“So that’s why she went to you and not me,” I said. “Because you’d already heard what Dad had said, and she didn’t want me to know he thought all those things about our mother?”
“Partly,” Aunt Elise said. “But she was more worried that if you knew, you’d feel the way she did.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your father’d said he thought that knowing the truth would make it worse, and Talley wondered if he’d been right—if that’s what made things worse for her. If that was the root of all her sadness. She didn’t want to take that risk with you.”
“Do you think Talley would be here now, if she didn’t know?”
“I suspect that kind of sadness was in her all along,” Aunt Elise said. “Maybe she inherited it from your mother. Probably she did. You know how we were talking about the Holocaust the other day? I’ve read studies that experiencing that level of trauma can affect people on a cellular level. It can change your DNA. It’s not just things like eye color or athleticism; it’s also environmental factors and experiences that can alter things inside you and get passed down through the generations. There’s a word for it: ‘epigenetics’.”
“That’s exactly the kind of thing Talley would’ve been interested in learning about,” I said. “She would’ve told me all about it.”
“Maybe it would’ve helped her to understand herself,” Aunt Elise said. “She and your mom—they didn’t endure the concentration camps firsthand; thank goodness for that. But the trauma of it may still have been written into the genes they inherited from your great-grandma Nellie.”
“I always thought Nellie’s genes were bravery genes.”
“People aren’t just one thing. It’d be easier if they were, because then we’d know what to expect all the time. But it doesn’t work that way. Each of us comes to the table with a unique and sometimes contradictory combination of genes and experience. Talley might’ve been the boldest person that either of us ever knew, but she still needed to hide under the covers sometimes.”
“Fierce and fragile,” I said.
“Exactly,” Aunt Elise said.
“Was that true for Mom, too?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely.”
“What about me?” I asked.
“From what I’ve seen, your moods don’t go as dark as theirs did.”
“Do you think what happened to Talley will happen to me, now that I know the truth about Mom and everything else?”
“Do you think it will?”
I took a moment to consider it. I had thought about dying in the last month. One night when I’d been roaming the halls in my endless insomnia, I’d gone into the bathroom we used to share. I’d lain down on the floor and pressed my cheek to the tile, trying to feel what it had been like to be Talley, in her very last conscious moments. It was so hard to live without her. I’d never done it before. When I was born, she was already there, and it felt like she was the thing in the world that everything else hinged on. Like the way gravity keeps us rooted to the earth, and keeps the planets orbiting in perfect alignment. That was Talley; she was my gravity. Now she was gone and I was lost in space.
“No,” I told Aunt Elise. “I don’t. But when Talley first died, I wasn’t sure. Missing her hurt me so badly, I thought maybe it might kill me. Even if I wasn’t helping death along, I just thought it might happen on its own, and if it did . . . well, if it did, I would’ve been okay with that. And now, I know the pain isn’t going to kill me. It’s kind of strange.”
“Why is it strange?”
“Because the most important people in our lives aren’t essential to our lives. Food, water, air, sunlight—those are the things we need. We don’t necessarily feel any kind of emotional attachment to them, but take them away, and we’re goners. Whereas you can get really attached to people. You can love them with every ounce of yourself. Then take them away, and you’re still breathing. Your heart is still beating. You still get hungry, you still have to go to the bathroom. I remember really having to pee the night Talley died and feeling so angry at my bladder, going about its everyday business like always. But the people we love are expendable. Our bodies keep on working. It’s strange. It’s offensive.”
“The way I look at it,” Aunt Elise said, “after someone that important to us dies, we rebuild our lives in a different direction. So, in a way, the old version of us doesn’t survive. But a new one does. You’re never going to be the same person again.”
“No, I’m not.”
“But you are going to be okay, Sloane. You really are. I promise you.”
“I don’t want to have any more secrets between us,” I said.
“I don’t, either.”
“So I have to tell you . . . I lied to you. On the very first day I walked in the door, and you told me I could stay here as long as I okayed it with Dad.”
“Your dad still thinks you’re staying at a hotel?”
“No. He thinks I’m in a dorm room at Stanford. He thinks I came out here for a writing program, because I lied to him, too. I knew he never would’ve let me come otherwise, and I really needed to. I needed to figure out Talley’s list, and it turned out that I needed to meet you. I don’t regret lying to him, but I wanted to set things straight with you. Are you mad at me now?”
“God, no,” she said. “Of course not. I understand why you did what you did. But I think it’s time to set the record straight with your dad, too.”
“Why? He hasn’t exactly been honest with anyone else. And besides that, he was so cruel to you. You lost your sister, and then he took away your nieces. That’s . . . that’s unconscionable.”
“I agree,” Aunt Elise said. “I’ve spent a fortune on therapy talking about it. But we’ve all lost so much, and I can’t stay mad forever. In the spirit of no secrets, I have something to tell you, too. When Talley left California so abruptly, she assured me that she was fine, but I was so worried about her. I didn’t know what to do. I thought about it for days, going back and forth, picking up the phone and putting it down. Picking it up, and putting it down again. Finally I picked up the phone one last time and called your father.”
