by Beck, Jamie
Dr. Grant said that healthy outlets were a good idea. Once the studio is finished, Katy and I can retreat to that sanctuary to work through our emotions in different mediums. Katy’s been snooping around the shed and asking about when Dan will finish, which is a hopeful sign.
When the meeting ends, we all stand. As I’m saying goodbye to Kwana and Ginny, Tori says, “Hey, Anne. Hang back a sec, could you? I want to hash out this idea of yours a bit more.”
My entire body freezes. “Sure.”
When we are segregated from the stragglers, Tori says, “A word of advice?”
I cock my head and shrug.
“Don’t make me look stupid in front of others, or your daughter’s drug problem might slip out.”
My body goes as cold as the bay in December. “First of all, Katy doesn’t have a drug problem. Secondly, I wasn’t trying to make you look stupid. You raised a good point, and I offered a solution. Isn’t it better for all the kids if we raise money?”
She narrows her eyes like she doubts my motives. “What ever became of your artistic aspirations?”
My cheeks are hot. “I sold some paintings early on, but my focus turned to raising Katy this past decade.” I would mention getting back into it if she were kind and this was a friendly conversation.
“Let me guess . . . single mom?” She raises her perfectly tweezed eyebrows along with her chin.
No use lying. She’ll dig around for the truth anyway. “Recently divorced.”
“What a shame, Anne. Must be tough.” She shakes her head, wearing the slightest sneer so that no one but me can accurately read her body language.
Tori wouldn’t have any compunction about hurting me through my daughter. Katy can’t defend herself against a grown-up bully, so I play dumb. Resisting the urge to recoil, I touch her shoulder. “I appreciate your sympathy.”
When she flinches, I take advantage of her hesitation to make a break for it.
“You have a great day.” I stop to thank Samantha for considering my idea before fleeing the scene. Each time Tori’s phony smile and threat replay, my chest tightens. During the drive home, my thoughts darken. That witch could undo all the work Katy, Richard, and I have been doing these past weeks.
When I finally arrive, it’s as if I’ve dragged a hurricane through the door with me. I chuck my purse on the couch and let out a growly noise while punching a pillow just as Dan exits the powder room.
His brows rise. “Whoa. Maybe you’re better off telling me what happened than killing your sofa.”
“Tori Decker—Collins—is a Bitter Betty.” I stomp, fists at my sides like a bad cartoon. Only then does it occur to me that Dan might be friendly with her. They grew up here, after all. I slap both hands across my mouth.
Dan’s eyes twinkle above a slow grin. “That’s about right, although I’d use a different B-word.”
I drop my hands and shake them out, uneasiness souring my gut. I’m so tired I could literally collapse on the sofa and sleep until Christmas. Tears begin to brim.
Dan tips his head, staring at me. “Where’d you run into her?”
I clear my throat so my voice won’t crack. “I went to a parent meeting hoping to make a friend, and there she was—my preteen nemesis. I hoped maturity might’ve mellowed her and even made her embarrassed by her young self. But no, same old Tori.”
Dan takes a cautious step toward me. “What’d she do?”
“I made a suggestion, which she countered with a potential problem. When I offered a solution, she quietly threatened to out Katy’s ‘drug use’ if I didn’t watch it.” My breaths come up short as my chest tightens again. “She thought I was trying to embarrass her, but I was only looking for ways to help the kids.”
Exhaustion borne from watching Katy from a distance for signs of cutting, holding myself back when I’ve wanted to rush in to comfort her, and worrying about Gram’s continued decline has me unsteady on my feet. I’m trembling. In the safety of my living room, the tears finally come.
“Anne.” Dan sets his hands on my shoulders and gently pushes me to sit on the sofa. “I’m not defending Tori, but what’s the worst that would happen if she makes good on her threat? It’s not like Katy would have to wear a red ‘A’ every day. Plus, you’re not the only mom in that room whose kid has made mistakes.”
“You don’t understand. Katy can’t take any more stress.” I grab a tissue off the sofa table and wipe my nose.
