by Jaime Reed
Dad stepped forward. “Ellia, that is enough—”
“Let her talk, Gerald,” Mom said behind me.
I turned around to her standing against the kitchen island with her arms crossed.
“It started with Babette’s death, didn’t it?” Mom asked me softly.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I blamed Dad for Babette dying and not being allowed to show my grief. Or I was afraid to share anything with you because I didn’t want to disappoint you. Maybe your expectations were too high and I buckled under the pressure. I don’t know the answer to that, but I’m sorry anyway.”
Mom nodded. “Dr. Kavanagh seems to agree.”
Dad bristled at that news. “When did you speak with her?”
“During the parent-doctor appointment that you missed.” Though Mom spoke in a low tone, the heat behind it could cut through steel.
“So I’m the bad guy here? I’m trying to do what’s best for our daughter,” Dad argued. “And that little white boy is nothing but trouble.”
“My God, Gerald!” Mom pushed away from the counter. “This court business has gone along far enough. The boy is harmless. Troubled, but harmless. Why do you insist on threatening that child?”
I looked at Mom. “Did you know about the restraining order against Liam?”
“Of course I did, but that was a while ago.” She said this as if it was an old song for her, but it was my first time hearing the tune.
Stunned by her nonchalance, I asked, “And you were okay with that?”
“At the time, I was,” she said. “Your father and I believed that he was behind your reckless behavior and when you came home at 3:00 A.M., half-dressed and covered in feathers, it seemed like the best decision at the time. Wouldn’t you agree?” Anger laced each of her words.
“The frat party,” I said, recalling what I’d read in Liam’s story. “Must’ve been pretty wild.”
Neither Mom nor Dad shared my amusement. “From what Stacey told me,” Mom said, “he brought both of you home from a party you had no business going to. It would appear that he’s been the voice of reason throughout your rebellion.”
Stacey? That was an interesting twist. “When did she tell you that?”
“She and I spoke often while you were in the hospital. Quite … informative.” Mom arched a sculpted brow.
“Well, there you go. Liam’s the good guy. What’s with the three-hundred-feet restriction?” I demanded.
Now it was Dad’s turn to look perplexed. “Ellia, the order lapsed over a month ago.”
I blinked. “Come again?”
“It was a temporary order that only lasted until the court date,” Mom explained. “Your recovery had taken up so much of our time, your father couldn’t show up to court to make it permanent, so the order lapsed.”
“And since you woke up with no memory of Liam, I saw no reason to reinstate it,” Dad added.
I processed the words slowly and carefully. “So … Liam’s not restricted from me or the house?”
“Legally? No,” Dad replied and sounded a little tight about that fact.
“Does he know that?” I asked.
Mom’s large eyes narrowed at me as if I was trying to pull a fast one on her. “He should’ve been served a notice by the sheriff.”
“Then why is he still sneaking—I mean, why doesn’t he come over to visit?” I quickly corrected myself. They didn’t need to know about Liam’s morning routine.
“I assumed he was giving you space,” Mom guessed.
“Uh-uh. Not his style,” I muttered.
Dad stepped forward and nailed me with a cold stare. “And you would know that how?”
I figured this was a good time to come clean. “I’ve been seeing him for a while now. Mostly tutoring stuff, but we’d hang around and talk. He’s really smart and he’s helped me a lot with my test scores. We’re not dating or anything, so please don’t call the cops on him. Please?”
“You’ve been seeing him behind our back again?” Dad bellowed. “I told you to stay away from that boy.”
“But you never gave me a good reason why.” I glanced at Mom. “What else did Dr. Kavanagh say?”
“She recommended that we have a family meeting. We’ve been advised to do this on a weekly basis as a part of our normal routine where we discuss our concerns in an open forum.”
A family what? She wanted us to do this from home, without the aid of a professional? The idea just sounded weird coming from her mouth. Even weirder would be to put it into practice.
“Well, we might as well have this discussion now.” Mom directed us to the kitchen table with her usual game-show model grace. She paused and pivoted toward Dad, who was still standing in the threshold. “Um, honey, will you be joining this session or do you want me to do this by myself as well?”
Oh snap! Somebody alert the burn unit. I kept quiet before they unloaded their ammo onto me.
Squaring his shoulders, Dad closed his office door and joined us at the kitchen table.
Mom started, opening the floor to anything and everything that needed to be said. And boy, did I have some grievances to voice. Since this was supposedly a therapy exercise, there was a good chance I wouldn’t get grounded for it.
I let out everything I wanted to tell Dad for years, but didn’t have the nerve. How sorry I was for being a bad daughter. How much I hated him and loved him at the exact same instant. How Dad’s dream for me to follow in his footsteps would never happen because engineering or anything math related wasn’t my thing. How he was too stubborn to see that my creative side came from Mom. How I wished he’d take over the cooking, because Mom was slowly trying to poison the entire family.
The words came in a series of stops, starts, mumbles, and shrugs, since getting all up in our feelings wasn’t a family pastime. And Dad and Mom listened, really listened. And when it was their turn to speak, I was floored by what I heard. I wasn’t a bad daughter. I wasn’t a disappointment. Their expectations for me were indeed too high, and they both needed to start seeing me as my own person. But what had me blinking away tears was a sentiment not commonly expressed in the Dawson household. They loved me. Unconditionally.
