“Right,” Lilla says. She’s got her thinking face on; she seems to spend a lot of time thinking. “Sometimes it’s hard to figure out what really happened and what you think happened . . . or wish happened. I always thought I had a happy childhood. That Sharon was good to me and that she loved me.” She looks up at me. “But what if that’s not true?”
She looks sad. I chew on my lip, thinking about that. “Mom and Dad always loved you. Even when you weren’t here.”
“Mom and Dad,” she says, and she makes a face. “You understand why I’m upset, right? Because they lied to me. Well, technically, I guess they didn’t lie, but they deceived me. On purpose. They made me think this family was one thing when it was another.”
“Right,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else. I just stand there.
She’s just lying there, looking at her computer now.
“Anyway,” I tell her as I back out of her room, “I wanted to tell you I wasn’t in on it. Not like they didn’t ask me what I thought or anything. I guess I didn’t realize it would make you feel bad.” I hesitate. “I think maybe they did it because they thought it would make you feel better coming home. Safer.”
“Maybe,” she says. Then she types something on her laptop. I can tell the screen has changed, even though I can’t see it, because the light on her face has changed. “Night,” she says.
“Good night.” I close her door and stand there. I keep thinking things are going to go back to normal here, like they were before Lilla came. I don’t like feeling this way all the time. Uncertain. Of what to do, what to say. Uncertain of myself. Having Lilla here, it’s like I’m someone I don’t know. I used to know what I wanted. I knew who I was. At least I thought I did. Now I wonder if it’s like Makayla thinking she went to her great-grandmother’s funeral. Did I just think I knew myself? Did I just think I was happy? I don’t want to blame everything on Lilla, especially since none of this is her fault. But things were definitely easier before she came home. I don’t know if easier is better or not.
I look at her door again and then I go down the hall and stand in front of Mom and Dad’s door. I can see that there’s a light on. I wait a minute and listen, just to make sure there’s no funny business going on in there. I don’t hear anything. I knock.
“Come in,” Mom calls. She doesn’t sound sleepy.
I open the door. “My fever’s down.” I glance around. Dad’s not in bed with Mom. And their bathroom light is out.
“That’s good news. If you wake up in the middle of the night, you should take some more ibuprofen.” Mom’s lying in bed wearing an old flannel shirt that used to be Granddad’s. She uses it for a sleep shirt. She’s propped up on pillows, her iPad beside her. She’s been reading.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask. I didn’t see any light coming from downstairs.
Mom pats the bed beside me and I get in with her. She’s got an old quilt on the end of her bed that some old aunt in her family made. It’s some kind of pattern from Pennsylvania. It’s been here as long as I have. I lie down beside her, my head on Dad’s pillow, and pull the quilt over both of us.
Mom rolls onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow. When I look at her face, I realize she’s been crying. “You okay?” I ask her.
She nods and lies down, her head on Dad’s pillow beside mine. She puts her arm around me and I don’t even mind. It’s probably the fever. I was afraid she was going to say I was sick because I went away for the weekend with Olivia. I was afraid she’d use that as an excuse next time I wanted to do something outside her comfort zone. But she didn’t blame Olivia or the trip. And I’m so glad because I really had a good time. Makayla’s still my bestie, of course; we were baby besties. But it’s fun having another friend. And I really like Olivia’s mom and her aunt Judy. Everybody was so nice to me and they like to play games. We played lots of games and ate breakfast for dinner and took walks and shot marshmallows out of little plastic guns at each other.
I stare at the ceiling; it’s pretty. There are big tin tiles with olive branch circles pushed into them. Mom says it needs to be painted but I kind of like the chippy paint.
Mom rests her arm across my stomach and sighs.
I can almost feel Dad’s absence in the room, like it’s radiating off her. Then I realize what’s going on. “He’s not coming home, is he?” I ask her in a whisper.
She’s quiet for what seems like a really long time before she says, “No.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Probably not.”
