“I appreciate it. The backyard’s beginning to look like a jungle.”
No response.
“I met with your history teacher yesterday.”
“Mr. McGinty?”
Do I detect interest? “Yes. You were off to work by the time I got home, or I would have told you about it then.”
Another grunt.
“He thinks a lot of you.”
“At least someone does.”
“I thought, maybe—” My cell phone rings. I should just ignore it, but Michael snatches it up before I can react.
“Hey, Mom.” There’s the enthusiasm I’m looking for. “How’s Taylor?”
I listen to the one-sided conversation as I clear the dishes from the table, Hamilton’s revelation playing over in my head. What’s become of our marriage. Okay, I blew it on my end—refusing to forgive, failing to tell her about Alexis, Drew, and the drama enfolding at the church—but to accept a teaching position when she knows how I feel about it? And how is that going to affect the charges at church when she already has a role to fill there?
“Mom wants to talk to you.” Michael hands me the receiver and leaves.
“Corey?”
“Hey, Paul. Michael sounds good.”
It’s news to me. “Yeah. How’s Taylor?”
A sigh floats through the line. “She’s been better.”
“Why? What happened?” The phone bites into my hand as I await her response.
“I told her the truth about the accident.”
“Oh?” I retake my position at the table, now clear of dishes. “Did she…I mean…was she upset?” How could she not be?
“Let’s put it this way, she’s not talking to me right now.”
Welcome to my world. I rub at a headache forming at the base of my neck. “Aren’t we the poster children for parenting? Taylor’s not talking to you, and Michael’s not talking to me. Is she there? I’d like to talk to her, reassure her, you know?”
“She’s asleep right now, but I’ll have her call when she wakes up. I suppose my idea of divide and conquer wasn’t such a good one, huh?”
“I thought you left because you were angry with me.”
“That’s funny,” she says. “I thought I left because you were angry with me.” But she doesn’t sound like she’s laughing.
“I had a meeting with Michael’s history teacher yesterday.”
“Bob?”
The familiarity irritates. “Yes. Bob. Anyway, it sounds like Michael’s doing well. I didn’t know it was he who suggested that summer camp idea.”
“Oh, didn’t you?”
Why is it I always feel like the outsider looking in? “No. There’s something else I didn’t know.”
She doesn’t respond for a moment. Probably waiting for me to continue. “What’s that?”
“You’ve accepted a teaching position for next year.” I can’t seem to keep the accusation from my tone.
Again, no response.
“Or was Bill Hamilton mistaken?”
“When’d you talk to Bill?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Are you checking up on me?”
She’s upset? What right does she have to be upset? “You're missing the point. Is this just more of the same—secrets?”
“You…you have a lot of nerve. Secrets? Seriously? You've been tiptoeing around a few of your own.”
“This isn't about me, this is—”
“Of course, it's about you, Paul. It’s always about you. You want to tell me what's been going on with Alexis Andrews? And what about Rebecca Simpson, huh? What about the clandestine phone calls with Mark, the moodiness over the last several months?”
“I—” She's got you there, pal.
“And furthermore.” She takes a deep breath. I’m in for it now. “You've been on Michael about his attitude—well, where do you think he gets it? You want to preach forgiveness on Sunday and then refuse to offer it on Monday, be my guest. But if you think you can bully me into submission, you've got another thing coming.”
And the line goes dead.
“Corey?” I check the screen—call ended.
The last time she hung up on me was…never. No, that’s not true. An argument not a year into our marriage. Corey was pregnant with Taylor. It was the first week of September, and the temperature was hovering around a hundred. I was youth pastor for a mega church in Sacramento, working retail on the side to make ends meet. Even so, money was so tight we were consisting on beans and rice.
“I’ve got great news,” Corey had told me over the phone.
I’d called on my dinner break—forty-five minutes and then back to selling electronics to kids who spent minimum wage-earnings on their toys. “We won the Lotto?”
She laughed. “Close. I was called in to substitute tomorrow. Isn’t that great?” Her tone was tentative—as it should have been. She’d flat-out defied me.
“You mean you went ahead and filed the paperwork after we discussed it?”
“Please don’t be upset, Paul. I just want to help. You’re working all these crazy hours and—”
“And I told you I don’t want you working. You’re about to have a baby.”
“In three months. I’m talking about working one day a week, two at the most.”
“It’s not appropriate.”
Tension filled the silence.
“I’m looking out for what’s best for you,” I reminded her.
“No. You’re looking out what’s best for you. It’s not my health you’re worried about. It’s how it’ll look to Pastor Ray with your wife working. Because we all know a wife’s place is in the home, barefoot and pregnant.”
I couldn’t deny the charge, but that was beside the point. “I’m not arguing with you about this, Corey, not over the phone. We can discuss it when I get home. If that—”
A click then dead silence.
And again tonight. Twice in eighteen years. Not a bad record. But Corey’s not a temperamental person by nature. If she’s angry enough to hang up on me, maybe it’s time to take stock.
