by Leila Sales
Her mother looks up from the frying pan, her eyes glistening as well. “Part of me wants that, too.”
“So do it,” Arden says. “Come back with me.”
“Sweetheart, it’s not so simple.” Arden’s mother brings over a plate of pancakes, but neither of them takes a bite. She sits on the armchair across from Arden, curling her feet up under her. Arden does not recognize any of the furniture in this apartment—which makes sense, since her mother is just subletting it. Nothing in here is her mother’s style; Arden sees no flowers, no inspirational quotes, no eyelets, no gingham—just a lot of black-and-white photos and boxy furniture. It feels like a stranger lives here, not her mother at all.
“I read your letter,” Arden says.
“Thank you.” Her mother blinks. “I wasn’t sure, since you didn’t say anything … I thought maybe you just threw it away.”
“I did,” Arden says. “But I read it, too.”
“And what did you think?” her mother asks.
“It made me wish you hadn’t felt like you needed to do all that stuff for us. You didn’t need to. The night you left—I didn’t need you to make that dress from scratch, Mom. I never asked you to do that. You didn’t need to make Roman some fancy mac and cheese. You know he’d just eat a bowl of cereal and be every bit as happy. I wish you’d done less for us and stuck around. We don’t need you to be a perfect mom sometimes if it means you’re a nonexistent mom the rest of the time. We just need you there.”
“I understand that,” her mother says. “I’m trying to figure out how I can learn to be a just-okay mom. I really am.”
“I didn’t get it at first,” Arden says. “Your letter didn’t make any sense, why you’d do all these things for us that we didn’t need, and then complain about having to do so much. But there’s something you said in there, about feeling like if people need you, then that must mean that you really matter. And I guess … that makes sense to me now.”
Arden thinks about Lindsey’s cold words last night, claiming that she didn’t need anything from Arden, not even the Disney vacation. And maybe that’s true. Maybe Lindsey could have gotten through her whole life without Arden ever lifting a finger to help her, without ever even running into Arden that day in the woods when they were little girls. But Arden believes with a deep certainty that it doesn’t matter whether Lindsey ever needed her, because having Arden has made Lindsey’s life better. And it works both ways, because having Lindsey has made Arden’s life better, too.
“Here’s what I want to know,” Arden says. “All that stuff you always told me—about how some people are gardeners, and how kindness is my power, and how charity will do more for you than selfishness—was that all wrong?”
“No,” her mother says. “Not wrong. All of that does matter. Other people matter hugely. But you have to matter to yourself, too. There has to be a balance. I’m still figuring out that balance, myself. But I know this one thing: sacrificing everything that you care about in order to make another person happy is not love. It’s not really that some people are gardeners and some people are flowers, Arden. It’s that we both must be both, each in our own time.”
Arden considers this and at last takes a bite of pancake. It tastes exactly the way it’s supposed to.
“Has moving here helped?” Arden asks after she’s swallowed. “I mean, are you happy now?”
“I think it’s given me some perspective,” her mother replies. “It’s been good for me. But I miss you so much. You know I had never been apart from you for longer than one night since you were born. So being away for months has been … well, it’s been really hard.”
Arden had never measured these things before, but she realizes now that her mother is right—the only times she’d been away from her mom for longer than the length of a school day was when she started having sleepovers at friends’ houses. Roman can’t even claim that: he still refuses to sleep over anywhere. Even more now, Arden sees the similarity to her situation with Lindsey. She did need to leave Lindsey. But now she needs to find her again. And hope that they can rebuild from here.
“Are you ever going to come home?” Arden asks her mother.
Her mother takes a deep breath. “Do you want to know honestly?”
“Yes.” After her night with Peter, Arden has decided that she prefers hard truths over pretty lies.
“I don’t know. Your father and I are in communication, as you’re aware. We’re working through things, together and individually. I may come home. We may separate on a more permanent basis. But if that happens, we will work out a joint custody agreement that’s as fair as possible to everyone. You and Roman will always be my children and I’ll always be your mother. Like it or not, kid, you’re stuck with me.”
“Joint custody,” Arden repeats. “So would we, like, come to New York every weekend?” She looks around the apartment. “Where would we even sleep? And we should get a say in this. What if we don’t want to come to New York that often? Would you move back closer to us?”
“Arden. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Like I said, that might not even happen. What you need to do right now is tell your dad where you are, before he calls the police. Which maybe he already has.”
Arden sighs and goes to get her phone from the charger. On her way across the room, her mother stops her and envelops her in a hug.
“I didn’t know if you would ever be willing to talk to me,” Arden’s mother says quietly. “Thank you for coming here.”
That is not why Arden came to New York, but she doesn’t tell her mother that, because the reason she came here is not relevant anymore.
