For Keeps

by Natasha Friend

The minute the words come out of my mouth I’m sorry. My regret makes me want to puke.

  “Mom. I didn’t mean . . .”

  “I know,” she says quietly. There’s a long pause, and then, “I never told anyone this before, but I’m going to tell you now.” She glances over at me, and her face is wide open, in a way I’ve never seen before. “OK?”

  I nod. I want her to tell me. I need her to.

  “I changed my mind on the bus, on my way to the clinic. I was by myself because Paul had already moved . . . and, well, he wouldn’t have gone with me anyway. He’d made that clear. And I . . . couldn’t bring myself to tell my parents yet.

  “Anyway, the bus stopped and this woman got on. She was wearing one of those baby-carrier thingies. I forget what they’re called . . . it doesn’t matter. . . . She sat down next to me and she, you know, peeled back the cloth to lift the baby out. At first, I couldn’t look at it. I made myself look away, out the window, at the backpack in my lap, anywhere but at that baby. But then the mom turns to me and she says, ‘I think he likes you.’ So I looked. I looked at that baby and he was just . . . gazing up at me, with one of those gummy little grins. And . . . I don’t know what happened. The kid wasn’t even cute. He had a huge head. And a ridiculous amount of hair, parted on the side. He looked like a miniature investment banker. Like Donald Trump. But I swear to God, Josie, I changed my mind right there. In that instant.”

  “You decided to keep me.”

  “I decided to keep you.”

  “Even though I might have come out looking like Donald Trump.”

  “Even then.”

  “Huh,” I say. I smile a little, picturing myself with a strawberry-blonde comb-over. Would Riggs still go out with me?

  My mom continues, her voice calm and quiet. Her hands are clasped in her lap. “When I got home I did two things. I wrote to Paul to tell him I was keeping the baby, and I told my parents I was pregnant. . . . They were pretty shocked, obviously. My mom cried. My dad . . . he was a bit more pragmatic. He wanted to know if I’d seen an obstetrician yet. If I’d started taking vitamins . . . prenatals, you know, to keep the baby healthy. He wanted me to think about adoption.... .”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  My mom looks straight at me. “I told him no way. I said I was keeping this baby, no matter what. Whatever it took, I was keeping you.”

  I nod, swallowing the lump that has suddenly appeared at the base of my throat.

  She hesitates, then keeps going. “That was before Sully told me what he told me. He didn’t just say Paul had a new girlfriend, Josie. He gave specifics. Like how gorgeous she was. Things they’d done together. How crazy Paul was about her. . . . And I believed him. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did. I thought about sending Paul another letter, but every time I sat down to write it, I’d remind myself that he hadn’t written me back after the first one. He hadn’t called. Why should I put myself out there again? There was a pride thing . . . and a devastation thing. You can’t imagine how devastated I was.”

  Yes, I can,I think. If Riggs ever did that to me . . .

  “I could barely get out of bed in the morning. . . . My parents . . . well, they just took over. . . . They pulled me out of school . . . bought the house in Elmherst. They wanted me to have a fresh start, after you were born. A clean slate. They weren’t . . .” She hesitates, staring down at her hands, which are still clutched in her lap. “I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about what they did, keeping Paul away from me, and . . . I don’t think they were bad people for doing it. They didn’t want me to get hurt, any more than I already was. They did everything they could to ensure that.”

  There’s a catch in my mom’s voice, and for a second I think she might cry, but then she turns to me and says, almost fiercely, “And I would do the same thing for you. Whatever it took.”

  “Steal my boyfriend’s letters?” I ask wryly.

  She shakes her head. “No—”

  “I’m kidding, Mom. I know what you’re saying.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighs. “Good.”

  We sit in silence for a minute. Then she says quietly, “I didn’t mean for things to end up this way, Josie.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s so much I could have done differently. . . . Things I should have done differently. For you. Like trying to find Paul—”

  “Mom. It’s OK.”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “I was scared. And . . . selfish. I didn’t want . . . every time I thought about finding him, or him finding us . . . I was afraid that if he came back into our life . . .”

  “What?”