“Katy seems tough to me.”
I look into his warm hazel eyes. “No, she’s the opposite of tough.” The need for comfort and consolation overwhelms me, so it all comes tumbling out. “She’s hurting herself. She ran out on Richard that Saturday of the street fair. I got home and found her in the shower, bleeding. We’ve hired a therapist who’s making us question everything we’ve done—mostly me—as parents. It’s frightening enough without Tori or her stepdaughter making life harder for Katy. That could get dangerous fast.” I wipe my wet face and sniffle.
Dan hesitates, his body tense, as he slowly reaches out to pat my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
I bury my face in my hands while crying. Before I know it, Dan has me cradled against his chest while he silently waits for me to cry it out. Between sniffles, I recite the short version of Dr. Grant’s opinions and unload all the guilt and conflict I’m battling in my own head about my role in everything from my divorce to Katy’s problems.
A few minutes pass where he says nothing, letting my tale of woe settle around us without judgment. It’s both a luxury and a discomfort.
Dan withdraws his arm from my shoulder, so I sit upright. “You’re too hard on yourself, always trying to be a perfect parent. That’s impossible, you know. I’ve never met one, have you?”
“No.” That doesn’t help, though. I’ve never measured myself against others, only against my own goals. Being the best damn mother had been my number one goal. I’d followed the examples set by my mom and Gram—women who stayed at home and paid attention to me, took care of and anticipated my needs, taught me right from wrong.
Was that all a lie, or a mask? Gram and her “wrong road” . . . So I, too, took that wrong road by giving up my own passion and funneling all that energy into Katy, only to now learn that, in doing so, I robbed her of her own identity, and robbed myself of one, too.
“I doubt Dr. Grant wants you to beat yourself up. Sounds like she just wants you to make a shift for both your sakes. You’re lucky, actually. You get the chance to make changes before it’s too late. This could be the best thing for both of you, right?”
I snort and shake my head. It’s like he’s a mind reader. “I swear, I have no idea why your wife left you. You’re a good guy. You’d be a great parent, frankly.”
“Thank you.” He crosses his arms and stares at the coffee table, like he’s about to shut down. “I would’ve liked kids, but it wasn’t in the cards.”
“You’re still young enough.” Men have kids in their forties.
He looks at his lap, lips twisted. With a shrug and red cheeks, he blurts, “I’m infertile.”
“Oh!” I lay a hand on his leg, then remove it as if his thigh were a hot pan. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s fine. I mean, it was brutal, but I accepted it. Ellen couldn’t, though. She didn’t want to adopt or find a donor. It got between us, and then she moved on. I can’t blame her—I mean, she could’ve waited until after the marriage ended—but I get her wanting a husband who could father children.”
Just because a man can father them doesn’t mean he should. My thoughts run to my own father, of course. I wonder if Ellen’s new husband is as good a father as Dan would’ve been.
“I’m sorry.” Like me, he’s been humiliated by betrayal. But worse, his ex-wife’s attitude about his infertility might’ve emasculated him. No wonder he keeps things casual with women. “Thank you for trusting me with that personal story.”
“Seemed like turnabout was called for today.” His downcas
t eyes compel me to take his hands and squeeze them.
“I really appreciate your friendship. Honestly, I’d be completely lost without it.”
“Don’t mention it.” He waves me off. “Now, if you’re feeling better, I should probably get back to work and finish that shed for you and your daughter.”
I nod. When he stands, I do, too. “Katy’s growing impatient to work on her collage project up there.”
“So you did make a good decision.” He winks and wanders toward the french doors. “See you later.”
“Bye.” After he closes the door, I sink back onto the cushion. Male infertility isn’t something I’ve ever thought about. My friend Wendy was infertile, but she had several support groups. In my experience, men tend to handle everything on their own.
Katy’s a little bit right about me. I do like Dan. It’ll be lonely when he’s no longer working here, and that scares me.
