I can't tell if she is simply on autopilot or just wants to go home. Her Snoopy scrubs are faded from years of taking vitals. She presses her right hand against her eye while her left lowers the height rod. I wonder if she sees me.
"Sixty-four inches—you can step off the scale now. You have any brothers or sisters?"
"A brother—Aidan."
"Is he your—"
"He's adopted too, but no, we're not biological brother and sister."
"Wow," she smiles to herself, "that's amazing. You two are truly blessed and that's all there is to it."
* * *
Aidan's caller ID photo is one I took of him on one of our family's trips to Colonial Williamsburg. Those who know him often joke Aidan suffers from "carcolepsy," since his eyes close as soon as whatever vehicle he's in goes into drive. I don't know why I decided to snap a picture of him that day, but the image of him in a blue-striped hoodie, hunched over, wearing a white baseball cap, remains permanently attached to his name in my phone.
I rarely see it. When Aidan calls it's for two reasons: 1) he needs a ride to or from somewhere, or 2) he can't get in touch with either one of our parents. There's no other reason for him to contact me.
* * *
I remember when Mom, Dad, and I went to get Aidan from the airport. It was snowing and I was busy playing with my pink plastic tea set. Someone told me it was time, and I rushed down the stairs of the Weybridge Tudor and into the car. I was anxious to get moving since the next time we walked through the door, there was going to be a baby and he would be my brother.
At two years old, I thought this was how families were made. There was a mommy and a daddy, and the airport was where children were kept. I didn't know two people had to decide they wanted children—that they had to consider if they were ready for this. I didn't know those same two people would attempt to create life with their own bodies and fail. I didn't know this baby wasn't my "real" brother.
The only thing I knew about siblinghood was I was required to love this human because we shared the same last name. I found this difficult since Aidan never seemed to stop crying. He cried for what seemed like entire days, to the point where Mom would place him in the crib, lock herself in the bathroom, and pound the back of the door with her fists to keep from going insane.
First, he had scabies, then an ear infection. Aidan also had two holes near a place called "the soft spot" that seemed to make Mom upset.
One day the crying stopped. One day he could walk and talk and play, and it appeared as though all Aidan wanted to do was make me happy. He watched the movies I wanted to watch and played the games I wanted to play. Whenever Mom and I would argue, I'd plan to run away. He'd start to cry and ask if he could come with me.
"No," I'd say, packing my Powerpuff Girls backpack, "but I promise I'll come back for you."
Then high school came, and with it, the divide.
I thought he was angry about me going to Our Lady of Mercy Academy, leaving him as the only Asian in Corpus Christi Elementary. Perhaps it was because my homework was so extensive, I didn't have time to help him beat Donkey Kong. Either way, I found myself angry as well.
Mom and I had declared war on one another. The kitchen and the second-floor hallway between my room and my parents' room became our battleground. Our fights were born over the dinner table, stomped up the stairs, and ended with the slamming of both our doors.
I felt betrayed when Aidan would ask why I couldn't just be nice, why I had to lie . . . why I couldn't follow the rules. He backed Mom up even when she was wrong.
I thought Mom loved Aidan in a way I never thought she loved me. He always managed to say, do, and eat the right thing. Their relationship was easy, effortless—natural. He didn't lie about where he went, who he was with, what he was doing—he didn't have to. Aidan was perfect to Mom—and I hated him for it. So, I started asking for a sister.
* * *
The sound of laces tapping against steel-toe Timberlands gave Dad away before he knocked on my door. With the SATs behind me, I was free to spend weeknights journaling my plans to get Cole to fall in love with me.
"Come in," I said.
"You know," he began, closing the door behind him, "I built you this beautiful desk, so I don't know why you sit on the floor to write in your diary."
"It's not a diary, Dad—it's a journal!"
"Is that so?" As he lowered himself to the floor, he let out an exasperated sigh—bending and kneeling after a day's work on the job site was not as easy as it used to be.
