For Keeps

by Natasha Friend

  My mom shakes her head slowly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . .” She hesitates. “That’s not how I feel.”

  “Well, how do you feel?”

  It’s the first time I’ve gotten to ask this question. I wasn’t about to open my mouth yesterday, in front of Jonathan, who of course was glued to my mother’s hip the entire time at the hospital, and who of course was waiting in the parking lot when my mom and I came out of the hospital, and who of course stayed at our house until God knows what hour last night, until I finally heard the front door slam and his Subaru peel out of the driveway.

  Now I am waiting for my mother to tell me how she feels. About Paul Tucci announcing I was his daughter. About seeing him again.

  “Honestly?” she says. “My head is pounding. . . . I need coffee.”

  I give her my blankest stare. Here I am, asking the question to end all questions, wanting to hear the answer to end all answers, and this is what I get. My head is pounding. I need coffee.

  “I know!” my mother says, leaping onto the floor, like lightning just struck the bed. “Let’s go out for breakfast!”

  “Out for breakfast,” I repeat.

  “In fact . . .” She grabs the pair of jeans that’s been lying in a clump on the rug. “Let’s take the whole day off! . . . We haven’t had a mother-daughter day in a while. . . . You don’t have a game today, do you? Or a test? . . . I’ll call in sick to work. . . .”

  “Are you OK?” I ask, looking for signs of mental collapse. She’s standing in front of the mirror, yanking a brush through her hair. . . . Now she’s rifling through her dresser . . . smoothing on a layer of lipstick (she never wears lipstick) . . . mascara (ditto).

  Finally, she whips around, smiling. “I’ll even let you drive!”

  OK, it’s official. My mother is completely off her nut. Since I got my permit, she has taken me driving exactly five times, and each of those five times she has suffered a small heart attack. Which is why she has left my driving instruction exclusively up to Pops and Dodd, who are so busy teaching Liv, they don’t have time for me.

  “Seriously?” I say. “I can drive?”

  “Sure!” My mom is still smiling. There’s lipstick on her tooth, a crazy hot-pink smear.

  We’ve had our Egg McMuffins, and we’re back in the car. I know I should be practicing three-point turns and hill starts, but right now I’m just cruising along the back roads between Elmherst and North Haven. My mom is in the passenger seat with coffee in hand. Also, with foot on the invisible brake in front of her, which she presses every thirty seconds.

  “Maybe you should downshift, J-Bear?” she says, glancing sideways at me.

  I shake my head. “I’m going forty-five. I need to be in fourth.”

  “Uh-huh.” She nods, takes a sip of coffee. “OK. . . . You’re doing great.”

  “I know,” I say.

  I feel a rush of adrenaline. Riding in a car is so different when you’re behind the wheel. Freeing. The last place I want to be right now is school, stuck behind a desk, conjugating French verbs. I’m also glad not to have to deal with the Riggs situation. What is he thinking right now, I wonder. Does he feel bad about last night? A small, mean part of me hopes that he is suffering—wants him to be waiting at my locker between every class period today, panicked over my absence, worried that he’s about to be dumped. I’m not planning on dumping him. But I don’t mind letting him sweat a little. . . .

  “Josie!” My mother lets out a shriek, as I swerve to avoid a crossing squirrel.

  “Relax,” I say, downshifting to third.

  “I’m trying.”

  We’re both trying. All morning, we have been. Since leaving the house, neither of us has acknowledged what happened yesterday, but you can feel it all around us. A big gray cloud of Tucci is gathering in the air above our heads, growing bigger by the second, filling up the car. We can pretend that the tension is about my driving, but it’s not.

  “Josie!” My mother slams on her invisi-brake. “Shift!”

  “I am!” Does she think I can’t anticipate a simple stop sign? Sheesh. . . . I downshift to second, then first. I flip on my blinker and turn—quite smoothly, I might add—onto Campbell Road.

  I glance over at my mom, cocking an eyebrow at her. See?I rock. But she isn’t looking at me; she’s looking at the rearview mirror, frowning. “Crap.”

  “What,” I say. But she doesn’t have to answer because I can see for myself—the swirling strobe of blue light behind us.

