Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  “And what about my fiancée? How do I get Katy to accept her if I’m not allowed to expect it?” Richard grips his hips.

  I drop my chin, but there’s no hiding from the pain of listening to him fight for Lauren.

  Dr. Grant’s pleasant demeanor shifts to something equally cool as Richard’s. “Mr. Chase, I’m sure your priority is on building a more open and accepting relationship with your daughter. Despite what she might say to you, she has a very high need for your approval. Obviously, she’ll have to accept your new life in time, but that will happen more quickly if you two rebuild your connection before you force the rest.”

  Richard’s frustration is no surprise. His parents divorced when he was thirteen, yet he powered through it like he does everything else. He’s never had confidence problems or trouble focusing on his own goals, so he honestly does not understand Katy or me. It’s why he wasn’t exactly empathetic about my dissatisfaction with my father, or my insecurities about my art, or even my desire for his undivided attention. That core difference between us is one reason we drifted apart.

  “Before you leave, please don’t think that I’m judging you—or that you have failed. You have raised a very bright young lady who loves you both. Sadly, these days almost twenty percent of teens engage in some form of self-harm. Social media and other societal pressures are ever present. In our case, Katy’s tendency toward brutal honesty will actually work in our favor, because she’s willing to engage in difficult discussions. And if anything comes up, or you have questions as we go on, please call me.”

  My legs are so weak I’m not sure they can hold me upright. “Thank you. I’ll work on doing better.”

  “Not better—different.” Dr. Grant touches my arm.

  Richard shakes her hand but remains silent as we leave the room. As soon as we close the door, he mutters, “We need a second opinion.”

  I stop. I might harbor some doubt, too, but this isn’t about my preferences or his. This is about Katy. “We have to be on the same page, Richard. Please. If Katy likes Dr. Grant, we should stick with this for a while and internalize what we just learned.”

  “Strip away all the flowery words and you get to the bottom line. She is blaming us—you—for this, and that’s bullshit. You’re a good mother, Anne.” Without warning, he hugs me. It’s nothing more than some echo of affection from our past mixed with his own fear and lack of control that’s pushing him to squeeze me so tight, but I surrender anyway because I need this hug for the strength to change myself.

  “Mom?” Katy stands by the chair where we left her, with tears in her eyes. “What’s the matter?”

  Richard and I break apart. “Nothing. Your father and I just have a lot to digest after talking with Dr. Grant. We’re committed to reducing the stress in our family. Are you?”

  When she nods, we all hug. For this moment, I allow myself to hope that everything will be okay.

  “This is probably more costly than you were anticipating, but I assumed you wanted temperature control, plus electric and plumbing . . .” Dan licks his lips before pressing them in a tight line. Golden morning light pours through the kitchen window, but nothing has warmed me since my meeting with Dr. Grant this week. Biting my tongue yesterday when Katy opted out of a team dinner “to study” and not forcing a healthy breakfast on her this morning has me exhausted, irritable, and veering toward depressed. But an art studio, once completed, will move me in the direction the doctor suggested. One of peace and satisfaction that I’d come back to Potomac Point to find, too.

  Dan and I haven’t spent any time alone since I declined his spontaneous lunch invitation last weekend. I’ve consciously avoided him, mostly because he’s perceptive and I don’t want him to pick up on everything going on with Katy. Even as we speak, I’m busying myself cleaning the coffee maker to avoid eye contact. I’d felt a little stir of something at the street fair, but at present my withdrawal is for the best.

  I focus on the estimate. Although it’s more costly than I hoped, there’s no price tag too high for Katy’s and my mental health. “It’s fine. My bigger concern is getting it done as quickly as possible.”

  He scratches his head. “Well, your master bath will be done soon, so I can get started on this in another week. Joe and I can probably bang it out in two weeks.”

  That feels too far off. “Start on this first, then finish my bathroom. I’m fine sharing the upstairs bathroom with Katy a little longer.”

