There’s one new message from Mellie.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
June 24 (9:59 AM)
Subject: Celeste
Dear Dara,
After I left home, my first instinct was to go to Kristen’s house and ask if I could stay there while I figured things out, but we hadn’t been close in years and I was scared of being turned away. So I went to the bus station. The next bus was headed to Philadelphia. I bought a ticket. Philly sounded as good a place as any.
I still hadn’t showered after the day’s practice, and I hoped the people sitting around me hadn’t noticed. Seven hours on a cramped bus with strangers is bad enough without being sweaty and smelly too. But I couldn’t worry about it too much; I had more pressing things to figure out, like what I was going to do when the bus reached its destination.
Before that afternoon, my plan for the future had been to get a job in town, go to community college, and eventually transfer to a bigger school where I could play tennis. I’d tried to get a scholarship right out of high school, but my grades hadn’t been good enough. A smile of satisfaction ghosted across my lips when I thought of how my father had already put down a nonrefundable deposit on my first semester at the community college. But the glimmer of levity faded fast.
As I watched the road blur outside the bus window, I came to a decision. I was going to make whatever sacrifices I had to, do whatever it took, to make my family regret the way they’d treated me. We’d reconnect in the future, after I was a successful, rich tennis star, and they’d realize that all this time I had been better than them, not the other way around. They’d beg me to forgive them, and I’d be the one with the power this time.
The image fueled my determination and helped ease the enormity of what had just happened. This won’t be forever. I’ll show them.
Determination quickly became an obsession.
I had a little money saved, so I used it to rent out the cheapest room I could find. There was no kitchen—just a sink and a microwave—and the shared bathroom was down the hall, but it was fine enough. I took the first job I was offered—a gig at a shoe store. My days were spent hauling shoe boxes from the stock room to the sales floor and back again. After rent and food, the rest of my money went to a cheap membership at the YMCA. I played as many pickup games as I could get there, and eventually was noticed by the right people. I was offered a job teaching adult beginner tennis clinics at a swankier, better-equipped athletic facility across town. That led to an opportunity to train with a coach. Finally, though I was still struggling to make ends meet, I had enough flexibility to start playing in tournaments.
A year after leaving home, my solitary goal was still to be the best. To achieve higher levels of success, to prove my parents wrong. I didn’t stop to think about anything else, including my own happiness. I was now playing professionally—I wasn’t winning any titles, but I was ranked, my name was out there, and I was making some money—but I hadn’t heard a whisper from any of my family members. No matter. I kept pushing.
The result was that my body was in the best shape of my life and my mind was in the worst.
The suicidal thoughts came back, louder and more insistent now. I’d started to shave with a straight razor, because it was the closest shave I could get, and I began to be careless with it, shaving rapidly, flinging the razor around my face with minimal focus. During times like these, a small part of me acknowledged that I was almost hoping the blade would slip and slice open a jugular vein and I’d be dead without ever fully having had to make the decision to be so. The thought actually brightened my mood temporarily.
It was in the midst of all this that I met Celeste. Your biological mother. The love of my life.
We met at a Lady Foot Locker, of all places—I’d been having a particularly difficult day and, in a moment of weakness, had wandered in to admire the display of women’s tennis shoes. Celeste was sitting on one of the padded benches, trying on a new pair of running shoes. They were lime green with neon-pink laces and a pink Nike swoop. Colorful—just, as I would learn, like her.
“Those are nice,” I said without thinking. I usually kept to myself when I went into women’s stores—I always felt like the childless old man at the playground: creepy and completely out of place. But I was tired, and my filter was down.
She looked up, and her smile beamed new life into me. She was beautiful. Chin-length blonde hair, sparkling eyes, and dimples that looked like they’d been carved by Michelangelo himself.
“You think so?” she asked. “I didn’t know if they were too much.”