Arden turns her phone on and it goes crazy registering all the messages and phone calls she’s missed over the past twelve hours. Four texts from Chris asking, with increasing degrees of annoyance, when she is going to be free to hang out. A text from Roman asking if she can pick him up from his hockey game. A text from her father also asking if she can pick up Roman, followed by a text from her father asking her to please call him, followed by a text in all caps saying WHERE ARE YOU?, followed by three missed calls and voice mails. Nothing from Lindsey, which could mean she is still mad and waiting for Arden to call her first, or could mean her phone died in the night, or could mean she is unconscious in an alley somewhere.
Arden skips over the texts and just telephones her father. He answers immediately. “Arden! Where have you been? Are you okay?” The panic in his voice is evident, and amazing because it sounds exactly like he cares.
Arden can’t help the smile spreading across her face, or the laughter in her voice as she says, “I’m fine, Daddy.”
“Don’t you laugh, young lady. It is not a joking matter for you to run off like this. Where are you? And don’t say you’re at the Matsons’, because I already spoke with them, and I know you and Lindsey aren’t there.”
“I’m with Mom,” Arden says. “In New York.”
“You went to New York without telling me?” he shouts.
“Please don’t yell at me.”
“I have every right to yell at you, Arden, because you scared the hell out of me. What would I do if anything had happened to you? What made you think you could run off to a different state without checking with me first? I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, I really don’t. You used to be a good kid. And now you’re sneaking around, using drugs, going hundreds of miles away and lying about it—I feel like I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“You don’t,” Arden says.
“What was that?”
Arden pauses. She could just let it go. It would be easier for her not to ask for what she wants.
But she has come this far.
“You don’t know what’s gotten into me because you’re never around,” she says.
“That’s ridiculous. Of course I am. You’re sounding like your mother.”
“No,” she says. “You’re at the office all the time—”
“I have a job.”
&nb
sp; “—and when you’re home you’re always holed up in your study or watching TV or doing your fantasy football. You’re always too busy for us.”
“This isn’t about me,” he says. “This is about you, disappearing without so much as a text message.”
“This is about both of us,” she says. “If you want me to act more like your daughter, then you can start by acting like more of a father.”
“Arden,” he says, and his voice is brittle. “Do not get on your teenage high horse and try to lecture me. I need you to come home, and we are going to talk about consequences.”
“I’m coming home,” she tells him, “but we need to talk about a lot more than consequences.”
It’s not that her mom was the bad guy and her dad was the victim, she realizes. They were both bad guys. They were both victims.
“I love you, Dad,” Arden adds. “I love you so much. This was something I needed to do. But I’m sorry I made you worry.”
Her mother taps her on the shoulder. “May I speak with him for a moment?”
Arden passes over her phone. Her mother takes it and closes herself in the small bedroom, so Arden can’t hear her parents’ conversation. She stares out the window while she waits. There’s an ambulance trying to drive down the one-way street, its siren wailing, but a moving van is parked in front of it, blocking its passage, so the wailing just goes on and on, and presumably someone is dying right this moment while the EMTs try to figure out a way forward. None of the pedestrians seem at all disturbed as they continue walking absurdly quickly and texting on their phones. Watching this scene, Arden feels very, very glad that she does not have to live in this city.
A few minutes later, her mother emerges from the bedroom and hands back Arden’s phone.
“He’s mad,” Arden says.
“He was scared, Arden. We need to get you home. Not least because you have to be at school in about eighteen hours,” her mother says.
Arden grimaces. “One problem. The Heart of Gold is dead. I left it parked on the street somewhere in Brooklyn.”
“Where?”
“Outside of Jigsaw Manor?”
Her mother sighs. “Do I even want to know?”
Arden shakes her head.
“To be honest, I don’t want you driving that hunk of junk all the way to Cumberland, anyway. It’s dangerous. I can’t even believe your car made it here in the first place. I can book you a train ticket now, and your father can pick you up from the station.”
“No. I want to get the Heart of Gold repaired. I’ll pay for it; you won’t have to worry about it, I promise. Mom, I’m not leaving my car.”
Her mother relents a little. “Let’s go look at it. We’ll see how bad it is, and we can work on getting it fixed, but there might not be time to do that today and still get you home at a reasonable hour. Does that sound fair?”
Arden nods. “We need to find Lindsey, too,” she says. She calls her now, but it immediately goes to voice mail. She texts her, as well, though if Lindsey’s phone is off, then she doesn’t expect a text message will help with matters. She wonders where Lindsey slept last night. She wonders if she’s okay. And she thinks that there is a big difference between sacrificing everything for another person and just doing your best to keep that other person safe.
“Where is Lindsey?” asks her mother.
“I have no idea.”
Her mother rubs her eyes. “This is getting complicated. Okay. Let’s start with the car, and then go from there.”
Arden picks up her purse, and they head out together.
“By the way,” her mother says as she locks the door behind her, “what are all these marks on your arms?”
Arden glances again at the words on her arms. I miss you I miss you I miss you and the only one. “They’re lies,” she says simply. “But don’t worry. They’ll wash off.”
They walk down the four flights of stairs and out into the late afternoon sun. And there, standing on the sidewalk right outside her mother’s apartment building, is a person Arden recognizes.
“Hey,” says Peter. “I’ve been looking for you.”