  He frowns. “What’s the rush?”

  I can’t divulge Katy’s cutting, so I cover. “I might attempt something for that local artists show at Trudy’s gallery. Plus Katy has to work on her school project for the show, which takes place in late November. It’d be great to have this space for us to work in together.”

  A genuine smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. Art is one interest that Katy and I always shared when she was younger. I picture us quietly working side by side. You don’t need to talk to feel a connection.

  “All righty. Guess I’ll get started today.” Dan folds the estimate and stuffs it in his back pocket. “I’m happy you made this decision, and not just because it means more money for me.”

  “So am I, thanks.” I’m turning to take my coffee outside when he touches my shoulder.

  “Anne.” He drops his hand. “You’ve been jumpy since the street fair. Is everything okay?”

  I guess he’s missed the bad jokes cracked in passing and commiseration over local traffic. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  Dan scratches his jaw, his gaze narrowing. “So I didn’t do or say anything on Saturday that upset you?”

  “No.” I reach for his arm without thinking. “I’m just tired. When I thought moving here would bring me peace, I forgot to consider that I’d be looking after Gram in addition to dealing with a divorce and a disgruntled teen. And with the ongoing renovation, I’ve got no quiet place to decompress.”

  He crosses his ankles and leans his butt against the edge of the counter, graciously not saying “told you so” in the process. “Well, we’ll be working outside at the shed for the next two weeks, so you’ll have some privacy in here. The bathroom will only take another week after that, then you’ll be free of me.”

  I nod as if that makes me happy, but in truth I’ve mostly enjoyed seeing Dan every day.

  “Did your grandmother enjoy your drop-in on Saturday?” A dimple forms.

  “Actually, we had a really lovely moment before I left her.” I’ve thought back on it several times this week. Even the wrong road leads to some wonderful surprises. The implication, though, is that Grandpa had been the wrong road. Sometimes it’s better not to know everything about a person.

  Still, I can’t stop wondering what happened between Gram and Billy T., and whether that had something to do with Allcot. I called Cousin Emily yesterday, but she’d only ever heard the same vague references about Gram’s troubled past as my father had. Lonna must’ve figured it was her sister’s secret to share or not. One dead end after another.

  “That’s real nice,” Dan interrupts my musing. “Guess the mysteries of the box will remain a mystery, though?”

  “Seems so.” I shrug. “But that leaves me free to focus on the future.”

  “Good point.”

  “In fact, I’m meeting Trudy for coffee in thirty minutes and then going to a yoga class, so I’d better go clean up a bit.”

  His grin lengthens my spine. “Tell Trudy I said hi. I’d better get your studio ready so you can wow her with something special down the road. I’ll make a supply run for the shed conversion.”

  “Thanks.” I pat his arm again in an effort to keep the door of friendship open for the future. “I’ll hop online today and order paints and an easel and the rest of it.”

  “Sounds good.” Dan waves as he wanders out of the kitchen.

  I need to run a brush through my hair, but first I breeze through the french doors to the patio, where I can breathe. With my back to the house and my eyes closed, I listen to t
he fountain, drawing the morning air into my lungs and sending my fears out on a long breath.

  As long as I take one step at a time, I can become a mother—a woman—Katy can rely on and look up to. She will stop hurting herself and gain confidence. Our lives will move forward without veering too far off track.

  Maybe, if I’m really lucky, I’ll eventually find my own happiness, too.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ANNE

  I’d volunteered at Whitman Prep from Katy’s entry in kindergarten through her early years of high school, so I knew most of the moms. Or, more accurately, I knew the stay-at-home moms who had the free time to help improve the quality of extracurriculars and equipment. Today I walk through the massive public high school doors a virtual stranger.