A half hour later, while I’m in the midst of answering emails, the phone rings again. Corey’s number. But when I answer, it’s a sleepy-sounding Taylor on the other end.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“Dad? I mean…I don’t know what—”
“It’s Dad, Tay. It’s always been Dad. It’ll always be Dad.” A deep sense of possessiveness takes hold of my heart.
“But Mom said…you know.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re my daughter. I fed you, walked you through colic and changed your diapers.”
“Eww. Do you have to remind me?”
A grin takes hold. “Apparently.”
“I don’t want to be here with Mom. I hate her.”
“No, you don’t.” The admonishment is automatic, but there’s a part of me, deep inside, that celebrates Taylor’s anger. It somehow justifies my own.
“She cheated on you.”
Like I need a reminder. “That’s between your mom and me. She’s never done anything to you but be the best mom she knew how.” The words burst forth, a defense of Corey. But they’re true. When has Corey ever put herself before her children—or me, for that matter?
* * *
Corey
“I’m really not in the mood to go out,” I tell Tricia as I spot the five Italian flags waving over Little Napoli restaurant. “Let’s pick up Chinese and take it back to your place.”
“You can use a good meal.” Tricia takes my arm and herds me across Delores Street. “I’d bet you’ve lost a good ten pounds in the last couple months.”
“I should be home with Taylor.” We step into the restaurant where garlic and Italian spices fill the air like a perfume. Despite my protests, my stomach rumbles in response.
“Reservations for two under the name Sewell,” Tricia tells the hostess before leaning close to me. “Taylor’s not talking to you right now, and the harder you push,
the longer it’ll take.”
“But—”
“Jasmine’s very responsible and promised to call if there are any problems.”
Still, I hesitate when the hostess says, “Right this way.”
Tricia starts to follow then steps back to reclaim my arm. “We’re five minutes from home, Cor.”
“But if she runs off again—”
“Which is more likely to happen with you hovering over her. Relax.”
We follow the hostess to a small table in the back corner. It’s busier than I’d expect for a Monday night. Vacationers or locals?
“How’s this?” The hostess asks.
Tricia flashes her model-white smile. “Perfect.”
I slip into my seat and accept a menu from the young woman.
“Your waitress will be right with you.”
Tricia waves to someone across the room. “Now, isn’t this nice?”
“Sure.” Why is it I feel like a disgruntled teenager being dragged out by her mother?
“I haven’t been here for ages. Steven and I used to come quite often.”
“So, why are we here?”
“Excuse me?” Tricia fusses with her cloth napkin and rearranges her silverware.
“You have something to say, just say it.”
“Well, aren’t you the suspicious one?”
“Good evening, ladies.” A chirpy waitress greets us, setting up bread, butter, and an olive oil/balsamic vinegar mix. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Water’s fine,” I say.
Tricia glances at the waitress. “Two waters.”
“Let me tell you about our specials…” She regales us with dishes I can’t pronounce, made all the more appetizing by their mystery. “I’ll give you a few minutes to think it over.”
Tricia loses herself in the over-large menu. “I heard you on the phone earlier with Paul,” she murmurs.
So that’s it. “I suppose you’d have to be deaf not to. You think Taylor heard?”
Tricia drops the menu. “She was sleeping off the excitement of the day. For the brief time you were on the phone, you sounded like the old Corey.”
“What? A screeching harpy?”
“No. A woman who knows when to stand up for herself.”
The menu’s not such a bad place to lose oneself. I examine the pasta dishes with the intensity of a food connoisseur—which I’m not.
“Is everything okay?”
The question brings the unexpected well of emotion clogging my throat. “No.”
“Have we decided, ladies?”
Tricia orders the lasagna and I choose a specialty salad. The waitress collects our menus and leaves us alone. Or as alone as we can be in a crowded restaurant.
I take a piece of focaccia bread from the basket and tear it in half. “I shouldn’t have yelled at him.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes that’s the only way to get the point across. Men can be pretty dense.”
“He has a right to be angry with me.”
“You mean because you took that job without his knowledge or because of the past?”
“I cheated on him.”
“Yes. And I’m partially to blame for that.”
“What?” I lean over my bread plate. “You had nothing to do with it.”
“You wouldn’t have been at that party if it weren’t for me.”
“The party wasn’t the issue, Trish. My getting married to Paul was.” I sit back. “He’s like my dad in more ways than I want to consider. I knew it even then. It scared me.”
Tricia snorts. “He’s nothing like your father.”
Is she blind? “Judgmental, condescending, unapproachable.”
“Loving, gentle, funny.”
“I don’t understand you,” I say. “I thought you believed Paul was, I don’t know, stuffy and unbending.”
“He can be.”
“This whole mess with Taylor,” I flick a hand in the air, “it’s my dad all over again.”
Tricia shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”
“He’s been punishing me, just like my dad would.”
“You’ve been punishing you, Cor. You’ve been carrying this guilt around with you for so long it’s like a cancer eating away at you—changing you.”
“No.” Tears burn my eyes and I swallow them back.