According to the microwave clock, the discussion ran over two hours, the longest I’d ever spoken to either of these people simultaneously. By the end, Mom was wiping tears from her cheeks, which kinda freaked me out. The Dawsons didn’t cry. We were doers, fixers, movers, and shakers. This sudden change in the rotation would take some getting used to.
I touched her trembling shoulder. “Mom, I’m sorry. I’m not saying you’re a bad cook. You just need to ease up on the foliage.”
“Preach,” Dad chimed in and then rose from his chair. “I’m ordering a pizza.”
“Are you okay?” I asked Mom while Dad went to get his phone.
“Yes, baby. I’ll be fine.” A sudden weariness crept over her smooth features as she dabbed her watery eyes. Even her tears were dainty. “I suppose you’re old enough to know what you want in life.”
“No. I’m not,” I replied in all seriousness. “I just know what I don’t want. And that is to be controlled or bullied or crammed into a mold that I can’t fit. This goes for you, my friends, and even Liam. I can’t be the girl he wants me to be. He wants us to be more than friends, but I can’t deal with that.”
Dad came back, his ears perked up at the sound of Liam’s name. “You don’t want to date him anymore?”
Why did he have to sound so hopeful about that? “It’s complicated. I want to keep things simple,” I replied.
Dad nodded thoughtfully. “Simple is good.”
Three extra-large pizzas arrived at our door twenty minutes later and I nearly ate an entire pie on my own. After dinner, I helped Mom clean up. She didn’t believe in using paper plates outside of cookouts and outdoor parties, yet she preferred to wash dishes by hand instead of using the fully functional dishwasher that sat right next to me. I wasn’t sure if that was a paradox or just Mom’s ex
cuse for these quiet bonding moments, but Dad was done with the caring and sharing. He’d returned to his cave, leaving the womenfolk to the chores.
I glared at the closed door and wondered what was so important in there that kept him shut in. As a kid, I used to think that place was a spy center with all kinds of cool gadgets and government secrets locked in file cabinets. I later realized it was the only part of the house Mom couldn’t decorate. She had painted, remodeled, and furnished the entire house, and had been trying to get at that room for years. No luck yet.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I told Mom as she handed me a wet plate to dry. “How can you love a man so … him?”
“You can’t just love the good side of a person. When you see the ugly, you either love them for it or love them in spite of it.”
I thought about Liam and how he went above and beyond in order to keep a promise we’d made on the beach. That was devotion. No matter what I thought about our relationship, I had to give him that.
As I dried a dish, I wondered about the restraining order. If it lapsed a month ago, then why all the secrecy on Liam’s part? Unless he never received the notice. I ran the theory by Mom.
“Normally, the papers have to exchange hands. But if you’re a minor, the parents can accept it for you,” she explained and pulled the stopper out of the sink.
“Right.”
I recalled how Liam’s dad had reacted when I showed up at his house and how he didn’t want me anywhere near his son.
So before I went to bed, I called Liam. I left him a voice message and prayed that he didn’t hit Delete without hearing it. I owed him that much. I owed him that honesty.
Let me ask you something,” I began. “You’re so keen on the nickname, but have you ever read anything by Ernest Hemingway?”
Stacey sat across the table from me, both her arms and legs crossed as she stared out the café window, no doubt wishing she were anywhere but here.
I supposed I deserved the attitude getting thrown my way. After all, I did spring up at the café out of nowhere. But I needed to talk to her and settle the issue once and for all. She wasn’t returning my calls and was practically a ghost in the hallways at school. We were leaving too many things unsaid.
So I had to use drastic measures, with Kendra acting as the front man. She’d arranged a coffee date with Stacey this afternoon, and when she left to use the bathroom, I slid into the empty chair. Stacey nearly choked to death on her frothy, nonfat latté when she saw me.
Of course, she made a scene and called me everything but my given name, yet not once did she get up to leave. I also noticed that, among the epithets she flung at me, Hemingway was not among them. Which sparked my question about the author.
“Nope. Never read him.” Stacey’s reply had the clipped, snotty timbre of a little girl who didn’t get a pony for her birthday. She glanced out the window.
“Nothing? Not even his famous six-word story?” I pressed, eager to keep her talking.
Her face was still pointed to the window, but her eyes darted at me. “How can you write a whole story in six words?”
“It’s next to impossible, but Hemingway did it.”
“Cool. Recite it to me,” she said. She seemed confident that I’d know it from memory. I did, but that was beside the point.
“Right now?”
“Dude, it’s only six words. I don’t think I’ll need the audiobook version. My tweets are longer than that.”
“Okay.” I cleared my throat. “ ‘For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.’ ”
That top layer of frost melted from her face. “Oh my god! That is so sad.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. I hadn’t wanted to upset her, but at least she was looking at me.