I shook my head, and felt my face contort into the unfamiliar stretches of a smile. “If you don’t get them, I will.” I immediately wanted to clamp a hand over my mouth and take the words back. I never said things like that, even in jest. I didn’t even let myself think things like that too often. Transitioning wasn’t any more an option now than it had been when I lived with my parents. Tennis was the most important thing. I couldn’t lose sight of that.
But Celeste just giggled and said, “You’ve convinced me. Thanks.” She held out her hand and I shook it. “I’m Celeste.”
“I’m Marcus.”
“What are you doing in a Lady Foot Locker, Marcus?” She was teasing, not accusatory.
I swallowed. “Looking for … a gift.”
“For your girlfriend?”
I shook my head. “No. No girlfriend.”
“Glad to hear it.” She bit her lip. “Do you go to U Penn?”
We weren’t too far from the university’s campus. “No. Do you?”
She nodded. “I’m a sophomore.” We were the same age.
“What are you studying?”
“I haven’t declared a major yet.” She gave an unconcerned shrug. “I’ve just been taking a bunch of different courses and trying to figure out what I want to do. My parents want me to be a lawyer, so I’ll probably end up doing that.”
“Right.” I didn’t know what else to say—I didn’t have much to offer in the “parents caring about your future” department. The lull in conversation shifted into a full-on silence, and I knew I should duck out before I said something else stupid just to fill the gap. “Well, I’d better be—”
I jerked a thumb toward the exit and began to turn that way, when Celeste said, “I was going to grab some kimchi mandu at the Korean place next door after this. Any interest in joining me?”
I stared at her. Did this gorgeous, perfect ray of light just ask me out? I’d gone on a couple of dates since living in Philly, but I hadn’t had half the connection with those women that I felt with Celeste after one minute. If anyone had been watching, they wouldn’t see anything particularly noteworthy: a guy and a girl engaged in a few smiles and some small talk. But the flips of my stomach, the sweat on my palms, the frenzy of my heartbeat were telling a very different story. I knew if I said yes, this one was going to stick.
The thought terrified me. I hadn’t been truly close with another person since Kristen. And she and I had never been more than friends, no matter how much I had wished for it. There were so many places—emotionally and physically—we hadn’t gone. I was nineteen now. An adult, for all intents and purposes, though I hadn’t yet had my first kiss. I didn’t know what having a girlfriend entailed, not really, but I knew it would be big and exciting … and very tricky.
This angel in front of me did not deserve to be pulled into my web of shit.
Say no, I lectured myself. Say no.
But Celeste had me caught in her smile, and all I could possibly say was, “I love spicy food.”
Love,
Mom
I follow my grandparents’ car into their driveway a little after eleven a.m. I’m tired and hungry, and can’t quite believe I’m at my new home.
This house is different still from the ivy-covered Cherry Hill house and from the sprawling white farmhouse. It’s imposing and pristine, with tall columns and curved sta
ircases. It looks like it should be the setting for a Civil War–era debutante ball. The property, William tells me, used to be a plantation. That information doesn’t make me feel great, but I try to remember that there are no slaves here now, and there haven’t been for a long time, and the Pembrokes didn’t have anything to do with it when there were. I hope.
“I noticed you have an accent, William,” I say as they show me around the house. “Did you live in the South before moving to New Jersey?”
“Very astute! I grew up in Georgia, and lived there until Yale Law came calling.”
“Is your family still there?”
“My parents are gone now, but I do have one brother who lives outside of Atlanta. You’ll meet him someday.”
“Meet him again,” Ruth corrects.
“Yes, of course. You did meet him when you were a baby.”
“Oh.” I nod.
We climb one of the staircases. They point out a shiny bathroom that they say is all mine, the laundry room, and the upstairs sitting room.
“And this,” Ruth says, opening another door, “is your room.”
It’s like something out of a magazine. Windows on two sides, four-poster bed, enough space to hold a cardio kickboxing class, and French doors leading onto a private terrace. The view overlooks the Harbor River. I run my fingertips over the intricately embroidered white duvet, the gauzy curtains.
