I kick at the sandy floor mat below my boots. Stupid therapy-communication-speak. “Did he ever tell you about, like, my mother?”
Her perfectly manicured and moisturized hands tighten slightly around the wheel. “Your father has never been very effusive about that relationship.”
“Yeah, I know he isn’t effusive. I’m just asking . . .” The next words are a little painful to speak aloud, like needling out a splinter. “Did he tell you stuff about her he wouldn’t tell me? In sessions or anything?”
“No,” she says slowly. “Only that your mother left when you were two, and the divorce was finalized shortly after. And that your mother had her problems, as we all do. He didn’t talk about them, and it would be irresponsible of me to speculate.” Lindy glances over at me. “I was always more interested in your father’s history.”
“But did my mom ever—”
“I wanted to talk to you about something, Immy,” she cuts me off, which is not like her. “I want to talk to you about your dad. About what’s been going on around here. I don’t know how much you’ve picked up on. . . .”
“Well, I’ve picked up on the fact that he’s not here.”
“I mean before that. You know your dad’s had some real trouble in the past.”
A horn honks through the quiet in the car, and Lindy flicks on the blinker, glides into the slow lane. I can feel this horrible, queasy seed sprouting in my stomach.
“That was a long time ago,” I finally answer.
“Not so very long. Your father . . . he’s had a hard time of it. Periodically. He was going through a stretch of it when I met him.” She looks over at me, suddenly flustered. “Of course, you remember, because you were there. He’s been battling this in therapy, and he takes his medication. And he has us. You know how much he loves you.”
“That’s not what’s happening,” I say coldly.
“Immy, wherever he’s gone, he left his medication behind.” She lifts a hand from the wheel and lays it atop my own, which I’ve fisted into the seat without noticing. “This is not his fault. This is not our fault.”
“You think he’s crazy?”
“Bipolar disorder is a condition, Immy. You know better than that. It’s medical, it isn’t—”
“He’s not crazy. I would know.” As I yell at her, I flip through the past few months, sift through moments of my dad. Were there any of the old signs from the bad times? That Sunday afternoon I came home to find him on the couch at three p.m.—was he napping? Staring listlessly at the ceiling? Did I have to call his name a bunch of times before he heard? Was his voice slow and slightly blurry when he answered, as if fighting up through water to reach the air? And that other night, was he wandering the halls at three a.m., or mumbling to himself behind locked bathroom doors? I think of the beach. He was a little different on the beach . . . but no. I would’ve noticed if he was changing. Changing back. He’s been fine for years. He’s perfectly fine.
“Dad didn’t go off because he’s sad. He would never . . . You don’t know what you’re . . .”
“I’m not trying to hurt you, Immy. I just don’t want to keep anything from you. Not about your dad.” She sighs again and squints into the mirror. “We’re in this together.”
I turn and see big tears bunched in the corners of her eyes. Also very un-Lindy-like.
“Whatever,” I mutter, blinking wetly. I crank on the radio, not caring enough to switch the station when an NPR drone fusses over the tech boom in California.
Dad’s searching. I have the stone heart to prove it. He didn’t leave it for Lindy because she doesn’t know him like I do. I’ve had Dad for seventeen years. They’ve been together barely four. She wouldn’t know where to look for him, how to find him. I realize now that Lindy never expected anything to come of Victory Island; she drove us two and a half hours round-trip to trap me and ask me about my feelings. Which proves that, unlike me, she has no idea which questions to ask. If Dad had left the heart in her dresser drawer, she wouldn’t have the faintest clue what it meant. She wouldn’t listen if I told her.
We ride home without another word until Lindy pulls back into our driveway, and so gently it’s obnoxious, says, “Immy, if there’s anything you ever need to talk about—”
“Nope. I’m good. I’m fine,” I say briskly. “In fact, I’m going shopping with Jessa tomorrow.”
Lindy looks over at me, surprised. “Oh. Okay. I think that’s a good idea.”
“I’m not doing it because it’s a good idea.”
She holds her hands up in surrender. Her fancy gold watch slips down her wrist, spinning around her perfectly tanned and sculpted arm. Who is this person, I wonder, this woman who lived a whole life before I knew her? Then, before I can feel sorry for my stepmother, I gather up my bag and hurry from the car. I slam the front door and shut Lindy out behind me.
What do I need her for when I’ve got big shoulders?
FIVE