  Before I can ask what I did wrong, my mother orders me to pull over. Like I’m a moron. Like I’ve never seen a police car before.

  “I know,” I say, disguising my panic with annoyance.

  It is exactly how you would imagine it: Cop, stepping out of his cruiser, one shiny black boot at a time. Swaggering over, slowly, belly first, to intimidate you; hoisting up his gun belt with one hand and lowering his Ray-Bans with the other. Glaring into your open window with thick jet-black eyebrows. “You do realize that was a stop sign back there.”

  I clear my throat. “Yes, sir.”

  “You do realize you rolled through it.”

  Um . . . no.

  Big, heavy sigh. “License and registration.”

  Nodding, I reach into the back pocket of my jeans for my learner’s permit, which thank God I remembered to bring, then awkwardly across to the glove box, to dig out the registration card. I wouldn’t have to do this if my mother would help. But no. She is slouched down in her seat, gazing out the opposite window, refusing to even look at me.

  Thanks for the support, Kate.

  “Here you go,” I say, handing over the paperwork, polite as can be.

  Officer Eyebrows grunts, looks down at my permit. Then he looks up again. “You need to be accompanied by a licensed driver age twenty-one or over.”

  I hesitate, then say, “I am. That’s my mom.”

  He pokes his bristly, flattopped head through the window. “Ma’am?” Then, because my mother doesn’t respond, he says it again, louder. “Ma’am? I need to see your driver’s license.”

  Somehow my mother manages to duck between her legs and come up with her license but keep her head down, like she’s suddenly morphed into one of those double-jointed circus performers.

  “Mom,” I say. “God.”

  I hand over her license, while she remains in pretzel position. Like a complete freak.

  “Katharine Gardner?” Officer Eyebrows says.

  “Yes?” The word floats up, but the head stays down.

  “Uh, ma’am? . . . I need to see your face. . . .”

  My own face burns. What the hell is she doing? As if getting pulled over isn’t humiliating enough, my mother has to go all—

  “Ma’am?”

  “Mom.” I poke her spine with my finger. Once . . . twice. . . . I’m about to do it a third time, when she finally decides to pop up. By the look of her face, you’d think she’s just finished running a marathon. Her cheeks are bright red and her forehead is shiny with sweat.

  Officer Eyebrows glowers at her. Then, suddenly, those two furry black caterpillars shoot straight to the top of his forehead. His mouth forms an “O” of surprise. “Katie? Katie Gardner?”

  “Uh-huh,” my mom says weakly.

  “Katie Gardner, holy shit! . . . I never knew you were a Katharine. . . .” He’s grinning now, whipping off the Ray-Bans. “It’s me, Sully! . . . From high school!”

  For a second my mom pretends to be confused, unable to place him, which is downright hilarious because even I know who he is.

  Sully.

  Aka Tom Sullivan.

  Aka Paul Tucci’s BFF, the one person decent enough to break the news to my mother about the infamous Arizona girlfriend, because Paul Tucci, aka Spineless Wanker, didn’t have the guts.

  “Sully,” he repeats. “You know . . .”

  Now my mom is nodding, trying to smile but not quite pulling it off. “Sully! Of course! . . . Ho
w are you?”

  He gives his spiel. He’s still living in North Haven. Blah, blah, blah. He’s a cop. Blah, blah, blah. He married Annabeth Reese, from high school. They have two boys. Blah, blah, blah. . . .

  “Katie Gardner,” he says now, shaking his head. “Damn. . . . How long has it been? Fifteen years? I don’t think I’ve seen you since . . .” He pauses for a minute. “Since you were . . . well . . .”

  “With child?” I blurt, surprising myself.

  The eyebrows shift to me.

  I shrug. “I’m . . . you know . . .”

  My mom makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat, but it’s not her reaction I’m trying to gauge. It’s Sully’s.

  “No kidding.” He is looking at me, squinting. “Uh-huh. You look just like your dad.” To my mom, he says, “She looks just like Tooch.”

  My mother lets out a squeak, like a mouse.

  “You think?” I say.

  Sully nods. “Spitting image.”