"Diaries are for stupid girls—journals are for writers."
"Potato, potahto," he laughed. "Anyway, I heard you're going to a dance?"
"And?" I said impatiently. "And?!"
"And your Mom says you can go out with your friends after, but you have to be home by eleven p.m., you understand?"
"Oh Dad!" I screamed, falling into him.
"That means 11:00 p.m. exactly, Rowan. Not 11:01 or 11:02, you got it?"
I let go of him and rolled onto my back. "I can't believe it. How'd you get her to say yes?"
Dad was a carpenter—he built a home for us to live in, decks for our neighbors, a desk for me to write on. After dinner, he could be found falling asleep in front of the TV to the sound of Jack Bauer interrogating bad guys. I'd wake him, and ask about a slight bend in the rules Mom had set for my existence. Dad would say he wasn't going to make any promises, only to show up in my room with good news a few days later.
"Rowan, Mom loves you. She wants you to go out and have a good time."
"No, she doesn't. She just wants me to stay here, in this room . . ."
"Hey, hey, hey. I'm telling you true. She loves you, Rowan, so it wouldn't kill you to say thank you. Now here," he said, holding his hand out, "help your old man up."
I took his hands in mine, and pulled back. Once he was up, he placed his hands on his hips and inhaled deeply, extending his stomach forward.
"Daddy?"
"Whatty?"
"I don't know if I want to go anymore."
"What?" he laughed, raising his hands to his head. "You are just like your mother, I swear, Rowan."
"Well," I said, crossing my arms against my chest, "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"I CAN'T DANCE!"
"What are you talking about? You go to those Chaminade dances all the time. You're telling me you listen to all that Backstreet Kids and Britney Aguilera crap for the lyrics?"
"Yeah, but I can't, like, fancy dance. No one ever slow dances with me. I can't dance and I'm not going!"
"Come on," he said, flinging the door open.
"Where?" I asked, as I followed him through the hall, down the stairs, and into the living room.
He stopped by the stereo, and began scanning the CD tower.
"Mom's going to kill you if you get sawdust all over the living room."
"You let me worry about that. Now, come here," he said, inserting a CD and pushing play.
"Now that's music." He closed his eyes, humming along.
"Dad, this sounds old."
"Shut up and stand right there," he said, pointing no more than two feet in front of him. "A lot of people think you have to get fancy with the dancing, but really, all you have to do is the opposite of what I do."
"What?"
He took my hand and pulled me closer, setting his hand on my hip and my left hand on his shoulder. Then, our opposite hands joined together.
"So, when I move side to side, you just do what I do. But if I step backward?"
"I step forward."
"That's it—you got it."
"Are you sure there isn't more to it?"
"Ah, be quiet—this is the best part."
He broke his hold to turn the stereo up, then came back to pick up where he left off.
"The summer wind," he sang, "came blowin' in, from across the sea. It lingered there, to touch your hair, and walk with me."
"Dad, they're not going to play this old crap
at the dance."
"Doesn't matter," he smiled, spinning me out and back, "it's all the same language."
"Well, obviously," I said, rolling my eyes.
"Rowan, it doesn't matter if it's Sinatra or the Spice Dream—they're all singing about the same thing."
After "The Way You Look Tonight" and "I Won't Dance," we walked into the kitchen. Dad grabbed two glasses and poured us both some milk while I hopped on the counter and put peanut butter on two spoons.
"Sometimes there's nothing better than peanut butter and a cold glass of milk."
"Daddy?"
"Whatty?"
"What do I do at the diner?"
"Well," he laughed, "I heard a rumor they give you a book with all the things they make and you pick—"
"Dad!" I said, hitting his arm. "I mean, what do I do when the check comes? Do I pay or does he pay? I asked him to the dance so does that mean I pay?"
"You never pay for a date, Rowan!"
"But I don't know if it's a date. It's not like I can ask him if it's a date, Dad."
