“I just know everyone will be so happy you’re going to be there,” Natalie said, pretending to be Sophia once more. “We all think you’re so smart and like you so much.”
But the truth was, instead of attending parties, Natalie spent most of her time alone, or with her mother, who stayed home to take care of Natalie while her father went to work at his law firm. They lived in a large, three-story Tudor on a bluff in West Seattle that overlooked the Puget Sound. The house was surrounded by a thick forest of western hemlocks, red alders, and Douglas firs, and Natalie’s room was on the third floor and had wide, clear windows, making her feel as though she were flying. She often stared out at the water, dreaming about the places across the ocean she might someday go, wishing she had a sister or brother to play with, or the courage to invite one of the girls from school over to her house. She wanted a best friend. But Natalie was quiet, the student who knew the answers to her teachers’ questions but never raised her hand. She had a tendency to speak only when spoken to. At recess, she sat on a bench outside and kept her nose in a book—she loved anything by Judy Blume or Beverly Cleary—watching the other girls play on the monkey bars or jump rope together, wondering how they made talking to each other look so easy. As she peeked at them, she tried not to look too anxious, waiting for someone to invite her to join in, but no one ever did.
There wasn’t a day Natalie got off the bus that her mother wasn’t on the corner, waiting. Now that she was ten, she wished her mom would at least wait for her inside the house—none of the other kids had parents that waited for them on the street—but every time she dropped a hint about being able to walk the three blocks from the bus stop on her own, her mother pretended not to hear.
One Friday afternoon in April, the last day of class before spring break, Natalie and her mother entered their house and closed the door behind them. Natalie hung up her jacket on the coat rack, as she knew her mother expected her to, and set her backpack on the floor in its designated spot. “Can I watch Rugrats?” she asked. The cartoon was Natalie’s favorite show.
“You don’t have any homework?” Natalie shook her head. “All right. But put your laundry away first, please. It’s on your bed.”
Obediently, Natalie nodded, and turned toward the stairs.
“Shoes, Natalie!” her mother called out, and Natalie turned around and went back to the entryway, where she’d forgotten to put the white Keds she’d kicked off her feet onto the shelf in the closet. As her mother looked on, Natalie set them in their appropriate place, next to her dark green galoshes and the black slippers her father liked to wear when he got home from work. There were certain ways her mother liked things done: freshly washed and folded clothes needed to be put away in their proper places, never randomly shoved in one of Natalie’s drawers, or worse, left sitting around. Doors always needed to be shut, towels hung in the exact middle of the bar, lights turned off when you left a room. Shoes needed to be on the shoe rack.
“If your life is messy on the outside,” her mother had told her for as long as Natalie could remember, “your insides feel messy, too.”
Natalie didn’t really understand what her mother meant by that statement—she felt just fine if her dirty clothes landed on the floor instead of in the hamper, or if she forgot to put her breakfast dishes in the sink. Sometimes, she wondered what would happen if her mother walked into Natalie’s room to find her daughter’s entire wardrobe strewn across the carpet. She imagined the look of shock on her mother’s face, taking some small measure of satisfaction from the thought, followed immediately by a ripple of guilt. However overly stringent some of her mother’s rules might be, Natalie loved her, and wanted to keep her happy. She tried to do what was expected of her, if only to keep the peace.
Twenty-five years later, after dropping Hailey off at her school and then saying good-bye to Henry in his classroom, Natalie made her way to the preschool’s parking lot. Just as she reached into her purse for her car keys, she looked up to see Katie, whose son, Logan, was in Henry’s class and had invited Henry over to play that afternoon. Katie was alone now, so Natalie assumed Logan was already inside, too. Katie wore gray sweats and her brown hair was twisted into a messy bun on top of her head. She had the kind of good skin and natural beauty that didn’t require makeup, something Natalie envied. With her light complexion and fair lashes, if Natalie didn’t put on a little mascara, she barely looked like she had a face.
“Can Henry still come over this afternoon?” Katie asked.
“Yes, thanks,” Natalie said with a smile. “He’s excited.”
“Logan is, too. I’ll bring Henry home around five, if that’s okay?”