  For a moment, in my semi-emboldened state, I forget that I’m talking to the cop who pulled me over. All I want is information. And I don’t care if my mom is wigging out beside me either. I need to know.

  “So,” I say, “do you see him much?”

  “Tooch? . . . Shit, I haven’t seen Tooch since high school. . . . After he moved, he just . . . I don’t know . . . dropped off the face of the earth. . . .” Sully hesitates, glances at my mom. “You heard from him?” His expression is sincere, not mocking. He really wants to know.

  My mom shrugs, licks her lips. “Actually, he’s in town. I . . . saw him yesterday. . . .” She looks like she’s debating saying more, but doesn’t.

  Sully’s mouth is hanging slightly open. “Are you guys . . . ?”

  My mom laugh-snorts. “No.”

  “Right.” He laughs too, like he sees her point. The prospect of a Tooch-Katie rekindling is simply too crazy to contemplate. “So . . . what? You’re not still single, are you? . . . I mean, no way are you still single. . . .”

  My cheeks burn, hearing this. They burn for my mom, at what Sully is implying. As if she would waste sixteen years of her life pining over her asshole high-school boyfriend.

  “Actually,” I say loudly, “she’s in a very serious relationship. His name is Jonathan, and he’s a very talented musician.”

  I don’t look at my mom. I keep my eyes directly on Sully, whose “Oh, yeah?” sounds seriously lame.

  “Very talented,” I repeat.

  I am lying, but who knows, Jonathan may actually be a very talented musician. I’ve never bothered asking him to show me his instrument collection, let alone to play me anything. . . .

  Anyway, the point is, nobody calls my mom pathetic. Nobody. I don’t care who you are. Or how shiny your badge is.

  Sixteen

  MEETING OFFICER SULLY is just what I needed to get my courage up. This is what I realize, as soon as I drive off—not with a ticket, but with a stern warning not to roll through any more stop signs. The logic is twisted, but somehow, facing Sully has given me the guts to face my father. I mean really face him—not like yesterday, when I barely said two words in his presence.

  I need to do it now. Before I lose my nerve.

  “What?” my mom says when I tell her. I don’t mention Paul’s name. She is still in recovery mode after seeing Sully, and I don’t want to send her over the edge. All I say is we’re driving to the hospital.

  “Why?”

  “I want to stop by the gift shop to pick up some flowers. For Big Nick. . . . And, you know . . . see how he’s feeling.”

  Silence from the passenger’s seat.

  “Come on,” I say. “It’s what you do. When someone’s in the hospital, you bring flowers. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Uh-huh,” she says.

  “I’m not saying you have to come with me. You can wait in the car if you want.”

  “OK.”

  “OK you’ll come, or OK you’ll wait in the car?”

  “I’ll wait in the car,” she says. Then, quietly, “I just can’t deal with seeing Paul’s mother again.”

  “His mother? Why?”

  I can understand her not wanting to deal with Paul, but Mrs. Tucci? I actually thought she handled herself pretty well yesterday, all things considered. Sure, she was shocked to find out Paul had a kid, but come on, who wouldn’t be?

  “Please.” My mom snorts. “Did you not see the way she was looking at me the whole time? . . . She hates me, Josie. She always has.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t hate you.”

  “Yes, she does. She never thought I was good enough for Paul. And now . . . the golden boy and the high-school tramp have a baby? . . . It’s like her worst nightmare—”

  “She hugged me,” I say defensively.

  “Well, of course she hugged you. You saved her husband’s life.”

  “That was the first hug, before she found out. She hugged me again, after. And the only reason she didn’t stick around to talk was that nurse came and got her. . . .”

  “Whatever.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh? Her husband almost died. And then, she finds out her son has been keeping this gigantic secret for, like, years. . . .”

  “Why are you defending her?”

  “I’m not defending her. I’m just saying—”

  “Josie!” She grabs the dashboard. “Jesus!” Another squirrel has just crossed our path, interrupting our moment. Which I don’t mind in the least. Because my mother is really starting to get on my nerves.

  “Excuse me,” I say to the curly-haired nurse who is sitting at the nurses station, reading Us magazine.