  “I might lose you.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing—like I would ever, in a million years, choose Paul Tucci over her. I think about Mel’s parents, and Schuyler’s—how ever since they split up they’ve been fighting over who gets to keep the kids. But that’s different. That’s divorce.

  “Mom,” I say. “Come on.”

  She shakes her head. “You don’t understand. Paul’s family had money. After your grandparents died, I was just . . . a single mom with a GED, working in a bookstore. The Tuccis could have . . . if they’d gotten a lawyer . . . I just couldn’t risk losing you.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know, Mom,” I say. Then, “I’m sorry too.”

  “What? This isn’t your fault. You didn’t have anything to do with—”

  “Not about Paul. Just . . . I know I’ve been kind of a jerk to you lately. And Jonathan . . . But I did try to redeem myself yesterday. I took him to the Pizza Palace to play video games.”

  “You did?” She looks surprised.

  “And I bought him a Slurpee. His first Slurpee ever, I might add. . . . It really helped to assuage my guilt.”

  Now she smiles. “I was hoping the guilt gene would skip a generation.”

  “No such luck.”

  “Well,” she says. “I’m sorry about that, too.”

  She starts to say something else, then changes her mind and turns the key in the ignition, revving the engine.

  It is the quietest drive, after all that talking. The strangest, quietest thing. My mom and I don’t even turn on the radio. We just drive home together, side by side, thought bubbles floating over both our heads.

  Twenty

  SUNDAY NIGHT, AND my mom and I are sitting on the couch in the Weiss-Longos’ living room. I am eating cocktail peanuts while she fidgets.

  “Relax,” I tell her. I gesture to the wineglass on the coffee table. “Have some Merlot.” Instead, she taps her foot against the hardwood floor and stares down at her fingernails, which Liv has painted the color of smoked salmon. “Orange means vitality, Kate,” is what she said, “and balance.”

  If there’s anything my mother could use right now, it’s balance.

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” I tell her, holding the glass out to her until she takes a sip. “Don’t worry.”

  It was Liv’s idea to invite Paul Tucci for dinner. She got Pops and Dodd on board right away. I thought my mother would flat-out refuse, but she surprised us all by saying yes. She wouldn’t let Dodd do her hair, though. And she insisted on wearing her rattiest sweatshirt—the two-toned one with the paint splatters and the holes in the elbows—which I couldn’t believe.

  “Don’t you want to look halfway decent?” I asked her, when she walked out of her bedroom.

  “This isn’t about impressing anyone, Josie,” she said.

  And I said, “Well, what is it about then?”

  She shook her head, struggling to come up with an answer. “I don’t know. Putting it out there. . . . Moving on. . . .”

  “Anyway,” I say now, “you’ve already seen each other twice. I don’t get what you’re so nervous about.”

  But I do get it.

  Tonight is different.

  She found his letters, and she read them, and now, everything she tho
ught she knew has been flipped on its head.

  I’m a little nervous myself. I don’t know how things will go tonight. It could be a disaster. But at least we’ll have Liv and Pops and Dodd and Wyatt here with us—the Weiss-Longo buffer zone. If the poop hits the fan, I guarantee one of them will find a way to distract from the splatter. Liv’s outfit alone could do that job.

  Here she is, standing in the doorway, holding a tray of cheese. Ruffly black chambermaid’s dress with apron; chef ’s hat; towel, folded over one arm.

  “Bonsoir, mesdemoiselles,”she says, sweeping her way across the living room. “Apéritif?”

  “I don’t think I can eat,” my mom says. Panic lines erupt on her brow. “I might barf,” she adds.

  Right on cue, Pops arrives in the doorway to announce that the pork tenderloin is sizzling, the potatoes have been whipped, and all is well with the universe. He gazes fondly across the room at my mom. “Are we drinking our wine, Kate?”

  “Not really,” I tell him. “I keep trying to make her.”

  “You need to relax,” Pops says.

  “I realize that,” my mother says, “but everyone telling me to relax doesn’t make me relax. It makes me the opposite of relax.”

  “OK,” Pops says soothingly. He walks over to join her on the couch, pats her knee. “OK.”

  A second later, the doorbell chimes.

  Nobody moves.

  “Hon?” Dodd calls from the kitchen. “Would you get that? My hands are covered in dressing!”