  My stomach is gurgling like that of a middle schooler hoping not to humiliate herself in a quest to meet one person who might become a friend—and I have typical levels of anxiety. This is what Katy experiences every day, which overtaxes her fragile grip on her anxieties. I should talk to her and make sure she’s—no . . . wait. My new job is to stop fixing things for her. If she’s not asking for help, I won’t butt in. Feels wrong, but I’m putting my faith in Dr. Grant.

  Kids bustle around the hallways, changing classes, as I make my way to the security desk to check in. Katy would be mortified if she thought I was trying to check up on her, so I keep my eyes forward and don’t scan the horde. Can’t risk messing up the two weeks of slight progress we’ve made since first meeting with Dr. Grant. Every time I’ve wanted to jump in and make something easier for her—from little things like teaching her how not to burn garlic to big things like responding to her father’s invitation to come for another overnight visit already—I’ve politely excused myself, gone to my room, closed the door, and paced around talking to myself for two minutes.

  I feel uncomfortably disconnected from Katy, but she’s less irritable with me and—as far as I can tell—hasn’t hurt herself again, so my bedroom floors will need rebuffing sooner than later.

  “Good morning.” A cheerful, balding man sipping from a large mug of coffee holds his palm out, awaiting my ID.

  “Good morning.” I hand him my license. “I’m here for the art show parent volunteer meeting.”

  He taps the sign-in book. “Go ahead and sign in. That’s in the Edgemont Room, which is down the stairs behind me and to the left.”

  “Super. Thanks.” I sign in and place the visitor sticker he hands me on my shirt. “Have a nice day.”

  “Stop back to sign out before you leave.” He goes back to his coffee and whatever he was watching on his phone.

  Before turning the corner at the bottom of the stairs, I hear the murmur of the crowd within. I press a hand to my pounding heart and then square my shoulders and enter the windowless room five minutes ahead of schedule.

  A few small clusters of women are chatting over coffee and doughnuts. As expected, most look to be in their late forties or older. Many have probably lived in this county for most of their lives. As my gaze flits around the room in search of a welcoming smile, I catch the eye of one redheaded woman, who smiles noncommittally before returning her attention to her posse. With nothing to do and no one to talk to, I sign in and pour myself a coffee that I don’t need.

  It’s only when I search out a seat that I see Tori. Tori effing Decker. I would’ve liked not to have hesitated, but my lips part and my muscles tighten. At least she isn’t close enough to hear the rush of sound in my ears.

  Two decades have passed since that summer she made life at the public pool a living hell. There’ve been times since then when mean-girl revenge fantasies had me picture her balding, with sun-ravaged skin, and alone on Saturday nights. The truth is that she’s still quite attractive—even if she pays for that particular shade of golden hair and regular Botox—and she also still wears her beauty like a crown.

  I don’t recall hearing anything about her getting pregnant young, but, then again, I’d stopped summering in Potomac Point at seventeen. Despite queasy insides, I follow the advice I’d offer Katy and confront the beast. My heart thumps wildly, but at least I don’t trip.

  “Hi, Tori. This is a surprise.” Did that sound friendly? The expressions of the two women she’s speaking to don’t reveal anything that leads me to believe otherwise.

  “It certainly is.” She’s dripping in diamonds—tasteful ones, but overdone for a parent meeting.

  I exchange introductions with the other women, Kwana Johnson and Ginny Ackerman.

  Tori cuts in: “I had no idea you moved to town. Weren’t you from Baltimore?”

  “Yes, I was, but I’ve lived in Arlington since college. Just moved here in August. My grandmother’s ill . . .” Babbling shows her that she makes me nervous, so I stop.

  “You’re so young to have a teenager.” Her friendly sort of laugh doesn’t fool me, but I am confused. She’s only a year older than me.

  Rather than respond directly to her remark, I say, “My daughter, Katy Chase, is a junior.”

  “Katy Chase . . . ,” Tori muses, brows pinched, finger tapping her glossy lips. “Does she play soccer?”

  Kwana and Ginny stare at me pleasantly, but my stomach turns to lead and then sinks to my feet. “Yes. For the varsity team.”

