“Any guys in your life?”
“Dad,” I say, and blush. Realize that even if I wanted to tell my dad about Ethan, about SN, about all of it, it would be too confusing and complicated.
“Right,” he says. “Remember when you were little we used to ask you how you got so big so fast, and you used to say ‘I growed!’?”
My dad looks at his hands, which are not holding a phone like mine are, and have nothing to work out the nervous energy. My parents used to talk about my childhood all the time—start stories with “Remember?” and then tell me about something I used to do, and then they would smile at each other, like it had nothing to do with me, as if to say Look what we pulled off.
I shake my head. I don’t remember.
“Well, sweetheart. You’ve really growed. I’m sorry I haven’t been here. But I’m so proud of you. And your mom would be too. You know that, right?”
Do I know that? I know she wouldn’t be not proud, which is not the same thing as proud. I’m not sure I’m ready to think about her that way yet, to wrap my head around the “would be” part.
“Yeah,” I say, mostly because of his empty hands and his name tag and the look on his face. It could be that this adjustment has actually been harder for him than for me. “Of course I know that.”
SN: what was under the glass tonight?
Me: Some sort of delicious fish and the big couscous. What’s that called?
SN: Israeli.
Me: Ha, I know. Just wanted to make you use your shift key. I want to get you a T-shirt that says “No proper noun left uncapitalized.”
SN: and I’m the weirdo.
Rachel is waiting in my room when I get upstairs, sitting on my desk chair, again staring at the picture of my mom.
“She was so beautiful,” Rachel says, by way of hello. She looks sad tonight, subdued, and is nursing a big glass of red wine. Again, her volume has been turned down.
“Yeah,” I say, but I am not ready to talk about my mom with Rachel. Not sure that is something I’ll ever be strong enough to do. “Hey, you took the pictures off the walls.”
I look around. The elementary school paintings—which I realize now are probably the work of some famous artist I should know about—are stacked in the corner, and it’s just white in here, with a few nails left like punctuation marks.
“I’m sorry. I hadn’t even noticed them. My husband—um, Theo’s dad—was in charge of decorating the house, and he picked them out. They’re probably not the best choice for a teenage bedroom.” Rachel sips from her glass, rubs her arms, which are covered in a delicious cashmere. “You should put your own stuff up on the walls. Posters or whatever. Make it yours.”
“Thanks for my ticket home. To Chicago, I mean,” I say. “That was really nice of you.”
Rachel waves her hands, like it’s no big deal. And maybe it’s not to her, but it is to me.
“And we’ll get you a new bed. A queen, maybe? I didn’t realize until tonight how ridiculous this one is. Oh and I’ve told both of Theo’s SAT tutors that you’ll be joining in. Don’t know how I didn’t think of it earlier. Sorry about that.” Her face falls, and I see she is near tears herself. What happened? I’m not sure I am equipped to deal with this.
“Thanks. The bed’s actually more comfortable than it looks. I mean, are you okay?” I can’t just let her cry and not ask. That would be wrong.
“Bad days. Good days. You know how it is. Just because I’ve found your father, who is wonderful—I mean, really, the best—doesn’t mean this isn’t all hard or complicated or that I don’t miss—” She takes a deep breath, the kind that starts down in the belly, the kind you would only learn in a yoga class in California. “And I know Theo misses him, and I’m not enough. I’m just not. So it’s hard sometimes. Sorry again for all the balls I’ve dropped. I shouldn’t be in here.”
“It’s okay,” I say, though I’m completely at a loss. This is a house full of pain, of bad juju, as Theo said, but it’s also a house of starting over. Maybe we need to light a few candles. Better yet, start putting things on all of the white walls. “You know, I mean, this place is beautiful, but maybe you should put out some pictures too. Of your husband—I mean your, uh, other husband, Theo’s dad, and of Theo as a kid. So he can remember.”
Rachel looks at me, wipes her tears with her sleeve, and I try not to wince, because she’s wearing mascara and her sweater must be dry-clean only.
“That’s a great idea,” she says, and looks straight at me. Almost smiles. “This is tricky, isn’t it? You and I.”
“I guess.”
“I’ve been trying hard not to try too hard with you, and then I worry I’m not trying hard enough, you know?” She stands up, walks toward the door. Turns around to face me once more.
“Yeah,” she says. “We’ll get there.”
CHAPTER 34