Finding Georgina

by Colleen Faulkner

  She looks down at me. “Makayla’s not going?”

  I shake my head. “Not invited.” I let go of her. “Mom, I’m trying to make friends with girls Makayla isn’t friends with. I’m trying to . . . expand my horizons.”

  Lilla gives this little laugh and I look at her. “You’re my sister. You’re supposed to be on my side, aren’t you?”

  Mom walks again.

  Lilla pushes the cart. “You want my opinion, Harper Mom?”

  I do this, like, double take. I’ve heard Lilla refer to Mom that way, but I’ve never heard her say it before. Usually she goes out of her way not to call her anything.

  Mom catches the front of the cart and glances over her shoulder. “I’m not sure how many more opinions I can use today, but sure, what do you think?”

  I look at Lilla. She looks at me. I nod my head up and down, like saying, “Go on. Tell her.”

  “She’s fourteen years old,” Lilla says. “When I was her age, I was walking home from school by myself, letting myself into our apartment, and making myself dinner. I went to the market by myself and did our grocery shopping. I went to summer camp for two weeks. It’s what girls do when they’re fourteen. Average girls.”

  Mom’s looking at Lilla now, over the grocery cart.

  “You want her to be normal, don’t you?” Lilla leans on the cart. She’s dressed just like me, in an Ursuline uniform. Basketball practice got cancelled so Mom picked us both up after school. I wanted to go home; I asked if Lilla and I could stay home while she went but that was a big, fat no. Then I asked if we could at least change before she made us go, but she said it was going to be a quick trip. Grocery store trips are never quick enough for me. “And you don’t want her to go wild when she gets to college.”

  “Go wild?” Mom arches her eyebrows. But she’s listening. Because it’s Lilla speaking and not me. I wonder why I didn’t think of this sooner. Maybe I can pay Lilla to tell Mom to let me do stuff.

  Lilla shrugs, fiddling with two pomegranates in the seat of the cart. “You know, do crazy things when she gets out of the house: drink, skip classes, behave in a way you’d think was promiscuous. You can’t control what she does when she goes to college and lives in a dorm.”

  “Who says I’m letting her go to college?”

  Ha ha. Mom’s idea of a joke.

  “You need to know she can make good decisions,” Lilla goes on. “And the only way kids learn to do that is to practice. Jojo isn’t a fool. If you let her do some of the things she wants to do, she isn’t going to screw up and jeopardize you letting her go somewhere or do something the next time she asks.”

  Mom’s staring at Lilla. An old guy and an old lady go around us. He’s all bent over, pushing the cart really slow. They’re talking about cat food.

  “I mean, has she ever done something wrong? Has she done anything to make you think she can’t make good decisions on a family weekend? With someone whose kid goes to an all-girls Catholic school? Jojo said you guys know the family from your parish church.”

  “She was on that committee with you last year, Mom. Mrs. Birch was.”

  Mom glances at me, then back at Georgina. I can tell she’s thinking. I hope she’s considering letting me go.

  “You spend a lot of time thinking about how to raise teenagers?” she asks Lilla.

  “No. I just—It just makes sense. You give her a little line. If she makes a mistake, you can shorten it. If you trust her, she’ll trust you enough to call you if she has a problem. She can always text you. You guys can come up with a password. That’s what Sharon and I did. I didn’t go to a lot of parties and stuff, but if I got somewhere where I was uncomfortable, I’d just text her the password and she’d call me and tell me I had to come home.”

  Mom is shaking her head. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. She probably doesn’t like Lilla bringing up Crazy Woman’s name. Or suggesting that maybe Crazy Woman wasn’t completely crazy, that maybe she was actually a pretty good parent.

  Mom turns around and starts walking again. “I’ll talk to your dad about it tonight.” She turns back. “Either of you hear from him today? He text you?”

  We both shake our heads.

  Something weird is going on with him. I don’t know what. He’s acting strange, like he’s impatient with Mom. With us. He’s getting annoyed about little things like the fact that the cupboard door is squeaking again and he’s going to have to take the whole thing off its hinges. And his scooter is making a weird noise. He’s been talking about that for a week.