A garden of gardeners and flowers
“Where did you go this morning?” Arden asks Peter.
They have left behind her very surprised mother. “Who is this?” she asked when they emerged from her apartment building, looking back and forth between Arden and Peter with confusion, maybe suspicion, and a hint of amusement.
“No one,” said Arden.
“Peter,” said Peter, and he shook Arden’s mother’s hand firmly. He gave her a broad smile while simultaneously adjusting his glasses, a move clearly designed to set a mother at ease, communicating I’m charming and I’m a studious boy who would never take your daughter to bed with me all at the same time. Arden wasn’t having it for a second. Maybe her mother was, though. Today Peter is wearing fitted jeans and a black-and-white-checked button-down. He looks just like someone you would trust with your daughter. He’s a good-looking guy. Arden doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to unsee that, no matter how much she learns about him.
“Peter and I need to talk,” she told her mother. “Just wait here for a few minutes. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
Her mother didn’t ask questions. She just sat down on her stoop, pulled out her phone, and reminded Arden, “Not too long. We have to figure out how to get you home.”
Peter and Arden walked in silence for a number of blocks. She had thought it likely that she was never going to see him again. She hadn’t really wanted to see him again. Funny that she could spend so long searching for him, and it’s only once she’s not looking anymore that he turns right up.
Now that he’s here, though, she wants an explanation. She wants him to explain everything. And when he doesn’t answer her question right away, she repeats, louder, “Where did you go this morning?”
“To the library,” he says.
“Why?”
“I needed to return a couple books. And I really like it there. Have you ever been to the main branch of the New York Public Library? It’s massive. If you have time today, we should totally go.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. I meant, why did you leave me?”
He adjusts his glasses again and doesn’t reply for a moment. Then he says, “Let’s go in here.”
She follows him into a little garden crammed between buildings. The sign on the gate identifies it as the Elizabeth Street Garden. She realizes that it’s the first time her feet have touched grass since she arrived in this city. The space is filled with marble statues, human busts and cherubs and Grecian columns, that sort of thing. It’s not big, but it’s substantial enough for the city sounds to fade to a low rumble in the background.
They find a gray stone bench and sit down.
“How did you find me?” Arden asks when she realizes that he’s not about to tell her why he left her earlier. The thought that Peter would track her down, as she did him, is flattering. But confusing. What does he want from her? Why abandon her, only to come back?
“You said your mom’s address last night,” he reminds her.
“You have a good memory for details.”
He shrugs. “I’m a writer.”
“But how did you even know I’d be there?”
“I didn’t know for sure. I just figured you’d wind up there eventually.”
“Why?”
He blinks at her. “Because she’s your mother?”
Arden doesn’t argue with that. After all, he’s correct.
“I was waiting out there for a while,” he offers. “If you hadn’t shown up soon, I was going to take off.”
“Okay,” she says. “So you found me. Why did you want to?”
“I heard from Bianca,” Peter explains. “She said she talked to you. So I … yeah. Just wanted to see what you two talked about.”
A slight breeze ruffles the tree leaves. Arden opens her mouth, but then Peter barges on.
“Did it sound l
ike she might want to get back together? Did she say anything like that? Do you think she misses me—could you tell?”
“What?” Arden asks.
“This afternoon was the first time she’s texted me since we broke up. Did you say something to her, maybe, that made her change her mind? Did she talk about changing her mind?”
“No, Peter.” Arden shakes her head. “No. That’s not what we talked about, and no, I don’t think she’s changing her mind.”
“Oh.” He deflates. “I thought … you know, sometimes girls talk about those things. Never mind.” He pulls Leo’s flask out of his back pocket and takes a long swig.
“You know it’s the middle of the afternoon,” Arden says, watching him drink. “On a Sunday.” She pauses before adding, “And we’re in a park.”
“What’s your point?” He doesn’t look at her. “Just because you don’t drink, you’re going to judge everybody who does?”
“I’m not judging you!” she retorts. “You don’t know me, so please don’t assume that you know what I’m thinking.”
Now he looks at her. “Sorry.”
“You want to know what Bianca and I discussed?” Arden asks. “She told me about Leo. She told me what the two of you did to him. She told me why he left.”
“Really?” Peter raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t know she talked about that with anyone. Well. Congratulations, Arden. Bianca trusts you. That’s a big responsibility, but I guess you’re the girl for the job.” He flashes her another winning smile.
“Is this all some big joke to you?” Arden snaps. “Other people’s lives are just here for your amusement? This person—your brother—he ran away because of what you did. Oh, and he’s home now, by the way. So, thanks for mentioning that.”
Peter’s eyes widen; he’s surprised that Arden knows all of this. And she thinks, I’m smarter than you gave me credit for.
Peter isn’t smiling anymore. He takes another sip from the flask. “I know I screwed up. I know I hurt my family in ways that we can’t just get over. I face that guilt every day.”
No, you don’t, Arden thinks. You get drunk. You make a joke. You tell a story. You run away.