  “So does my stepdaughter, Mia. Mia Collins.” She puffs up like a peacock. I have no idea who Mia Collins is, but apparently Tori is someone’s second wife—like Lauren. I wonder if her someone likes to dress her in those extremely snug clothes and expensive accessories.

  “Then I’ll probably see you in the bleachers.” Just like that, all my anticipatory joy is replaced by trepidation.

  She opens her mouth, then closes it. I suspect she might’ve been ready to make a snarky remark about Katy’s temporary game suspension—assuming Mia talks to her parents about those kinds of things—then thought better of showing her ass here at a school meeting. That’s progress, I suppose. Or simply proof that, like me at present, she’s a bit out of her natural element.

  A woman in distressed gray jeans, ankle boots, and a funky pink tunic speaks up from the front of the room. “Okay, ladies, let’s get started.”

  Everyone takes a seat. If I could’ve moved away from Tori without appearing rude, I would’ve. Instead, I’m wedged between her and Kwana. My skin prickles like it’s covered in fire ants.

  “Welcome back to another year and another show. For those who are new, I’m Samantha Savage. My son Greg is a senior sculptor. This will be my fourth and final art show here at the high school. As you know, the faculty will be talking to the kids about themes. Last year, we intermingled different artwork throughout the hallways and other spaces to force students and families to view all of the amazing pieces, but parents complained that it made it harder to find their kids’ work, so it looks like we may be doing segregated displays for the various disciplines like photography, drawing, painting, and sculpture. It’s our job to follow instructions, set up installations, organize snacks and beverages, publicity, etcetera.”

  Fudge. We’re just the workhorses. Creative input not welcome.

  I raise my hand anyway.

  “Yes, Miss . . .” Samantha points at me.

  “Hi, I’m Anne. I’m new to the area, but not to art shows. I just wonder if the setup is a done deal, or if there’s still time to consider intermingling the work? We could create a map and index for those parents who aren’t interested in viewing other kids’ work.” I flash a hopeful smile, remembering the excited anticipation of others seeing my work at high school and college art shows. The school should encourage admiration for the kids’ works from more than just their own parents. It takes guts to put yourself on display that way.

  When I notice other moms’ heads bob in support, my chest expands.

  “I can take it up with the teachers, but admin hates fielding angry-parent letters.” She then continues with her speech while I fan myself because of the heat coming from Tori’s side-eye. “When you signed in
, you should’ve included your email, which we’ll use to create a group directory. Next, I’m going to pass around a sheet where you can choose where you most want to help. Setup, cleanup, food and beverage, and so on.”

  I raise my hand again, emboldened.

  “Yes, Anne?”

  My mouth is a bit dry. “Another way to get parents invested in viewing all of the art might be to turn the show into an auction and donate the proceeds to the PTC.”

  More heads bob excitedly at that idea, but Tori clears her throat. In a sweet-as-pie voice, she says, “That’s the kind of thing that sounds great at first, but if you stop to actually think about it, you see the problems it creates. Can’t you just hear little so-and-so crying because no one bid on her piece, while another kid boasts about his work having the highest bid?”

  Not to be bested by her, I reply, “That could be handled with technology. I’m sure there are silent auction apps out there that let bidders make private bids. None of the kids ever has to know whose art was more or less popular, or the exact dollar amount spent on any piece.”

  “It’s an interesting idea,” Samantha says. “As a member of the PTC board, we’re always looking to supplement our fundraising. Let me talk to the teachers and look into options that address Tori’s concern, but I like the outside-the-box thinking, Anne.”

  “Thank you.” I sit back, vindicated and enthusiastic. Although Katy originally took this class to spite Richard, it’s turning into a wonderful diversion for us both. Helping with this show is bringing back memories of Mrs. Tivoli, my high school art teacher. Passionate yet shrewd, she’d pushed us outside our comfort zones in the best way.