  Mom pulls her grocery list and pen out of her bag on her shoulder. “Okay, let’s see . . . Got the veggies, the pasta, the lentils.” She frowns. “Paper towels. I forgot the paper towels. You two want to go get your yogurt and I’ll go back for the paper towels? I think napkins, too.” She sounds distracted. “I can’t keep track of who wants what flavors.” She’s marking off things on the list. “And I’ll meet you up front?”

  “Sure,” Lilla tells her.

  At the end of the aisle, Mom goes one way, we go the other. “Stay together,” she calls over her shoulder.

  “I’m going to college in Australia,” I say under my breath.

  Lilla pushes the cart. “Good luck with that.”

  Then we kind of just walk in silence. We’re at the back of the grocery store so we’re passing the aisles. We go by the bathroom-stuff aisle. “Need tampsies?” I ask her.

  She looks at me like I’m nuts.

  “You know,” I say. “Tam—”

  “I know what you mean,” she interrupts. “I’m good. Thanks.”

  We pass the dog food aisle. I slow down so she can catch up with me. I walk beside her. “You told Mom I’m smart. Do you really think I’m smart, or were you just, you know, saying that?” I ask her. Then I stop and pick up a box of mini donuts. I act like I’m reading the ingredients, just so I don’t look like I’m desperate for compliments or anything.

  “Don’t you think you’re smart?”

  Not an answer to my question. Which means she thinks I’m an idiot. Which I guess I am compared to her. I put the donuts in the cart and start walking again.

  “Yes, you’re smart, Jojo. Of course you’re smart. I think sometimes that you don’t want anyone to know it.”

  I don’t say anything, but I’m kind of happy she thinks I’m smart. Because everybody knows she’s super smart. She’d know, wouldn’t she?

  “You need to pay more attention in class. And do your own homework,” she adds. She’s leaning on the cart now, pushing it slowly. “College will be here before you know it. I’m already signed up to take my SATs. You have any idea what you’d like to study . . . in Australia?”

  I catch her eye and I see she’s joking. I smile, sort of. I want to tell her, but I don’t want her to laugh at me. I hesitate and then blurt it out. “I want to be a lawyer. But you have to go to law school to do that. What do you study in college if you want to go to law school?”

  She moves her mouth one way and then the other, like she’s thinking. We’ve reached the dairy stuff against the wall. “I don’t know. We’d have to Google it.”

  I nod. That hadn’t occurred to me. I use Google all the time, but mostly to find videos of kittens dancing to Beyoncé songs and stuff like that.

  “You should talk to Dad. He went to Tulane intending to go to law school. You know, because that’s what Broussards do.” She stops in front of the yogurt and we both walk over to stand in front of the refrigerator shelves to pick what we want. “But I guess he was really into numbers.” She grabs two yogurts. Vanilla. Yuck. “And he just told his dad he didn’t want to go into the family business.”

  “Wow.” I look at her. “I didn’t know that. His dad must have gone nuts. Because Uncle Beau was already in law school by then. And Aunt Lucy, she was going to be a lawyer, too.”

  “I don’t know.” Lilla shrugs and looks at me. “He didn’t act like it was a big deal. But I bet everybody in the family would like it if one of t
he kids wanted to be a lawyer. And you’d have a place to work when you graduated. If you wanted to do the stuff they do like wills and property settlements and such. They don’t do much criminal law.”

  I smile and reach for my favorite yogurt: banana and honey. I like the kind with the sprinkles or chocolate cookie crumbles that go on top, but I know Mom will have something to say about that, so I don’t get those. “How about you?” I ask. “What do you want to be?”

  She stands there, a yogurt in each hand. “This is going to sound a little spooky, but I always thought I might like to be a lawyer. But maybe like one who does . . . I don’t know, immigration stuff. Or maybe ACLU cases.”

  “Wait.” I drop my yogurts into the cart. I’m not even sure what ACLU cases are, but I don’t really care this minute. “You wanted to be a lawyer and you didn’t know everybody in our family except Dad is a lawyer? That the Broussards have been lawyers in New Orleans for more than a hundred years?”