“Of course, we can change the décor if it’s not to your tastes,” she says.
I shake my head. “It’s perfect. Thank you. For everything.”
“We’ll leave you to get settled in,” William says. “Lunch will be in the dining room at noon. And then”—he gets a gleam in his eye—“what do you say to going to look at the tennis court?”
I grin. “Can’t wait.”
Lunch ends up being more of a “luncheon.” Even though it’s just the three of us, it’s a sit-down meal in the formal dining room. Ruth and William are already seated when I arrive—William at the head of the long table, Ruth just to his right. Glistening white place settings rest before them, though there’s no food on the table. The chandelier is lit, as are two tall candles in the center of the table.
“I’m sorry; I thought I was on time,” I say, sitting quickly in the seat across from Ruth.
“You are right on time. Not to worry!” she says warmly.
I’m still wearing my outfit from earlier in the day—my standard leggings and tank, plus a hoodie I threw on because the central air in this house seems to be cranked up to museum levels—but both Ruth and William have changed. William is wearing a suit jacket and Ruth is in a maroon short-sleeved lace top. Her makeup looks freshly reapplied too. They don’t say anything about my appearance, but I’m suddenly feeling like I’ve done everything wrong. I zip the hoodie up to my collarbone.
A maid in a gray uniform serves us a soup course first. I never knew soup was supposed to be a “course”—on the occasions we’ve made it at home, it’s always been the main event.
The bits of vegetable and shrimp slide down my throat and warm me. “Wow, this is so good,” I say, trying not to slurp. “Do you have lunch like this every day? Or is it a special occasion?”
They laugh, as if I’ve said the cleverest, most delightful thing in the world. “Both!” William says. “We’ve worked hard for the things we have, and we don’t think there’s anything wrong in enjoying them. But today is absolutely a special occasion as well. You being here with us, Dara …” He gets a little choked up, and takes a moment to collect himself, patting his cloth napkin against his mouth. “Well, it’s a dream come true.”
“Thank you,” I say. “It is for me too. I’ve always wanted a big family, but never knew it was a possibility for me.”
Ruth and William clasp hands on top of the tablecloth.
The main course is a spring risotto with asparagus and shelled edamame. The texture is perfect, but the flavor is a little bland. “Do you have any hot sauce?” I ask the maid as she comes around to refill our glasses of iced tea.
Ruth answers for her. “No, we don’t. That stuff is all sodium, and it completely defeats the chef’s intent for the meal. Is your risotto not to your liking?”
“Oh, no, it’s delicious,” I say quickly. “I just prefer foods with a bit of a kick. It’s not a problem.” I fork another bite in my mouth to prove it.
After a dessert of raspberry sorbet, William and Ruth give me a tour of the grounds, culminating with the tennis court. I assumed the court would be nice. I did not, however, expect to be stepping onto the most exquisite home court I’ve ever seen. It’s a regulation-size hard court with a blue acrylic surface, a ball machine, a locker room stocked with racquets and balls, and even a few rows of padded stadium-type seats for spectators.
“What do you think?” Ruth asks, and I turn to find both my grandparents looking at me hopefully, as if they’re praying this will meet my standards and I’ll want to stay.
“I think I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life,” I say, and they beam in satisfaction. “Would you mind if I practiced for a little while?”
“Please do!” William says. “We’ll leave you to it. Do you remember how to get back to the house from here?”
“I think so. But I’ll call you if I get lost.”
I select a racquet from the locker room. I know I could run back to the house for my own stuff, but I’ve found my own slice of heaven and I don’t want to leave it yet. I’ll bring my tennis bag down here tomorrow.
I serve one ball, then two, three, over the net, warming up my shoulder. I bounce on my feet, testing the give of the court. I stretch. Run circles around the net.
And then, my racquet in one hand and a brand-new ball in the other, I position myself square in front of the ball machine.