“Wait, you spoke to him before Talley died?”
“It was a very short call,” she said. “I told him that she and I had briefly been in touch, and I was worried about her. He wasn’t interested in talking about it.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “He’s terrible at hard conversations—especially the ones he needs to have.”
“But when we spoke again,” Aunt Elise continued, “the day he called to tell me that she’d died, he told me that after the last call, he’d tried to get her some help.”
“He tried to get her to go to college,” I said.
“And he tried to get her to go to therapy, too. Not for the first time. He said he’d tried off and on for years.”
“He had?”
“That’s what he said. But Talley didn’t want to.”
“I’ll bet,” I said, shaking my head. “That last month, she didn’t want to do anything.”
“Your dad made a lot of mistakes,” Aunt Elise said. “But we all did. I really think he did the best he could.”
I took a deep breath, inhaling to the count of three. Then I exhaled to three. In to three, out to three. Finally, I heaved myself up and offered Aunt Elise a hand to help her stand.
“Thank you.”
“I need to go wash my face,” I said. “And then . . . and then I’m going to call my dad and tell him where I am and what I learned.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
TWO DAYS LATER, I TOOK THE CALTRAIN INTO PALO ALTO one last time, to say a proper goodbye to Adam.
He’d offered to come to Redwood City and pick me up at Aunt Elise’s. But I didn’t want to make him spend that much time in the car. He and his parents were catching up on time with CJ, and helping her recuperate.
Me: We don’t need to meet at all, if it’s too much of an inconvenience
&
nbsp; Adam: Gotta eat anyway. And CJ’s resting. She’d be creeped out if I sat there and watched her sleep.
He said we should meet at Round Table Pizza, which was the pizza place he’d mentioned a week earlier, when we were deciding where to go to lunch that first day. Apparently there were Round Table locations all over the Bay Area, and one of them was right on University Avenue. I got there a half hour early and picked up a present for Juno at Retro Planet before heading to the pizza place. Adam was already there. He stood up from a booth in the back and waved his arms to signal me. We hugged hello in the stiff kind of way you do when you’re hugging someone who’s not quite a stranger.
“Thanks for coming all the way down here,” he said.
“It’s no problem at all,” I said. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“What’d you get?” he asked, nodding toward the brown paper bag I was holding.
“It’s a present for Juno. An old-fashioned-looking map of the Bay Area.”
“She’ll love it,” he said.
“I hope so,” I said. “I have some things to make up to her.”
“I have some things to make up to you,” Adam said. “I’ll start with pizza. The way this place works, you go up to the counter to place the order and pay, then they bring the pizza to your table.”
“Oh, it’s not just slices?”
“You worried we can’t house a whole pizza?”
“We’re only two people.”
“Trust me, when you taste this, you’re going to eat more pizza than you heretofore thought you were capable of eating.”
“Heretofore,” I repeated. “You sound so serious.”
“I’m always serious about pizza. Now: toppings. I usually get peppers and mushrooms, but we can get whatever you like.”
“I like plain,” I said. “But I can just pick things off.”
“Plain works for me.”
“But I want you to get what you want.”
“I want you to get what you want, too.”
“How about half and half?” I said.
“The perfect compromise,” he said. “Hold my place. I’ll be right back.”
“Hang on,” I said. I dug into my pocket. “I want to pay for my half.”
Adam held up his hand. “No, Sloane,” he said. “I’m treating. And don’t worry; I’m not being benevolently sexist. My mom gave me money as I was walking out the door. She was pissed I’m taking you here and not somewhere nicer.”
“Oh, pizza’s fine,” I said.
“Good, because it’d be a shame for you to go back to Minnesota without having Round Table. It’s a staple out here. But you should know how grateful my parents are to be back in touch with CJ, and I’m grateful, too. You can’t imagine.”
“I think I can.”
“Yeah, you probably can. Let me order and I’ll be right back.”
A few minutes later, a large pizza was delivered to our table. Adam was right about how much we were able to eat. Granted the slices were cut quite thin. But still, I barely took a breath before I polished off my third, and then I reached for a fourth. “You were so right about this pizza. I’m eating so much more than I heretofore thought was possible.”
“I was going to bring you here last Sunday, but you said you’d had pizza the night before.”
“I remember.”
“Still, I should’ve taken you sooner. I should’ve done a lot of things sooner.”
“Listen, I’m officially letting you off the hook on all of that, okay? We did things the way we did them, and I ended up learning what I needed to know anyway.”
“That’s really generous of you,” Adam said. “And probably more than I deserve, but I’m glad it all worked out. It’s amazing the way one thing led to another. How did all those coincidences happen?”
“Talley said what we think of as coincidence is just about math,” I said. “Like how you’re more likely to meet someone with your same birthday than you think you are.”