  “Not everybody.” She grabs one more yogurt and starts pushing the cart again. “Our mother’s a veterinarian.”

  “I would never want to do that.” I make a face of disgust. “I’m not getting near a dog’s butt.”

  Lilla laughs, and even though I know she’s laughing at me, I laugh, too.

  30

  Harper

  We manage to get through our Friday family meeting over pizza in the kitchen and the girls scatter afterward. Leaving Remy and me to do what little cleanup is needed, which is okay because we’ve all been so busy all week that I don’t feel as if we’ve had a moment alone together.

  The family meeting, despite the groaning and moaning from all three of them, went pretty well and we had some decent discussions. It’s official, we’re staying home for Mardi Gras. We decided that Remy will take the girls to uptown parades on Sunday and Lundi Gras, which is the Monday before Fat Tuesday. While I hide at home in a dark room, possibly under my bed. Then they’ll make a decision as to whether or not they’ll go to the French Quarter for Mardi Gras. Which would be a logistical nightmare, but I agree to stay out of that conversation, should the three of them choose to have it.

  In exchange for parade privileges, they’ve all agreed to go to Mass Ash Wednesday with me. I was surprised Georgina didn’t put up an argument. So far, the only time she’s been in a church is when she’s expected to attend at school. Due to her special circumstances, only her presence there has been required and she’s even been allowed to sit in the back.

  I’ve been agreeing to let Georgina go to temple when she wants. Interestingly enough, she skipped twice, and tomorrow morning she has plans with her new friend Em. Which means she’s not going to temple. I’m not sure what’s up with that. I’ve decided not to bring it up for now and see how things unfold. I really want to have her take a confirmation class, at least to educate her on the beliefs she was born into, but I’ve decided to wait on that. I haven’t even brought it up with her yet. Baby steps.

  “Wine?” Remy’s already gotten a glass down for himself. His tone suggests it may have been the second time he asked me.

  “Sure.” I’m folding up a pizza box to go into the recycling bin. I make a concerted effort to push aside all the things whirling around in my head and be in the moment. “Want to sit out on the porch? It’s a nice evening. You guys might get lucky and have warm weather for Mardi Gras.” Secretly I’m hoping it rains. Hail would be nice. Maybe they’ll cancel the parades if it hails.

  “Still more than a week away.” He gets another glass down and opens a drawer. I hear him digging around in it.

  “Jojo really wants to do this weekend thing with Olivia,” I say. She’d made yet another plea, at the family meeting, providing written information: a physical address and Web site address to the park; cell number for Olivia, her mother, and her aunt; as well as a projected itinerary. I suspect Georgina was in on the prep work. I can’t decide if I’m tickled she’s siding with her sister or annoyed. Without Georgina, Jojo’s presentation might not have been as impressive.

  Remy is still digging through the utensil drawer. “Have you seen my opener? The one I like?” He closes the drawer harder than need be.

  I walk over, open the drawer he was just in, spot the bottle opener under a spatula, and hand it to him.

  “How do you do that?” he asks, without a thank-you. “How do you always do that? I can look in the pantry for the peanut butter for five minutes and you walk over and pick it up.”

  “It was right there.”

  “Do you hide things?” he asks, sounding serious.

  “I do not hide things so I can find them for you.” I go to the trash can and pull out the bag. I can’t stand the smell of old pizza the next morning. I glance at Remy as I replace the bag. “What do you think about letting her go?”

  “What?” He’s peeling away the foil on the bottle, his back to me.

  “The weekend with Olivia. What do you think?”

  He pops the cork. “You already know what I think.”

  He’s been testy with me since he got home. All week. No, it started last week. And I have no idea why. I know he gets frustrated with me, with my anxiety. But I’m trying. I’m trying so hard and I don’t feel as if he’s giving me credit for that.

  “You didn’t speak up at dinner. You never said a word about her going camping.”

  He cuts his eyes at me, picks up the bottle and the two glasses, and walks out of the kitchen.