The rest of the day passes in a blissful blur.
The heavy duvet weighs down on me pleasantly. Airy, translucent fabric drapes from the posts rising from the bed’s four corners. The sound of lapping water drifts in through the open French doors.
My first morning at my grandparents’.
I sit up amidst the numerous pillows, feeling more rested and alert than I have in a long time. Yesterday’s stint on the court was amazing, and dinner last night was delicious. I’d put on the lavender dress before meeting Ruth and William in the dining room at seven; they seemed pleased by that. And the steak was cooked so perfectly that it only took one tentative bite before any guilt I’d felt after spending the weekend at Catherine’s farm sanctuary fled my thoughts.
There are no new email notifications on my phone. I choose to take that as a good sign, that Mellie spent the night actually sleeping. But there’s a part of me that wonders if she’s okay.
I get dressed in practice clothes and go downstairs. Ruth is at the kitchen table with a steaming mug of coffee, reading a book on her tablet.
“Good morning,” I say, pouring myself a glass of water.
“Good morning, Dara. Did you sleep all right?”
“More than all right. That bed is really comfortable.”
“I’m so glad to hear that!”
I open the fridge and take out two eggs, then put a pan on the stove to heat.
“You don’t have to do that,” Ruth says, standing. “Let Penelope fix breakfast for you. She can make anything you like. Penelope!” she calls loudly from the kitchen doorway.
Can she make a bottle of hot sauce appear out of thin air? I like my eggs spicy. “Oh no, that’s all right. I’m used to cooking for myself. I don’t mind at all.”
Ruth’s lips thin, and she watches disapprovingly as I crack and scramble the eggs, but she doesn’t press. “Your grandfather took the boat out early this morning,” she says, “but he asked me to let you know that he’s arranged some meetings with the three tennis pros at the country club beginning at one o’clock this afternoon.”
I blink. “He did?”
She picks up on my confusion. “You said you work with a trainer, correct?
Or you need to? There are some very talented people who work at our club. I’ve taken a lesson here and there, and I’m always so impressed by what they can do. We thought maybe you’d like to choose one of them to train with.”
“Wow. That’s so nice. Thank you!”
Ruth steps closer as I push the eggs around the pan. “We meant what we said, Dara. Whatever you need. We want you to be happy here.”
“In that case …” I say.
“Yes?”
“I need to sign up for those tournaments. The deadline for the Virginia one is tomorrow, I think.”
“Let’s do that right now, then!” She snaps into action, opening a new browser window on her tablet, propping up the device so the screen is facing out, and positioning two of the kitchen chairs around it.
I laugh as I plate my eggs and bring them over to the table.
Signing up for this summer’s tournaments in Virginia, South Carolina, and North Carolina takes far less time than I feel like it should. I already have a player identification number from my time on the junior circuit, so with only a few clicks and a few entry forms, I’m registered. After all these years of struggling, striving, it’s all disconcertingly simple. No choruses singing, no parades, no confetti poppers.
But there is a light ignited in my chest. A newfound feeling of rightness. Odds are I won’t win any of these tournaments—you can’t get to your destination without taking the journey first. But at least I’ve finally boarded the train. And Ruth is so excited to help me do this—it feels unspeakably good, having a parent figure get behind my dream.
Later, at the country club, a sprawling place where everyone seems to wear the same crisp white clothes and speak at the same low volume, I meet Keith, Debbie, and Monique, the local tennis pros. I get to do a mini-lesson with each. Ruth says it’s entirely up to me who I go with, and to pick the one I like best.
I rule out Keith right away. He’s an incredible player, and I do think he would be a good coach, but having another male coach in his fifties would remind me too much of Bob. Training with a woman who’s actually played on the women’s circuit would not only open up a whole new view of the game for me, it would be enough of a separation from my years with Bob that it would keep the guilt at bay. I hope, anyway.
And She Was Page 20