  I’m glad I decided on sunflowers instead of tulips; sunflowers are stronger. Manlier. . . .

  “Excuse me?” I say again.

  Big Nick isn’t critical anymore; he’s stable, which is why I’m in a different wing from yesterday. The recovery wing. Not, apparently, a wing that prides itself on customer service. . . .

  “Excuse me,”I say, for yet a third time.

  “What,” the nurse says, not looking up from her magazine.

  “I’m looking for Nico Tucci’s room.”

  “Who? ”

  “Nico Tucci?”

  Now she looks up, not so much at me, but at the clock over my head. “Only ten minutes left in visiting hour.”

  “That’s OK. I just wanted to drop off—”

  “Relation?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Re-la-tion,” she says, like I’m the village idiot. “How are you re-la-ted to the patient? It’s relatives only.”

  “Oh. . . . I didn’t know. I—”

  “Granddaughter,” comes a deep voice behind me.

  I whip around and there is Patrick, the pilot brother, holding a tray of coffees in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

  “He’s her grandfather, Gwen,” he says, leaning in and winking at the nurse. “Stop being such a bitch. Here”—he plops the bag on the desk in front of her—“I brought you a cruller.”

  She smiles at him. Incredibly. “Are you trying to make me fat?”

  He laughs. “Couldn’t do that if I tried, sweetheart.”

  I feel a hand grab my elbow and now here we are, me and Uncle Pat, gliding down the hall together toward a bank of elevators.

  “Don’t mind Gwen,” he says low. “Her bark is worse than her bite. Anyway, she’s just jealous because you’re prettier than she is. You got your old man’s looks.” He winks at me, presses the Up arrow. “Pete’s the brain. I’m the jock. But Paulie? Paulie hit the jackpot. . . .”

  My eyelid is twitching. I can’t think of a thing to say. Not a single word.

  “Hey,” Patrick says gently, as we step onto the elevator. “You OK?”

  I nod.

  He looks at me, and the words pour out of his mouth. “I feel responsible, in a way. . . . Pete and I both do. . . . When Paul first told us Katie was pregnant, we were away at college . . . living it up, you
know, not exactly at the height of maturity. . . . Paulie was really torn up about it, though. He wanted to do the right thing. Tell the parents, propose, whatever it took. When Katie decided not to keep the baby and they had that huge fight and broke up, right before our folks moved to Arizona, Pete and I told him, Listen, man, maybe this is for the best. You’ve got college to think about . . . your whole future ahead of you . . .”

  He keeps talking, but all I can hear are those same six words, over and over again. Decided not to keep the baby. Decided not to keep the baby.

  My mind is spinning. As the elevator dings and the doors open, Patrick turns to me and I don’t even wait to hear what he’s going to say next. I just shove the flowers into his chest. “I have to go.”

  “But—”

  I stumble blindly out of the elevator and down the hall, walking as fast as I can, to the nearest exit sign.

  “Josie! Wait!”

  But I don’t wait. I walk faster and faster, until I’m running. Through the hall, down the stairs, out the door, across the parking lot to the car where my mother is waiting.

  “That was fast,” she says, when I open the door.

  I stare at her. I stare and I stare.

  “Why did you break up?”

  She frowns for a moment, then says, “What?”

  “You and Paul Tucci. Before he moved away. You had a fight and you broke up. Why?”

  “Oh, Josie. That was a long time ago—”

  “I know exactly how long ago it was. You were pregnant with me. Why did you break up?”

  “Josie, I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Patrick told me,” I cut her off. “So don’t even think about lying. Why did you break up?I want to hear you say it.”

  “I don’t know.” She’s looking down at her lap now, shaking her head. “We had a fight. I don’t—”

  “Yes, you do,” I snap. “Tell me.”

  “Josie, how I felt then has nothing to do with how I—”

  “You’re stalling. Tell me. Tell me why you broke up. Tell me.”

  “I’m trying to!”

  “No, you’re not!”

  “I wanted to have an abortion! OK? Is that what you wanted to hear? I was sixteen years old and I didn’t want to be pregnant! Paul wanted to keep the baby and I didn’t and that’s why we broke up!”