“There were two other kids in my kindergarten class with my same birthday,” Adam said.
“Case in point,” I said. “If Talley were here, she’d explain all about the probabilities that made that happen. I always thought Talley was right about everything—and she usually was. But on the coincidence thing, sometimes I think it’s more than just math. After everything that happened, it feels like more than just math that I’m sitting across from you right now.”
“It definitely feels like more than just math to me, too,” he said.
“I don’t know if Talley left that list for me to find on purpose,” I said, “but if she did, I’m pretty sure I solved the puzzle in ways she never could have anticipated.”
A few minutes later, we’d finished up the pizza. I knew Adam had to get home to his family, and I had to get back to Aunt Elise. We had less than a day left of quality time to spend with each other.
“You feel okay about going home?” Adam asked.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “I’m sort of looking forward to it. I understand things better now. When I left, I was grieving so hard. Grief is such a personal thing. My dad was grieving too, but he didn’t know how it felt for me, and I didn’t know how it felt for him. It’s a little like how we’ve all agreed yellow is yellow and blue is blue, but who’s to say what looks like yellow to me looks like yellow to you, and the same for blue?”
“You know, I’ve never thought about it like that,” Adam said.
“We made a pact to try to talk to each other more,” I said. “I used to always go to Talley when I needed to talk something out, and if she wasn’t available, I had Juno. My dad was in the background. He took care of the kinds of things parents take care of, and I took care of what I thought I was supposed to take care of—I studied hard, I made my bed every day, I never broke curfew. It was like we’d negotiated conditions, but we never did it out loud, and I think those are the worst kinds of conditions. The ones no one says out loud. So now we’re going to try to be more up front and honest about things. Talley’s gone and it’s the worst. It’ll always be the worst. We don’t get a happy ending. But things are already better between us. We agreed if they start to feel bad again, we’ll do our best not to turn away from each other, and just keep talking.”
“My family had a long talk about open communication going forward, too,” Adam said. “CJ gave her doctor permission to talk to our parents if they have questions about the medical stuff.”
“Oh, that’s good,” I said. “She deserves to have support from people who know what’s going on.”
“I think we should make open communication a goal, too,” Adam said. “I mean, you and me.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay. Well . . . this week—it’s been a year, hasn’t it?”
“At least,” I said.
Adam slung an arm around my shoulder and pulled me in for a hug, a real hug, close and comfy. I could smell his shirt, and I thought of Juno’s attachment to Cooper’s shirts, and the Proust phenomenon, and I knew I would always remember this moment. It would always mean something to me.
“You know, Sloane,” he said. “I’m really going to miss you.”
“Me, too.”
“I hope we can keep in touch.”
“We have to if we’re going to have open communication.”
“That’s right. Good point,” he said. “And if you ever find yourself back here, I expect some quality time on your dance card.”
“I’ll definitely be back here,” I said. “My aunt lives here, after all. And if you ever find yourself in Golden Valley, Minnesota, I’ll expect time on your dance card. Not that that’s a place you’re likely to visit.”
“Oh, I’d say it’s a distinct possibility,” he said. “Because you’re there, and I’d love to visit you.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
JUNO WAS SUPPOSED TO PICK ME UP FROM THE AIRPORT. But when I stepped off the escalator into the baggage claim area, it was Dad standing there waiting for me. He was holding up
a sign with my name on it, just like the taxi drivers do for their customers.
“Dad!” I called.
“Sloane!” He raised his arm and waved. “I’m here!”
I jogged the rest of the way to him and we hugged hello. “Did something happen to Juno?” I asked, as we broke apart.
“Don’t worry, she’s fine,” Dad said. “I was just anxious to see you.”
“Me, too,” I said. “So what’s with the sign?”
“I didn’t want you to walk past your old man,” he said. “I wanted to make sure we found each other.”
His eyes were shiny. I reached to hug him again, longer and harder this time. I was crying, and I could tell he was, too. His body shook a little. My whole life, I’d never seen my dad cry. Then Talley died, and he did cry in front of me—that awful night at the hospital, and again at her funeral. But this was different; he was crying for me.
We finally pulled away from each other. Around us, other passengers were greeting people, pulling luggage from the baggage claim, rushing to wherever they needed to go.
Everyone was busy in their own story, but a couple of people paused to look at Dad and me. Given our teary reunion, I bet they thought I’d been away for way more than a week. They’d never know our real story.
“It feels like I haven’t seen you in a long time,” I told Dad. “I’m so glad you’re not mad at me for lying to you about Stanford and all the rest of it.”
“Oh, Sloane, you did me a favor,” he said. “I knew that I needed to tell you about your mother. But it had been so many years, and after what happened with Talley . . . I didn’t know how to start the conversation. I thought I might lose you if I did, so I stayed quiet. You did the right thing by lying to me. That’s not an easy thing for a father to admit to his child, but it’s true. Just don’t ever do it again.”
The Survival List Page 21