But right now I have a bigger concern. How will Katy react when I tell her that my volunteering might have inadvertently put a target on her back?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
KATY
“I’m sorry. I volunteered to support the arts in the school and to make some new friends, but my involvement could further antagonize your teammate’s mother. Does that concern you?” Mom asks.
I snap the rubber band on my wrist, which draws her attention. We exchange a look, but she doesn’t freak out. At least not on the outside. It’s been like this since my first meeting with Dr. Grant. Mom watching me but holding back, waiting for me to take the lead. But I’m sure she doesn’t quite trust me not to cut myself again.
She shouldn’t, because I don’t trust myself.
“Mia is nice,” I say. “Everyone on the team already knows about the pot. I don’t care what a few moms think, so that Tori lady can’t really make it worse for me.” I don’t want people to think I’m a bad kid, but from what I can tell, most moms are pretty forgiving. “And, hey, now I know Mia and I have something in common.”
“What’s that?” Mom’s eyebrows pinch in question.
“Evil stepmoms.” I brace for a lecture about my attitude. Part of me is relieved when it doesn’t come, but the other part is a little sad. It used to be too much; now it is almost too little—or just unnatural. We’ve got to find a middle ground.
“Well, you’re right—your teammates know everything, so the only one Tori can torture is me.” She makes a wry face and taps her fingers on the counter. “I’d like to stay on the committee to establish my own roots in town, and the school is an easy place to meet other women around my age.”
“It’s fine, Mom.”
“Great.” She smiles. “On to a fun topic. Would you like to check out our art shed? It’s nearly finished.”
She asked me not to peek during the construction because she wanted to do a big reveal, but I did try. Dan had the doors wrapped in plastic, so I couldn’t see anything. “Sure.”
Mom loops her arm through mine, and we go out the back door and up the terraced yard to the shed. Dan repainted it the same shade of peacock blue as our front door and shutters.
Mom opens the new glass doors and waves her arm like a game-show model. “Ta-da!”
“Wow.” I gaze up through the skylight Dan inserted on one side of the roof. We are awash in sunlight, surrounded by white walls and pale gray laminate floors. “This is seriously cool. When you said art shed, I expected something more rustic. This is like a real studio.”
“A private haven.” She crosses to the small shelf where she’s got paint supplies and cleaning solutions. Mom’s easel is in the corner beside a built-in collapsible tabletop, a three-legged stool on wheels, and a dorm-size refrigerator.
On the opposite wall, there’s a long worktable for my photography and collage work, and a tripod, flash, and reflector. We have one big white cabinet for storage. A shallow black sink gives the room a sleek look. “No one can bother us once we close those doors.”
She nods. “I’m glad you love it, too.”
Her face is glowing. It’s the first time she’s looked excited in months. Memories of her humming in front of an easel rise like a slap to my face.
“Is something wrong?” she asks.
Dr. Grant says I should be honest, even when it’s hard. Like now. I snap the band. “Do you . . . do you ever regret having me?”
“What on earth makes you think that?” Her expression is one of horrified shock.
“I know I wasn’t planned. You and Dad probably wouldn’t have gotten married if it weren’t for me. Then you gave up your art to raise me, and now Dad’s left. You got the worst end of the whole deal.”
She takes a step in my direction, reaching for me, then stops herself. I’m sorry that she feels like she has to weigh each interaction so heavily now. “Katy, never ever have I regretted having you. I would’ve kept you even if your father and I hadn’t married. And I chose you over my art—no one forced that on me, least of all you. Honey, please don’t ever doubt that. I’ve never loved anything or anyone as much as I love you.” She’s got tears in her eyes.
A wave of something crashes over me. Happiness, maybe. It’s been a tough few months, but my mom really loves me. I’m sorry that the drugs and cutting have made her worry so much.
“Thanks, Mom. Sorry I upset you.” I surprise her with a hug. “Remember that messy stained sweatshirt you painted in when I was little?”
“I still have it somewhere. Maybe I’ll break it out for old time’s sake.” She squeezes me really tight, as usual. But it feels good now, in the heat from the sun streaming through the skylight.
