She snorts, without a trace of anger. “Oh, please. I’ve known for ages. Since Mallory’s mother raved about your ‘smoky eye’ tutorial.”
“Mallory’s mom knows about it?”
“Adults use the Internet too, child of mine.”
Well, this is mortifying. Possibly the only thing worse than someone finding out your big secret is realizing that they’ve known all along. “And you’re not mad?”
“I mean, I wish you’d told me, of course. But your dad and I thought it seemed harmless enough. We’re glad you have passions, you know, even if we don’t share them. We’re not monsters.”
That warrants an eye roll from me. “Of course you’re not. I guess I just . . . wanted something that was mine? If that makes sense?”
“It does.” She settles in more, adjusting her back against the pillows. “So is that it? Any other secrets from me? Better tell me now in case this is my deathbed.”
I recoil, horrified. “Mom!”
“Sorry! Sorry. Dark humor. It keeps coming out because . . . well, I’m so angry, Bird.” She reaches for my hand, a wry smile on her face. “It is not well with my soul, Luce. I want it to be. But damn it, I want to see you grow up all the way. There are things I want to tell you, experience with you. I want to help you through college and life out on your own. I want to see who you spend your life with, if you have kids. And I’ll just be so . . . pissed if I get cheated out of that.”
“I’ll be so pissed too.”
She sighs, wiping my tears. “Don’t say that word, Luce—it’s ugly.”
“You just said it!”
“Well, I have cancer.”
We laugh in a way that feels . . . yes, dark. But as necessary as all the rest of it: our clasped hands, our mirror-image faces, our seventeen good, good years together.
I stay longer than I’m supposed to; I stay until my mom nods off. Sundays are slow, even at Daybreak, and my cabin can live without me for a bit longer.
My dad walks me out. In the warm noonday sun, his hair looks almost blond and his face, by contrast, even younger. He’s wearing his most awful, beloved jeans—worn thin and faded to near-white—and a T-shirt from his alma mater.
And all I can think is that I haven’t noticed him enough. My whole life, my mom and I have been attached. Sure, our family of three has always done pizza nights and the movie theater, trips to the beach, dinner table conversations. But my mom and I have spent so much time en route to swim team or piano practice, talking about boys and school and every feeling that I’ve ever had. I don’t think I’ve ever really appreciated what a loving, steady father he is to me.
I have always felt loved. But I have only recently learned just how lucky that is.
And now I feel left out—the two of them here, dealing with the worst of the cancer and treatment.
“It feels wrong, leaving.”
“I know it does, Bird.”
“Dad.” My voice drops, not wanting even the trees around us to hear my worst-case scenario. “If it gets really bad and I need to leave Daybreak for the summer to be with Mom . . . you’ll tell me, right? Because if you didn’t, and—”
“I would tell you.” His solemn face shows me he understands. If she’s not going to get better, I would never forgive him if I wasn’t here, getting in every moment I could. “But for now, she likes knowing you’re at camp. And she can’t seem to let herself be sick in front of you. She always tries to buck up.”
“That’s so ridiculous, though.”
“I have expressed that same sentiment to her.” He gives me a sardonic smile. “It was not very well received.”
I think of my dad writing sermons on a legal pad in the car as he waited for my piano lesson to end. I think of him in the stands at my swim meets, wearing more White Hills High School logos on his person than the actual mascot.
Never looking annoyed when I showed up in his office at church, wanting him to check my English homework.
Apologizing so earnestly when church member emergencies got in the way of something we’d planned.
I throw my arms around him, nearly knocking him back with unexpected enthusiasm. “Love you, Dad.”
Unstartled by my dramatics, he hugs me right back. “Love you too, Luce.”
On the walk back around the lake, I try to recount the smallest details of life with my parents. The Easter egg hunts in patent Mary Janes, the Christmas mornings with shiny wrapping paper, the birthdays with striped pink candles. But it’s not the holidays that matter most, I think. It’s the nights my mom stayed up listening to how Carly Battista hurt my feelings in sixth grade. It’s my dad stopping by Dairy Queen after I flubbed the hardest part of my eighth-grade recital piece.
I try to stuff these details into the pockets of my memory.
I try to keep my eyes dry and on the road ahead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next week, Thuy—bug-eyed in borrowed goggles—swims with her head below the surface of the water.
I burst into tears and make it weird.
“I’m so proud of you,” I blubber. “Oh my gosh. Thuy. You did it.”
She’s pleased, if a little taken aback by my display. “It’s okay, Hansson.”
But my floodgates are open now. I’m helpless as I remember swim lessons with my mom. My first real dive, arms straight in front of me. How proud I was, how she leapt up from the lounger by the pool, cheering. I acted embarrassed in front of the other kids. I was thrilled.
“Sorry!” I wipe my eyes, trying to laugh at myself. This is why Simmons warned me not to cry: freaking out these poor, innocent children. “I’m totally fine! I just cry when I’m happy sometimes.”
“It’s okay to be sad,” Thuy says. She’s so earnest, with those blue plastic lenses stretched over her eyes. “Mommy Sheila tells me that all the time.”
“Yes. It is okay,” I agree. “It’s okay to be sad.”
On Friday, a bonfire is out of the question. I don’t even want to be outside in this heat. We wind up making a too-long, sticky-hot walk to town, where Tom’s has ice-cold soda and air-conditioning.
“Oh my God,” Anna says, somewhere near the gazebo. “It’s too hot to live.”
Keely wipes at her brow. “This is truly disgusting.”
“Detour?” Mohan asks, jabbing his thumb toward the nearby playground. “Swings to cool off your face, Keels?”
“The sign says it closes at dark,” I say, squinting to make out the white letters.
“Aw.” Mohan gives me his most patronizing smile. “You’re so cute.”
He shimmies up the nearest ladder, whooshing down the slide by the time Anna gets to the swings. I sit beside her, wondering when the last time I did this was. Years, I think. I kick my legs out experimentally and that giddy, little kid feeling comes right back.
“Want a push?” Henry asks, fingertips on my back.
“Yes, please.”
He’s gentle at first, with Keely beside us pushing Anna. Mohan races back, fitting his slim hips on top of the swing for babies.