"How are you getting to the dance? Is Valentina's brother giving you guys a ride?"
"I told Mom already—Cole drives so he's picking me up."
"If he's coming here, to this house, and taking you, my daughter, to the dance and bringing you home, then it's a date."
"Okay, but still."
"If he's a gentleman, he's going to pay. If he's a bum, he'll split the bill and you'll never see him again."
I suddenly became very worried about what type of guy Cole was. "How am I going to know if he's going to pay the whole thing?"
"Relax, don't get so excited. I'll teach you another dance—the check tango. Or, the chango," he giggled to himself, tossing his spoon into the sink.
"What is that?"
"You offer to pay three times and then after that, if he still insists—which he should—then it's his check. And that's across the board—you go out with your girlfriends, and one of them offers to pay, they refuse you three times, and that's their check, you understand?"
"Do I ask him three times before we order or when the check comes?"
"Here's what you do: when the check comes to the table, pick it up. He'll take it from you—that's one. After he opens it, you go into your purse and get your money out. He's going to tell you to put it away—that's two. Then you laugh a little and say, 'You don't have to. Please, let me,' which is a load of bullshit because anyone who's taking out my girl had better buy her a nice meal—and then he's going to tell you your money's no good. That's three."
"Dad, are you sure about this?"
"Is the sky blue? Is the grass green?"
"I don't know. It sounds really complicated."
"Life is complicated, Rowan. Now, pull my finger."
"Dad! You're so gross!"
"Come on, come on—before it goes."
"You're so weird," I said, obliging him.
We both laughed as the fart made its way out, and disappeared into the kitchen. I didn't know getting Mom's permission to go out after the dance would be the least of my problems.
* * *
Despite being an exemplary college preparatory school on the North Shore of Long Island, the Academy had sent a letter home after the hallways were taken over by speculations regarding Kristen Yacendia's custom gown two weeks before the Sadie Hawkins Dance. Apparently, Badgley Mischka was a friend. Either way, Mercy let it be known it would not permit any "attire that contributes to social and economic division among its young women."
"Did you see this crap?" Valentina huffed, slamming her binder onto my lunch tray.
"Dude—my fries! Watch it!"
"This place sucks—it's like we can't do anything."
"What is your deal?"
She laughed at my ignorance, and passed me an envelope. As I removed and unfolded its contents, my eyes grew wider, my temperature hotter.
"Are they serious?" I mumbled, my mouth full of fries.
"I know!" she said, snatching the notice from me. "Check this out: Excessive cleavage is not allowed. Looks like you don't have to worry about that one," Valentina laughed, giving my chest a quick pat.
"Shut up, lesbo," I laughed, swatting her hand away. "No backless, no midriffs, blah, blah, blah . . . What?! Dresses may not be above the knee and are not to exceed tea-length. Absolutely no gowns are permitted. What the hell is tea-length?"
"I don't know, dude."
"Oh my god," I sighed, lowering my head to the table. "My mom's going to kill me—she already got me a dress."
"The red one?"
"Yeah!"
"Well, maybe you can wear it to prom next year."
"That doesn't help me now, though. The red one was, like, a hundred dollars and now she has to buy me another one? Oh my god, my life is over."
* * *
On the bus ride home, I wondered how I was going to convince Mom to not only take me to the mall after a full day of watching kids, but also to spend the money she'd earned on yet another dress.
Walking up the driveway, I felt defeated. By the time I reached the back door and kicked off my Oxfords, I'd convinced myself to tell Mom and Cole the dance had been canceled to save myself inevitable disappointment.
"What's with the long face, Smedley?" Dad asked, dangling turkey above his mouth.
"Nothing," I lied, leaning against the fridge.
"Come on. What's bugging you?"
"School gave us this letter that says I need a new dress for the dance."
He laughed at me. "You're getting real crafty about getting to the mall, huh?"
"I'm not lying, Dad! Here, look!" I dug the letter out of my bag and handed it to him.