We break apart when the doors unexpectedly open behind us.
“Oh, sorry.” Dan is standing there with two small gift bags in his hands. He smiles at my mom. It’s so obvious that he likes her. I’m not sure how I feel about that. “I didn’t know you were doing the big reveal today.”
“I couldn’t wait any longer,” Mom says, then points to the bags. “Whatcha got there?”
“A little surprise for you both. I was planning to leave them for you to find, but . . . well, here you go.” He hands us each a bag, then crosses his arms.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Mom says. But she’s already removing the tissue paper. She pulls out two tubes of oil paint.
“I asked Trudy for ideas. She thought you might like these. Apparently they’re ‘rare’ colors—something about antiquity Naples yellow having a ‘soft glowing light’ and that Mesa Verde green having a ‘granular quality.’ I don’t know. It’s just a little something to wish you luck.” He shrugs. It’s funny to see a big man like him blush, but I keep my snark to myself.
“Thank you so much. They’re lovely.” She and he exchange a look that makes me feel like an outsider. Not as bad as I do around Dad and Lauren. I don’t hate Dan like I do Lauren, because he didn’t mess with my family. “Katy, open yours now.”
I almost forgot I was holding the bag. I toss the tissue on the work desk and pull out a set of colored photo gels. “Wow. This is awesome, Dan. Thanks.”
Normally I hug someone who gives me a present, but that would be weird with Dan. I don’t know what to do, so there’s a brief pause during which I can’t help but think about the fact that my dad hasn’t been overly interested in my photography class.
“You’re welcome.” Dan nods. “I hope you can use them.”
“Totally.” This is a little awkward. I hoped that maybe, now that Mom and Dad have been talking more since meeting with Dr. Grant, there was a chance Dad would leave Lauren and come home. But if Mom starts to date, that won’t happen. I better leave before they read my face. “Mom, I’m going to go see Grammy and ask if I can borrow her old photo albums to make copies of pictures for my project.”
“Oh, I was about to start dinner . . . ,” Mom says.
“That’s okay. I’ll be back in time.”
She opens her mouth but then closes it. I bet she wants to come with me. “Okay. Try to return in about an
hour.”
“Fine. I have homework to do tonight, too.” I set the gels on my new work table. “Thanks again, Dan. This was really nice.”
“Good luck digging up some interesting pictures.” He waves.
Hopefully, Grammy can remember the faces in the photos. Otherwise I’ll be making stuff up on my family tree.
I swing through the house to grab my car keys and the digital camera I use for my class, then hit the road for the care center. My first solo visit. Grammy might not recognize me without my mom, which could go badly. My stomach is tight, but I do what Dr. Grant suggests: picture the worst-case scenario—Grammy getting upset and flustered—and think about how I’d handle it. The staff is there to help if that happens, which helps me relax.
Clara’s at the registration desk when I walk inside.
“How’s my grammy today?”
“Quiet, dear.”
Quiet is good. Or at least it’s better than agitated. I don’t like picturing Grammy being bewildered all the time. It’s the saddest thing to see.
“Okay. I won’t be long.” I smile and head toward her room. All around me, only depressing sounds—coughing, beeping, the shuffle of someone on a walker, the TV set too loud—break up the silence. This is a place where loneliness kills you minute by minute.
Before entering her room, I knock on the doorframe, though I doubt she hears me over the TV. “Hey, Grammy. It’s me, Katy.”
She looks up from NOVA and gathers the thin throw blanket on her lap. “Katy . . .” It seems like she’s working on placing me. “Where’s Annie?”
Relief loosens my shoulders. “At home.”
“Oh.” She starts tugging at her clothes. Without my mom around, she’s as unsure about how to talk to me as I am with her.
Might as well dive right in. “I actually came to ask you a big favor.”
“I can hardly do favors from here,” she grunts.
“You can do this one. I’m starting my photography project for the school’s art show.” I reexplain my collage idea. “I’d like to take your picture today, and then look through your old photo albums with you so you could tell me who everyone is.”