”
She doesn’t even look at him. “Oh, no. Are you all right?” she asks, sympathetic.
Before I can answer, my father mumbles, “She got That Dax Harding to tow it. He just dropped her off.”
All sympathy on my mom’s face turns to alarm. “Dax Harding was in our driveway?”
It would sound much the same if she’d said Charles Manson was in our driveway?
I head her off before that seed in her brain can take root. “It was just a quick tow, and believe me—that was even too much for me.” It’s not a total lie, but the reason it was too much for me is exactly the opposite of what my parents would want to hear. I keep that part to myself. “Anyway, enough about my broken car. What’s for dinner?”
My father starts to say something about Dax, but luckily, I’ve managed to sway my mom off the Dax Conversation and to the thing she loves to concentrate on most: Feeding me. She holds up a hand to stop my dad from continuing the Dax topic. “Enough, Henry. She just got home and she’s hungry, can’t you see?”
She’s scowling at him. I’ve never seen her look so totally hateful at another human being before, much less my dad, who she’s always gotten along with. They hardly ever fought before. In fact, she’d always tell me the story of how they met with stars in her eyes. They were both going for their Masters in Education at Penn State and were put together as study buddies in Child Development class. They were the type of parents who still held hands and kissed and gave each other lovey-dovey looks that made me squirm.
Now, he swallows his words and bows in apology, which only makes me feel bad for him. He looks so . . . small. I shift my gaze between them, wondering if this awkward moment is going to be the first of many more this week. Suddenly, she tears her eyes from him and smiles lovingly at me, magically recovered.
What the hell did I just witness? They’ve been married for thirty years. When did things get so goddamned chilly between them?
But she’s back to my good old mom again, as we walk, arm in arm, to the kitchen. She pinches my side and says, “You’re getting skinny. And hasn’t anyone told you to be careful about wearing silk in the rain?”
I groan. Yes, she has told me that little nugget of info, at least a hundred times.
My mother heats up my stew in the microwave while I pull down earthenware bowl from the cupboard and get myself a Diet Coke. The aroma is more than heavenly, making my mouth water like a fountain. It’s also comforting. There’s a reason she thinks I’m getting skinny.