I stare at the ceiling trying not to be angry at him because why should I be? I knew he wasn’t going to stay. I knew it even if Mom didn’t. He loves us, but it’s like he doesn’t want to love us all the time. I don’t get it, but that’s how he is. Dad’s Dad. “So he’s moving out again?”
She doesn’t answer.
I turn my head to look at her. “Mom?”
“He’s moving back to his apartment. We decided tonight.” She says each word like it hurts her. “We wanted to wait to talk to you girls until after I spoke with the family therapist.”
I think the part about the therapist is dumb. The whole therapy thing seems dumb to me. Mom knows me. And she’s a good mom. I wish she’d trust herself more. “Lilla’s going to be really upset,” I say.
“Which is why I want to handle this right.”
“You should have told her you guys weren’t married anymore. I don’t think there was anything wrong with Dad being here, sleeping here, whatever. That’s your business. But making her think we were this, like . . . neat little, like you see in commercials on TV”—I turn my hands one way and then the other like I’m forming a box—“family.” I shake my head. “Not cool, Mom.”
She sighs. “In retrospect, we realize that. At the time, we thought this would make things easier for her. We were so excited; I suppose we weren’t thinking clearly. And . . . we were hoping we could make it work, Jojo. Your father and I.” She lies back to stare at the ceiling with me. “We really were.”
I think about telling her I knew Dad wasn’t going to stay. That he liked his life the way it was. Easy, simple. We worked around his schedule and what he wanted all the time. I think he thought he was doing what Mom wanted, but that wasn’t the way it was. I was here and I could watch, kind of from the outside. It’s not that I don’t think Dad loves Mom. He does. He loves her a lot more than a lot of dads I see who still live with their wives. But I get why Mom’s sad. She’s got to wonder what’s wrong with her that he doesn’t love her enough.
I guess I should feel that way, too, but I don’t. If it were Mom, it would be different. I’d cry forever if Mom left and I was here with Dad. And I guess Lilla now. Because even though Mom makes me crazy with her constant wanting to control everything I do, she and I are still a team.
I look at Mom and she’s crying. But she’s not making any sound. Tears are making wet lines down her face.
A lump comes up in my throat and my eyes sting. I don’t usually cry. It must be this virus. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say quietly. “I know you wanted him to stay here with you.”
She turns her head and leans to kiss me on my temple.
“I love you, Josephine.”
“I love you, too, Mom.” I roll over and lay my head on her shoulder. “And I won’t ever leave you. I promise.”
38
Harper
Remy kept his promise and showed up this morning before the girls got up. I didn’t tell him that Jojo had already figured out what was going on. I’m not sure why. I almost feel as if we’re drawing battle lines and I know Jojo is on my side. And I can guess whose side Georgina will be on. I’m still mulling over whether or not we need the therapist’s help to tell Georgina her father’s moving out.
When I finish my coffee and toast, Jojo still isn’t up. If she’s still not feeling well, she might sleep all day. “I’m going to the grocery store,” I tell Georgina. “Want to come with?”
She and Remy ar
e seated, side by side, across from me at the center island in the kitchen. Looking at their phones. Reading the morning news. They do it every morning unless I specifically exclude the use of iPhones at breakfast. This morning I’m happy to enjoy my coffee and not talk.
“Um . . . no thanks.” Georgina glances up at me. “I’m going to take the streetcar to the bakery. If that’s okay,” she adds.
“No temple?”
She shrugs. She’s looking at her phone again. “Dad, you see where that Roman bust was found in Scotland?”
“Did,” he answers, not looking up from his phone. “Be a while before we know if it’s authentic.”
“Decided to skip temple,” Georgina says to me. “Maybe next week.”
“I’ve got a flag football tournament next Saturday.” Remy sips his coffee, never lifting his head. “Probably be okay if you walk over yourself. Right, baby?”