  Pops starts to rise, but my mom beats him to it. “Let me do this,” she says, standing. “I should be the one to do this.”

  It is her voice that surprises me, the strength of it.

  “You go, girl,” Liv mumbles through a mouthful of cheese.

  We watch my mom cross the room, her back straight. This is huge for her, this moment.

  How can we not follow?

  Standing on the porch, Paul Tucci looks more like Paul Bunyan: plaid flannel shirt tucked into jeans, hiking boots. Only this time he’s not wearing a baseball cap, so I can actually see his hair—wavy on top, a single curl flopping onto his forehead like a question mark.

  He holds out a hand to my mom, as though they’re meeting for the first time. “Hello, Katie.”

  “Paul.” Whatever she’s feeling inside, she sounds calm. I, on the other hand, am a bundle of nerves.

  “I come bearing pesto,” Paul Tucci says, holding out a jar.

  “Pesto,” Pops whispers in my ear. I can tell he’s impressed.

  Thanks to her bionic hearing, my mom whips around and narrows her eyes at us, like she’s not amused that we’re hiding behind the coatrack.

  Pops takes the hint. “You must be Paul,” he says, stepping out into the open. “I’m Gregory.”

  The two of them shake hands. Then Paul looks over Pops’s shoulder, meeting my eye-line. “Hi, Josie.” His smile is slow, tentative.

  “Hi,” I say back, just as cautious. And then something hits me. It is easier this time, seeing him. Easier than it was at the hospital, easier than the night on my porch. This time, I know something I didn’t before. I know Paul Tucci isn’t a liar.

  For dinner, Liv made place cards for everyone—little tents of white paper with our names on them. Surprise, surprise, she put Paul in the middle, between me and my mom. As an added bonus, she put herself directly across from him—Dr. Steve, ready for her interview.

  As soon as we sit down, I shoot her a look: Keep your mouth shut.

  Liv widens her eyes: Who, me? She asks Paul to pass the salt and pepper, which he does.

  He has long fingers. I notice that one of his fingernails is black and wonder what he was doing when he banged it. That happened to me once in seventh grade, in shop. The hammer slipped while I was trying to build a birdhouse.

  “This is fantastic,” Paul says, meaning the food.

  “Dodd’s a regular Rachael Ray,” Liv says.

  Dodd smiles serenely. “I prefer Julia Child.”

  Wyatt hums while he eats; he always has. When he asks for something to be passed to him, he uses his own lingo. “Gravity” for gravy. “Roulders” for rolls. We’re used to it, but you have to wonder what Paul Tucci is thinking. He had a laugh-smile on his face when Wyatt asked him to pass the “stinky little cabbages,” but maybe he was just being polite.

  We’re all being polite. Chewing with our mouths closed. Making small talk. No one swears or burps. Everyone says please. It’s unnerving.

  “More Merlot anyone?” Pops asks, holding up the bottle.

  “Yes, please,” my mom and Paul Tucci answer together. They have both been sipping wine at an impressive pace. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mom have more than one drink at dinner. She’s a lightweight. I’m nervous for her, afraid of what might fly out of her mouth at any second. Meanwhile, Paul Tucci’s cheeks have taken on the flushed, feverish look that I have seen on many a high-school boy’s face at many a high-school party.

  I consider the image of a teenage Katie Gardner and Paul Tucci packed into someone’s basement rec room on a Friday night, plastic cups in hand, yelling to hear each other over the pounding of the boom box.

  I catch Liv’s eye across the table. Liv, who, other than using a French accent, has shown a surprising level of restraint during this meal.

  Awkward, I mouth to her.

  She raises her eyebrows delicately.

  Say something!I want to shout.

  But someone else reads my mind. “Hey,” Paul Tucci’s voice blurts out beside me, “is that my sweatshirt?”

  I turn to see my mother shaking her head. “No. It’s mine.”

  “I know it’s yours,” he says. “I mean, I gave it to you.” He looks around the table at all of us. “I gave her that sweatshirt,” he explains, “for her birthday.”

  Wyatt laughs. “Rough.”

  “Forgive our son,” Pops says. “He’s missing the sentimentality gene.”

