A half hour and countless questions later, I found my way back to the Green Room. Isabel was already curled in bed.
I plopped onto mine and relayed the adventure—wandering the house, opening dark cupboards, finding Clara, making a lightbulb glow, and the embarrassment of explaining the entire story to her parents, including how I’d fixed the flashlight.
Sylvia had shuddered good-naturedly at the thought of what her daughter might do next if left unsupervised or, worse, met me in another abandoned hallway. She had a lot of questions and concerns. But Aaron, in a soft voice with a quiet smile, declared it a very good scientific experiment.
His contradiction had not pleased Sylvia, which I thought might amuse Isabel.
She was not amused. By the end she had sat up straight and swung her legs off the bed. “You didn’t.”
“It was easy. A simple circuit. No big deal. Tomorrow I might teach her—”
“It’s not the circuit, Mary. It’s the fact that you dug around in the pantry, a private, off-limits-to-guests kind of space, and started making your little projects. You’re a guest here, not the resident electrician.” She slapped her hand over her eyes.
I pulled back. “I . . . I’m sorry.”
We sat, knees almost touching in the small space between our beds.
“No.” She dragged her hands down her face, pulling her cheeks with the gesture. “That wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have said that.” She arched her back and pressed her fingers into the inner corners of each eye. Only then did I notice she’d been crying.
I tapped her knee. “I am sorry, Isabel. I won’t embarrass you again.”
“No . . . It’s not you. I was horrid tonight. I felt horrid. It’s . . . How can a place I’ve never been bring up memories? Daddy used to take me on business trips after we moved to Texas. He’d get furious when I acted like a kid. I was eight. What did he expect?”
She took a deep breath and dropped her voice low with a hint of southern drawl. “‘With decorum.’” She let her father’s two words rest between us before continuing. “I clearly didn’t have any, because he quit taking me and hired Mrs. Trumbull. Remember how she smelled like onions? And her voice . . . Anyway, after hearing from Gertrude about the interview thing and—he’s in my head tonight.”
I caught the and in her statement. “You talked to him today, didn’t you?”
“He replied to my e-mail.” She shrugged. “It usually takes days to get him to reply to anything.”
“And?”
Isabel’s father, distant at best, had declared his job done when she graduated college. But I often wondered if he had ever thought raising and loving Isabel was his job. He never attended any school events, wasn’t around for birthdays, even missed high school graduation. In August, right before we parted ways for college, Isabel and I came home from the movies to find a Honda CRV in her driveway. Mrs. Trumbull handed her the keys with a note: Happy Graduation. It’s a three-hour drive to Dallas. Work hard at SMU. Dad. He didn’t even pretend he might make it to her college graduation.
Isabel didn’t reply. Instead she reached for her phone, tapped it, and handed it to me.
Isabel. Your petulant e-mail was not appreciated. I expected a thank-you rather than a temper tantrum. Five years is ample time to finish your doctorate and move on. If this trip is what you need, as you have claimed, just thank me. Do not pout. Consider it my gift to you, but if you continue to behave like a child, you may consider it my last gift.
This reply is also to inform you that Abby and I were married yesterday. As you set yourself against her from day one, your attendance was not desired.
Please e-mail when you reach the States. I want to hear of your progress. If you wish to meet us for Christmas this year, I expect you to be more respectful to Abby.
No signature line. Certainly no ending endearment.
I pushed off my bed and dropped next to her. “Yesterday? You’re thinking that’s why he sent you here. He couldn’t have written that, Isabel. Maybe Abby planned the timing and wrote the note.”
“He wrote it. I know Malcolm Dwyer.” Her head rested on my shoulder. “I hate him, Mary.”
“You just think you do.” I drew my arm around her.
“I hate me.” She took a deep, shuddering breath and then, without another word, headed into the bathroom.
I crawled back onto my own bed and reached for my phone. Now I missed my dad. My screen saver was a picture of his latest gizmo, the Skittle dispenser.
Your little projects. I loved those projects—loved the time my dad and I spent planning and creating them, and the fact that, in our ways, we both still built them. What was Golightly, after all, other than a gizmo I dreamt up and wanted more than anything to create?
I tapped his face to text him.
Arrived safe and sound. The house is beyond belief. Thanks for bullying me into coming. I miss you.
I received an immediate reply.
Bully? Who me? Father knows best, right? You couldn’t turn down a trip like that. Please take lots of pictures. Is Isabel dancing on her toes like she did when we gave her that movie?
I’d forgotten “that movie.” Dad and Mom gave Isabel the four-DVD commemorative set of the BBC 1997 Pride and Prejudice for Christmas when we were fifteen. She had just given that huge report in English class and they were so proud of her. She took it home and watched one each night in succession for weeks on end. She called them her bedtime stories.
I glanced to the bathroom, realizing that, even then, they understood what I had failed to see. I tapped my phone and lied to my dad . . .
She’s having the time of her life. Couldn’t be better. I forgot to tell you I paid the invoice for sponsorship at the ball park. Ballard Sign Shop will print and hang the signs.
When a reply didn’t come, I checked my phone. Four bars of Wi-Fi . . .
Sorry you’re still worrying about the business. I got three new clients and should hear back on the concert hall proposal you submitted soon. Go have fun. Sorry to bother you.
I closed my eyes. I’d always liked helping Dad. The boys were much older and had been gone so long—it often felt like the two of us. Only occasionally did I see it from his side.
Sorry I mentioned it, Dad. And hey, I texted you. Have a great day. I love you.
Isabel and I passed in silence, she coming out of the bathroom as I went into it. She kept her eyes trained on the carpet. When I climbed into bed a few minutes later, she reached up and switched off the light.
“Thank you for saying yes. I thought he was being so generous, offering to pay for a friend. He just wanted to appease his guilt, if he ever has any.”
I twisted in the dark to face her. “I’m sorry, Isabel.”
We were quiet for a few minutes.