“You okay?” Mom asks, and I grab my water and nod.
After we clear the table and pack up the leftovers, it’s time for dessert. I help Mom and Shelley bring in the apple pie, the ice cream, and the chocolate cake. It’s all too much. I don’t think I can eat anything else.
Once we’re settled back with our dessert, we eat quietly until Dad says, “So, Sam. Your mother says you’re working with a tutor.”
I see Shelley kind of shoot him a look—like she’s warning him to be careful. Mom is looking at Sam, smiling—but it seems fake, like she’s holding something back.
“Yeah, Lane,” Sam says. “She’s nice. I like her.”
“That’s great.” Dad takes a bite of his pie, then looks back at Sam. “And you’re seeing a therapist.”
Sam nods. Mom’s smile is gone. Now she’s staring at Dad, but he’s still watching Sam. The air in the room feels weird now—like there’s a bad smell we’re too embarrassed to acknowledge.
“Sam’s adjusting really well,” Earl says, piping in.
“We’re taking things one day at a time,” Mom says.
“That’s great,” Dad says. “That’s all you can do. One day at a time.”
Mom has always stressed that talking about any of this is off-limits. But maybe Dad didn’t get the memo.
Or maybe he did and he’s defying her.
“Why don’t we move into the den,” Mom says, pushing back from the table so hard that the table rattles. She starts grabbing plates.
“Sure,” Dad says.
I help Mom, rinsing the dishes, then putting them in the dishwasher. When we lock eyes, she gives me a tense smile. Shelley helps, too, while the others settle back in front of the TV, watching football. I can hear Dad and Earl talking. Outside it’s getting dark. Finally, we get the kitchen into reasonable shape and join everyone else in the den.
“So, Sam. You playing any soccer?” Dad asks.
“No. Not really.”
“Sam’s a great artist now,” Mom says, the edge from her voice gone. “He draws these wonderful pictures.”
“You should see some of his sketches,” Shelley says. “Sam, show your daddy some of your work.”
“I’d love that,” Dad says.
“Okay,” Sam says, sounding kind of embarrassed.
“Wow, an artist in the family. Maybe you can draw my portrait?”
“Sure,” Sam says.
“And Beth is applying to Alabama for next fall,” Mom says, sounding a little too cheerful. I can tell she wants the focus off Sam. That’s the only reason she brought me up. I mean, we’ve barely talked about college. “And she’s still super involved with soccer. Her team has a real good shot at making the state championship this year, right, hon?”
“I guess,” I say.
“You’re a midfielder?” Dad says.
How does he know? “Yeah. More of a defensive midfielder.”
“That’s great. Midfielders—those are the real workhorses on the team. You must be strong.”
“She is,” Mom says, “and fast.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. She’s acting like an expert, but she’s barely been to any of the games. Earl sometimes came, and he explained Mom’s absence as being related to Sam. (“It all reminds her too much of him.”)
“Any young men in the picture? A pretty girl like you, I bet boys—”
“Stop it,” I say.
“What?” Dad looks at me and cracks a smile, then glances at Mom and Earl in a confused way, like he’s seeking their guidance.
“Stop pretending you care about me.”
“Beth,” Aunt Shelley says.
“What?” I say, my eyes laser focused on Dad. “I know you only came down here to see Sam. I was here for three years and I never saw you, but the minute Sam comes back, you’re dying to be here.”
“Beth, calm down,” Mom says.
“No,” I say. I feel my skin burning, and my adrenaline kicks in, like during a game when the ball is coming toward me. “It’s true. Sam’s the only one who ever mattered to him. To anyone in this house. Including you, Mom.”
“Beth, honey,” Aunt Shelley says.
“Don’t expect me to jump up and down and act all happy that you’ve actually acknowledged me. You’re all here because of Sam. You only care about Sam.” I stand up from the couch. A kind of fury is building inside me, but my throat tightens and I feel my eyes welling up. But Dad’s still smiling at me, trying to be an adult.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I say to him.
“Stop it, Beth,” Sam says.
My father looks down then, unable to meet my eyes. I feel a vein throbbing at my temple and I wonder if I look crazy to him, to all of them. “You’re not my father. You’re a stranger to me,” I say, still feeling fury, but also a hard burst of sadness. Because what I’ve said is true. He is a stranger. I don’t know him at all.
“Stop it!” Sam says again.
I turn to him, and his wet and angry eyes only push me to keep going. “And what about you? You just mope around like a ghost and we have to pretend that everything is fine and normal, and it’s not. None of this is normal.”
“Stop, please,” he says, softer this time.
“Beth,” Dad says.
But I can’t face him anymore. I can’t face him or Sam or anyone else. I walk away toward the kitchen, then out the kitchen door, through the garage and down the driveway and into the street. I start walking up the hill, away from our house.
The cool night air feels good. I breathe deeply, feeling charged up but also exhausted, like I just ran down the field. And as I walk, that sadness blooms in me and it takes all my energy to keep moving. After a few minutes I hear Aunt Shelley calling after me. I keep walking, but she catches up.
“Lord, slow down, girl. I might have a heart attack.”
I ease my pace, but I keep walking, my arms crossed against the cold. For a while Aunt Shelley just walks along with me. Then she puts her arm around me. “You’re having a hard time of it, aren’t you?” I don’t say anything, because my throat is lumpy and dry. “I can’t imagine what it’s like, having to deal with all this adjustment. The years of ups and downs. You’re a stronger girl than I was at your age.”
“I’m not strong,” I say, enjoying the feel of her arm, the smell of her flowery perfume.
“Oh you are, and you know it. You’ll get through this. All of you will.”
This. Whatever this is. Like it’s something physical. Like it’s a place that we can just drive past.
“I wish Dad hadn’t come,” I say.
“You don’t mean that.”
“He’s always loved Sam more. Mom too.”
“Honey,” she says. “Listen to me.”
I stop at the crest of the little hill but keep facing forward.
“Love’s not a pie. There aren’t limited pieces to go around. Your parents love you both equally, just in different ways. When you’re young, I know that love can feel like a burden, or it can show itself in funny ways. But trust me, that love is overflowing.”
I think about Dr. Rao, about what she said earlier, and start to feel a little bad that I stormed off.
“You know, I speak to your daddy. A few times a month.”