  I stand there looking at the empty doorway. I’m really tempted to skip the wine and cranky Remy and to go to bed and read my book. I’ve been thinking about the Amish characters all day, trying to figure out who killed the blacksmith. I’m not sure I feel like dealing with Remy tonight. But I know that’s not right. I’m the one who suggested he move back in. I’m the one who initiated this whole “try again” thing with our marriage. If he invites me to sit and have a glass of wine with him, I need to do it.

  I take out the garbage, leaving it in one of the cans outside. Back in the kitchen, I wash my hands, dry them, and flip the light off on the way out. At the bottom of the staircase, I holler up to the girls, “We’re on the front porch.”

  No one answers. I hear music. Something obnoxious. It has to be Jojo. I’ve seen Georgina wearing earbuds, connected to her phone, but I don’t know what kind of music she’s listening to, if she’s listening to music at all. For all I know, she might be listening to NPR news. Or a podcast. She and Remy were talking about different podcasts at dinner.

  I walk out onto the front porch and take a deep breath of the warm, humid air. I’m in jeans, a long-sleeved Life Is Good T-shirt, and my slippers, and I’m comfortable. It’s hard to believe summer is just around the river bend again.

  But suddenly the evidence is everywhere. The azaleas in the flowerbeds are beginning to bloom in bright pinks and white. Our neighbor’s Chinese fringe tree is popping with blossoms, too. I inhale again, trying to be in the moment and enjoy the last rays of the sun as it sets. Trying to enjoy the pleasure of having my two daughters safe upstairs doing their homework and having wine with my husband.

  I had a good day today. I worked in the morning, then came home to do some housecleaning and went for coffee at Ann’s. I resisted the urge to walk to Ursuline so I could walk Georgina home. Okay, Ann was the one who suggested I stay put. But then Georgina texted me when she left school and we met on the sidewalk between Ann’s and home. We walked together and we talked about her driving my car. Luckily she can’t drive alone yet. I’m not sure how we’re going to deal with the fact that Lilla Kohen had an intermediate license and already passed the written and driver’s exam, but Georgina Broussard was actually not old enough to do so at the time. I may have to have Remy’s sister look into that one.

  I glance at him. He’s taken a seat in one of the rocking chairs. He hasn’t poured the wine yet; he’s letting it breathe. I gave up years ago telling him I couldn’t tell the difference between the taste of wine that has breathed and the wine that hasn�
��t.

  I sit in the chair beside him. We both rock and look out at the park. I could sit here for hours and stare at the lush grass that’s already turning a brighter green, and the huge grandfather oaks that serve as our front yard. I watch a girl, a college student probably, with her dalmatian, cut between the trees. She’s talking on her phone. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but whomever she’s talking to, he or she is getting an earful.

  I glance at Remy. “I’ve missed you this week,” I say.

  He runs his hand over his face. His hair is looking a little shaggy; he needs a haircut. Which isn’t like him. He’s always been very attentive to personal hygiene. His beard is always neatly trimmed and he gets his hair cut regularly.

  “The job still hasn’t posted and Richard hasn’t said a word,” Remy says. “Maybe he isn’t retiring.”

  He’s talking about the comptroller’s position at Tulane. He’s been eyeing it for years and I think his boss, Richard, has been dangling it like a carrot in front of him. Remy has worked a lot of late nights and Saturdays in the hopes of getting that job someday. “But he mentioned it Fourth of July,” I say. “I heard him telling someone. And you said his wife told you they were thinking about moving back to Alabama. When was that? The Christmas party?”

  He shrugs.

  “So ask Richard if he’s planning on retiring.”

  “I’m not asking him,” he grumbles.

  I sit there for a moment trying to decide if I should let him just be in a bad mood or if I should try to get him to talk about it. The thing is, Remy has insisted, in the past, that talking things out isn’t always the best option. Not for everyone. He prefers to mope in his own funk until he’s ready to climb out of it. And in the past, both before and after the divorce, I’ve usually been willing to go along with that. But this is a new chapter in our lives. And I don’t want Remy to be unhappy.

  “What’s up with you?” I reach over and cover his hand with mine.

  He takes it, but not with much enthusiasm.

  “Nothing.”