  “Well, I love it,” Liv says, squinting discerningly across the table. “Très nineties, no?”

  I lean forward to get a good look at my mom’s face, which is pink. Now I know why she wore a crusty, moth-eaten sweat rag to dinner. She wasn’t so much rebelling as testing. Paul Tucci passes!

  “I can’t believe you still have it,” he says, staring at her.

  “Yeah, well . . . I can’t believe you remember.”

  A long pause and then Dodd says, “Why don’t you two . . . go into the den to catch up? We’ll make coffee.” He looks pointedly at Pops and Wyatt and Liv and me, as if it takes a village to make a pot of Folgers.

  So my mom and Paul have gone into the den, to talk. Or to drink more wine. Or to do whatever it is they need to do.

  It feels weirdly right—fitting—that this is happening in the Weiss-Longos’ house. It’s our house too, in a way. My mom and I have so much history here: the time Liv and I rode down the stairs in a sleeping bag and both ended up splitting our chins open, getting stitches; the time my mom made a birthday cake for Pops and set the oven on fire. We’ve shared a thousand meals, a million stories, laughs, occasional tears—like the summer Dodd’s mother died and we all took the road trip to Florida, and the hotel we stayed in had cockroaches the size of golf balls.

  I am reminded, sitting in this kitchen, that this is my family. Maybe we don’t share the same blood, but who cares? That’s what we are.

  I am sitting on my favorite bar stool—the one with the rip in the seat. Liv is beside me.

  “Well,” she says, looking at her watch. “It’s been fourteen minutes.”

  “Fourteen minutes,” I repeat.

  “It’s good they’re talking.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’ve got yourself a dad, huh, Josie?” Wyatt asks from his perch on the counter, where he is trying to crack walnuts with a pair of spaghetti tongs.

  “I don’t know about that, Wy. Let’s see if he sends a Christmas card before we start handing out titles.”

  I am ki
dding, but not. I don’t think I could ever call Paul Tucci “Dad.” It would feel fake. A dad is someone who held you on the day you were born—who has never missed a birthday, or a soccer game, or a parent-teacher conference. Besides, I don’t know what it means yet, him being here. I don’t know if it changes anything. I don’t know if I want it to.

  “Coffee’s ready,” Dodd says, holding up the pot. “And I made cheesecake, and brownies. Oh, and there’s Häagen-Dazs. Three different kinds. . . . I wasn’t sure, you know . . .” he turns to me, “what Paul would like.”

  “Right.” I smile weakly, realizing that we are all thinking the same thing: Who is this guy, really?

  “Don’t worry,” Pops says sweetly to Dodd, leaning over to smooch his cheek. “Everyone loves your cheesecake.”

  Wyatt makes a gagging sound—it’s unclear whether it’s the cheesecake or the kissing that offends, but either way no one calls him on it because now my mom is standing in the doorway.

  “Josie?”

  Her face looks calm, but rosy, like she’s just gotten back from a run. Sometimes I forget how pretty she is. Long, dark eyelashes. High, delicate cheekbones with just a smattering of freckles. I see her face every day, but I don’t really notice it, the same way I don’t really notice the wallpaper in my bedroom. Meanwhile, here she is, beautiful.

  “Yeah?” I say.

  She wants me to come into the den with her and Paul, to talk. Suddenly my stomach is flipping all over the place. Talk? About what? What do they expect me to say? We’re supposed to be eating cheesecake!

  “OK,” I tell my mom. Then, “I’ll meet you in there, though. I have to go pee first.”

  “Go pee,” she says. “We’ll meet you in there.”

  I don’t really need to pee. What I need to do is stare at myself in the bathroom mirror for a while, to see if I’m ready, if I can deal. Staring back at me is a girl with big brown eyes and a ponytail that’s half falling out of its elastic. She looks a little freaked. Not a lot, but a little.

  I have this fantasy, while I’m standing in the bathroom—a fantasy I’ve never allowed myself to have before. I will walk into the den and my mom and Paul Tucci will be sitting on the Weiss-Longos’ couch, holding hands. They will see me in the doorway, and they will smile. They won’t have to say a word because I will know. They have never stopped loving each other. They are getting back together.