“Look at you.” She waves a hand toward me. “I’ve watched you change from a vivacious young woman to a drudge.”
“I—”
“I’m sorry, sweetie, but your argument with Paul on the phone? It’s the first time in a long while I’ve seen the old you.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I do. You’ve been paying penance for far too long. How can Paul or Taylor forgive you when you can’t forgive yourself?”
“Have you been talking to Jonas?”
“Jonas? What’s he got to do with this?”
I wave a dismissive hand. “Never mind.”
“Some women hide away behind a facade—you know, perfect hair, makeup, fashionable clothing. I’ll admit, because it’s only fair, that’s what I do. But you do the opposite. Like you don’t want anyone to notice you. That’s not healthy, either.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, look at you.”
“I don’t mean me. I mean you. You said you hide away behind a facade.”
“Here we are, ladies.” The waitress slips a plate of lasagna in front of Trish and my salad in front of me. “Can I get you anything else?”
I glance at Trish, who doesn’t seem to have heard the waitress. “No, thanks. We’re good.”
The waitress leaves and I pick up my fork, waiting for Tricia to resume our conversation. When she doesn’t, I say, “You can’t just drop a bomb like that and then leave it.”
“I—” She clears her throat and takes a sip from her water glass. “I didn’t recognize it in you until the last few years.”
“But you said—”
“I know. You all thought I was so heartbroken when Steven died. But the truth was, I was getting ready to leave him.”
“What?”
“He was abusive, Cor.” She looks at me, a sheen of tears in her green eyes. “I haven’t remained single because I’m heartbroken. I’ve remained single because I’m terrified of making the same mistake again.”
It takes a moment for her confession to sink in. How had I never seen it? “Oh, Trish. I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“I was ashamed.” Her smile is sad. “So, you see, I know what it’s like to carry shame around like a cancer. I’ve been there. I battle it every day. And that’s why I know what I’m talking about when it comes to you.”
I shake my head. “Aren’t we a pair?”
Chapter 33
Corey
I’m persona non grata with Taylor. A cold front’s blown in and huddles over our little habitat. She’s all smiles with Trish—in fact, with anyone that isn’t me—only making the issue more obvious. Tricia thinks we can remedy this with a girls’ day out.
We start at the hair salon, to which I’m dragged kicking and screaming.
“There is nothing wrong with my hair,” I mutter all the way to the salon chair.
Taylor, sitting in her own chair to my left, snorts. Not that her opinion matters. She’d argue the opposite out of spite.
“You’re too young to go gray,” Trish says from my right, while Chelsea, her hairdresser, digs through her roots.
“I’m not gray.” I peer at myself in the much-too-large mirror surrounded by unflattering lights. It must be the lights, right? It couldn’t be that I really look that drab.
“You have beautiful hair,” Jacki, my hairdresser says. “With a little tweaking—”
“Tweaking?” I watch her in the mirror, hands raking through my hair, assessing. “What kind of tweaking?”
“Hmmm.”
“I want purple streaks,” Taylor says. “You can do that, right?�
��
I glance over at my daughter. “That’s not—”
“Pick your battles,” Tricia singsongs just loud enough for me to hear.
She’s right. There’s no point in turning every decision into a battle of wills. “That’s not a bad idea,” I say with a fake smile.
I receive Taylor’s turned up nose in response.
“So, here’s what I’m thinking,” Jacki says, one hand on her hip, the other flicking a wide-tooth comb through my hair. “Cut up to about here.” She brushes the comb to just above my shoulder. “And put some color back in. I’d say a shade or two darker than your daughter’s.”
“Color?” I catch her eye in the mirror. “I’ve never colored my hair.”
Tricia’s enthusiasm drowns out my protests. Even Taylor’s eyes light up. I know when I’m beat.
Two hours later, we emerge from the salon. My head feels about five pounds lighter, and I have to admit, I look about five years younger. I was stealing glances at myself all the way out the door. Even as we walk down the street toward the car, I catch my reflection in shop windows. How could I have been so unaware of how my hair aged me?
Taylor’s long brown hair now shapes her face, purple streaks strategically placed.
“Your hair looks nice,” I tell her.
No response.
Tricia catches my eye and shrugs. “Next stop, Reflections.”
“Hey,” Taylor says. “I thought you weren’t working today.”
“I’m not. We’re going shopping.”
Protesting does no good. Has Tricia always been this stubborn?
After working in the shop all week, Taylor’s got her new outfit all picked out. I’m suspicious. Did they have this little jaunt pre-planned?
“I’ll help you try it on,” Jasmine tells Taylor as they disappear to the back room.
“What do you think of this?” Tricia holds up a soft-pink silk shell top.
“I think it looks expensive.”
“Nonsense.” She slips into a dressing room and hangs it. “Let’s see what we can find here.”
“Trish, please. It’s too much.”
She turns from the rack of jeans and plants pleading eyes on me. “It’s a drop in the bucket for me, Corey. I don’t have anyone but you and your family. Let me spoil you a little.”
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