That last bit is for me. It grates on my nerves that after last night he thinks he can call me baby. He’s acting as if nothing is wrong. As if nothing is about to change. For all of us. “Okay,” I say. “If you text me when you get there and when you leave.” I get up, taking my coffee mug with me. “You don’t want a ride to the bakery?”
“Nah. I’m fine.” Georgina.
“She likes the streetcar.” Remy.
I hesitate. I’ve been tiptoeing around my eldest, trying not to upset her, and I’m realizing that might not be the healthiest approach. For either of us. I need to treat her more as if she’s the daughter I’ve always had, not the daughter I’m afraid I’m going to lose again at any moment. If she were Jojo, I’d tell her to get in the car. “Come on, Georgina. You can ride a few blocks with your mother.” I walk my mug to the sink. “Ride with me there and take the streetcar home.”
Georgina sighs. “Okay. Fine.”
It doesn’t sound as if it’s fine, but it won’t hurt her to spend a few minutes alone with me.
She drains her mug and carries it to the sink. “When are you leaving?”
“Ten minutes.”
She walks out of the kitchen.
“I’m going to the grocery store,” I tell Remy. I think about offering to grab some things for him that he might want for his apartment, but then I decide he’s the one who’s leaving. He can buy his own damned groceries.
“Okay,” he answers, engrossed in something he’s reading. “I’m going to check the clothes dryer vent. See if I can find the leak. I’ll look at the girls’ sink, too. Don’t know if we need a new faucet or just some washers or something.” He sips his coffee. “Anything else you want me to do?”
Love me enough to want to stay?
I think it, but I don’t say it. “The list is on the refrigerator. Pick a repair, any repair,” I tell him, headed out of the kitchen.
Georgina and I are in the car fifteen minutes later. It’s overcast, but not cold. I ask her a couple of questions about school, but I get monosyllable answers. She got an A on her Great Gatsby paper. Her teacher said it was insightful. She likes her new friend Em; Em invited her to come over next week.
“Just drop me off on the corner of Louisiana,” she tells me as we hum along St. Charles.
“I can drop you off at the bakery. I’m in no hurry to buy paper goods and lentils.”
“I’ll walk to Magazine.”
She stares straight ahead, seeming preoccupied. Her backpack is on her lap. To carry her loaf of English muffin bread. I’m almost certain she still has a whole loaf at home; she and Remy are the only ones who eat it. I’m trying to go easy on the carbs. But I don’t say anything. She can always put it in the freezer. I get that this has become a ritual of sorts; she does it almost every Saturday.
Spotting a place to pull over a block from Louisiana, I concede and swing into the spot. “Text me when you get there?”
She cuts her eyes at me.
I ignore her. “And when you get home. I might as well run errands while I’m out. So I’ll be a little while.”
The moment the car stops rolling forward, Georgina opens the door and hops out. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” I lean forward so I can see her face as she stands beside the car, swinging her backpack onto her back. She’s wearing the North Face jacket I bought her. She seems to like it. “I love you, Georgina.”
She stands there for a moment and then leans over so we’re eye to eye. She shifts her backpack on her shoulder. She looks so solemn. “I don’t know what to say when you say that.”
“You don’t have to say anything, Georgina.” My smile is tight. A mother’s smile that’s hopeful but realistic. “See you at home later.”
Before I reach the dry cleaners, she texts me she’s at the bakery. Less than ten minutes later, she texts that she’s headed home. I’ve picked up the dry cleaning, dropped off a pair of shoes to be resoled, hit the post office, and am halfway through the grocery store when I text Remy to check the grocery list on the refrigerator for me. We keep a running list, but I forgot it this morning. I have a good idea what’s on it—the same things that are on it every week—but I check anyway.
Got the lentils, green apples, almond milk, and spinach fettuccine. Check the list on the fridge, I text Remy. Anything else?
Spicy mustard, he texts back.
“Spicy mustard, spicy mustard,” I say to myself, pushing the cart, backtracking to an aisle I already went down. I locate the mustard and toss it in the cart.