"Okay, okay. Let's take a look here," he said, carefully scanning the document. "Yeah, that's what I thought. There's nothing on this paper that says, Rowan Kelly needs a new dress."
"Dad!"
"You have a million dresses in that closet of yours—"
"None of those fit me, Dad!"
"All one million of the dresses in your closet don't fit you?"
"Dad, there aren't—"
"Oh yes, yes there are. If we go up there right now, I bet we would count exactly one million dresses."
"Dad!"
"Come on, give me a smile! You're so serious!"
"What's all the yelling about?" Mom said, coming in to fill the kettle for her afternoon tea.
"Nothing," I mumbled.
"How was scho—Joseph Kelly! What are you eating?"
"Not eating," he said slyly, "just munching."
"Well, munch over the sink, you're making a mess," she instructed, giving his arm a loving nudge as he made space for her to pass by. "Rowan, how was school?"
"Okay, I guess." I was still trying to form the question. "Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Can you take me to the mall later? I need to get a new dress for the dance."
"Don't you have a dress upstairs? The red one?" The calm tone of her voice was not surprising. She had been listening. She was always listening.
"Yeah, but—"
"Why do you need a new one if you have a perfectly good one up—"
"Because the school said so!" I snatched the envelope from Dad's hand and waved it in her face. "Gowns aren't allowed anymore."
She took the letter, alternating her gaze between me and the text. I could tell she was trying to work out whether or not I had forged it. Mom knew all my tricks. It never occurred to me they might have been hers once.
"Well," she glanced at the time on the microwave, "I don't know when—"
"I can take her, Mar—"
"No, it has to be Mom!"
The comment took all of us by surprise. I watched Mom soften as she failed to suppress a smile.
"I want to go with you, Mom. You know what looks best on me. Please?"
She agreed to take me after the twins left at seven p.m. "If we don't find anything, Dad can watch the kids tomorrow and we'll head over to the Field when you get
off the bus. Now, go change and set the table while I get dinner started."
As I ran up the stairs, I rejoiced in knowing I wasn't going to have to cancel on Cole after all. I was grateful Mom had the money, the time, the patience.
* * *
It seemed every time my eyes looked to the clock located above the chalkboard, it read 2:17 p.m. Where was Sister Monica with the announcements? Wasn't the day over? As the second hand ticked along, and I hardened my stare hoping to accelerate time, Valentina brushed my shoulder.
What? I mouthed, not wanting to catch Mr. D'Amico's attention.
Valentina scribbled on her notebook and pushed it to the edge of her desk. After a quick glance to the front of the classroom, I leaned over.
"Excited?"
I couldn't suppress the smile and nodded.
"What color is your dress again?"
"Black," I whispered, "and it's got these—"
"Um, ladies? Is there something you would like to share with the rest of us?"
"No," we both giggled.
"Well, uh, let's try to stay focused here, girls. This stuff's going to be on the Regents so let's get back to it. Now, which property is used to determine the degree of polarity between two bonded atoms?"
As Mr. D'Amico droned on about the difference between density, pressure, temperature, and electronegativity, I thought about my dress. It extended just below my knees, the straight across neckline was held up by spaghetti straps, and it had an empire waist. While I had originally wanted the lavender, Mom made me try on the black in the fitting room, knowing it was the right choice. With a silver glitter overlay, the dress seemed to sparkle.
"Do you like it?" I asked Mom when I'd tried it on.
"I don't have to like it. You're the one who has to wear it. Do you like it?"
Hyper-aware Mom was watching the mirror; I withheld an eye roll. Why couldn't she just tell me I looked nice? Why couldn't she say the dress was perfect?
"I guess it's okay."
"If you don't like it then take it off, and let's go out there and find something you do like."
"I just, I don't know if I like it or not."
"Well, how do you feel? Can you move in it?"
"Yeah," I said, swaying back and forth.
"I think it fits you very well."
Inconvenient Daughter Page 5