“You know, my mom miscarried twice before she had my little brother,” Stacey said softly, her eyes filling with tears. “She doesn’t believe in baby showers or buying stuff until after the baby is born. I guess that’s why. But then there’s no guarantee that the kid will live. There’s crib death and the flu and other nasty things that take people away before their time. If you think about it, there’s no such thing as a proper time to be born or to die. There’s expectation and then there’s reality, and those two never get along.”
This was the most she’d ever mentioned about her family, and I rushed to drink it all in. I was getting a sneak preview of the real Stacey Levine, outside the flashy clothes and the layers of makeup that she didn’t need.
“Kinda like you and me,” she continued. “I expected to get swept off my feet or get butterflies in my stomach, but the reality is I feel gross. Like I’ve stolen someone else’s identity. Like I’m a consolation prize, because even right now, you don’t see me. You see her.”
I leaned back in my chair to gain distance. “What?”
“Well, a different version of her,” she clarified. “You’re still stargazing, Liam. But I’ll do you the courtesy of being up-front and telling you that I’m not Ellia. I need someone to see that and love me anyway.”
Whoa! Where did the love stuff come from? I wasn’t in love with Stacey, that was obvious, but that didn’t mean I was blind to her flaws. “I do see you.”
Her chin lifted in defiance as she asked, “What’s my middle name?”
“No idea.” I watched her sip her coffee. Dainty fingertips, a high pinkie, and smirking lips touched the cup as she drank to her victory.
Okay, fine. We didn’t really know each other that well outside of school and our connection with Ellia, but she was missing the point. “Don’t you think we need to address what happened between us?” I pressed.
“I’ll admit that kiss was epic,” she confessed, blushing. “We definitely have something: a spark, a buddy-cop dynamic with flirty undertones, but it’s all based on what if. What if that baby didn’t die? Would those shoes still be for sale?” She paused to look at me.
I knew she wasn’t talking about the shoes in Hemingway’s story. If Ellia hadn’t had her accident, would I have kissed Stacey in my living room that night? Would we be sitting here now?
“No,” I answered, knowing that honesty was the only way to move forward.
She nodded, and stared off wistfully. “That story. The baby shoes.” She tapped her painted nails on the table. “I love shoes. In fact, love doesn’t even describe my affection for designer footwear. But I’m not gonna wear someone else’s, not when I know the history and the previous owner,” she explained. “It’s the wanting that gives me the high, not the having. All that ends once you have them in your possession and then you have nothing but a closet full of shoes that you’ve only worn once.”
Again, it was clear Stacey wasn’t just talking about shoes, but I got the message. In her weird, roundabout way, she was simply voicing what we were both thinking: We weren’t right for each other.
“Wow, so you got all that from what could be considered a twentieth-century tweet,” I said, hoping to alleviate some of the awkwardness again.
She gestured in a way that implied she agreed. Then she said, “I guess the name does fit you then.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“You managed to sum up your relationship with Ellia with half of Hemingway’s word count. Lessthanthree. And by definition, I don’t fit into the equation. No one can.” She gave me a smug look.
It amazed me how someone who came off ditsy could be so insightful. It then occurred to me that all the hair-twirling, gum-chewing stuff was just an act. She didn’t need to do that, but insisted on playing the role until graduation, at least. Seeing this deeper layer to Stacey had me leaning closer with my elbow resting on the table. She should show this side more often.
With my chin in my palm, I watched her for a long time before asking, “What is your middle name, by the way?”
Stacey looked away, embarrassed. “I don’t tell anyone my middle name. It makes me feel old,” she explained. “Only my family and Ellia know. I was named after my grandmother. Vivian.”
&n
bsp; A wide, face-splitting smile spread across my face. “I really do like you, Stacey.”
“I really like me, too, Liam.” She smiled back.
* * *
After coffee with Stacey, I went home with the firm decision to be on my own for a while. No girlfriends. No ambiguous, let’s-see-where-this-goes commitments. Being alone would be good for me, for now.
As I sat down to start my homework, I noticed that I had one new message on my phone. A message from yesterday. I was bad at checking voice mail. Balancing the phone between my shoulder and right ear, I let the message play, but only half listened as I rummaged through my backpack for my history notes.
The sound of Ellia’s voice on the line caused a knee-jerk reaction that almost made me drop the phone. The words didn’t register at first, but as the recording continued, my confusion turned into disbelief, and then rage.
I rushed downstairs and found Dad in the kitchen standing over the sink. He extended his right arm as if reaching for something down the drain. Wade leaned against the counter beside him, chugging a glass of milk. It was just a peaceful evening at the bachelor pad, but not anymore.
“The court order lapsed and you didn’t tell me?” It was a question and an accusation rolled into one.
Dad turned to me, frowning.
“No, son, I didn’t tell you. And before you ask why, take a minute to look at your situation from a parent’s point of view then ask ‘why not?’ ”
My fists stayed pinned to my sides to keep from swinging. “You knew how I felt about her and you kept this from me!”
Dad kept up a stoic expression, unfazed by my yelling. “It was better this way.”
“For who?” I shouted. “Just because things didn’t work out with you and Mom doesn’t mean the same will happen to me and Ellia!”