Got it, I text. Be ten more minutes here in case you think of something else
K
I check the time on my phone and text, Georgina home??
I push the cart back in the direction I’ve come. My phone in the back pocket of my jeans beeps as I’m trying to decide between two granolas, one organic, one not. Of course the organic is three dollars more a bag. Choosing the organic because it has dried blueberries in it, I toss it in the cart and check my phone.
No, Remy has texted.
I stand there staring at my phone, feeling a little disoriented.
She’s not back yet?
N
It’s been forty-five minutes since Georgina texted me she was on her way home. Even on a Saturday, it shouldn’t take her forty-five minutes to get back to our house. I call Remy.
It rings once. Twice. A third time.
“Really? You’re not going to pick up?” I say under my breath. “I know you have your phone. You just texted me.”
He picks up just as I’m about to hang up and ring him again.
“Georgina isn’t home?” I say.
“No. Which is why I texted you that she wasn’t.” His tone is equally as cool as mine.
“But she texted me forty-five minutes ago. Forty-eight, and said she was on her way.”
“Maybe she had to wait for a streetcar. You know how they are sometimes. Do you know where the plumbing tape is? The white stuff you wrap around the threads of a pipe? I think I figured out why the faucet is dripping.”
I think for a second. “Should I call her? Text her?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Remy, I’m asking what you think.”
I get one of his impatient exhalations. “Harper, it doesn’t matter what I think. You’re going to do what you want no matter what I say.”
I take a breath. I’m not going to get in an argument with him right now. I’m not going to start one. “You’re right. Ultimately I do make my own choices, but I respect your opinion, Remy. And whether I like it or not, right now, you’re getting along better with her than I am. So I’m asking you. How do you think I should respond to this?”
“Don’t call her. Don’t text her. Maybe she got off the streetcar early and she’s walking the rest of the way home. She had a lot more freedom in her life before she came here. I know she misses it.”
“Right,” I agree, pushing the cart again. She can text while she’s walking though, I think. “You’re probably right. She probably just decided to walk part of the way home. She likes walking. I’ll give
her a little while longer.” I grab a box of crackers and head for the registers. “See you shortly. I’m sure she’ll be home by the time I get there.”
But she isn’t.
“Did you call her?” I ask Remy, trying not to panic as I put down three cloth grocery bags on the counter.
He’s standing at the island, digging through a little plastic box of screws and nuts and nails. “No.”
“She should be home by now.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and call her. She doesn’t pick up. “Hey, it’s Mom,” I say when there’s a beep in my ear. “Call me back. Now, please,” I add. I wait a moment and then set the phone down on the counter and start putting groceries away. I try to keep control of my heart rate that’s threatening to ratchet up. I practice taking slow, deep breaths. After two trips to the refrigerator, I pick up my phone and text her.
You okay?
I wait. Nothing. I set down the phone and go back to the groceries. When they’re put away, and I’ve still heard nothing, I text again.
Please call or text. I’m getting worried
As I fold the bags, I watch my phone on the counter. It doesn’t light up. It doesn’t vibrate. “Can you call her?” I ask Remy quietly. “It’s been two hours since I dropped her off. She should be home.”
He looks at me.
“Please. She should be here.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls. Waits. “Hey, it’s Dad. Call me. We’re getting worried.”
“Jojo talk to her this morning?” I ask when he hangs up.
“I don’t think so. She’s still asleep.”
I go upstairs, knock lightly, and when Jojo doesn’t answer, I open the door. Her hurricane of a room is dark and she’s asleep in her bed. I close the door behind me. At Georgina’s door, I stand there for a moment before I open it. Nothing looks out of place. The room is still very bare. Her bed’s still in the middle of the room. I keep offering to help her move it to the wall. I even suggested she ask her dad if she didn’t want me to help. She seems to like it in the middle of the room.
Finding Georgina Page 28