And She Was

by Jessica Verdi

  Love,

  Mom

  The picture in my head of my formerly perfect, then slightly tarnished extended family becomes nothing more than a stock photo family in a store-bought frame. All illusion, no substance.

  I propel myself out of bed, down the hall, down the stairs. Everything’s already been cleaned up from the party. The house is spotless.

  “Ruth!” I shout, sliding in my socked feet on the polished wood floors. “William!”

  They come hurrying into the foyer, Ruth from the kitchen and William from the muck room. He’s in his boating gear.

  “Dara? What on earth …?” Ruth says, a hand to her heart. “What’s wrong?”

  I stare them down, my chest heaving. “Is it true?” I demand.

  “Is what true?” William asks.

  “Did you try to get Mellie arrested for child abuse? Did you try to take custody away from her?” I say the words clearly and distinctly, so there will be no need to repeat.

  They exchange a glance. “We didn’t realize you’ve been in contact with him,” William says, effectively telling me everything I need to know.

  “Did you drop the case? Or is it still open?”

  Ruth sighs, resigned to the truth being out now. “We did drop it, some time after the trail ran cold. That was about ten years ago.” The way she says it, so proud, it’s like she thinks I’m going to thank her for being such a reasonable, selfless human being.

  “I can’t believe you would do this to her,” I whisper. “I …” I can’t believe I didn’t know.

  “Now, Dara,” William says. “It’s not as simple as all that. Please, let’s sit and discuss this.” He holds a hand out toward the living room.

  I don’t move. I just stand there at the bottom of the fancy staircase, in my old pajamas, which I’m sure Ruth disapproves of, looking back and forth between them. Only now is it clear that all this time I had that picture in my mind of who my family might be, they had a similar picture of me. The perfect little girl who was ripped away from them. But not only do they clearly not know me at all, they’re only interested in getting to know the parts of me that fit their vision. My mother, one of the most important people in my life, is not welcome in their family portrait. Well, fine. People who would do something like they did are not welcome in mine.

  “No,” I say, trying to match William’s faux calmness. “I don’t think that would be productive.” I’ve been lied to enough. There’s no decision to be made here; I know what I need to do. “I … I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I appreciate it more than you know. You were a gap in my history for so long—” My voice breaks, betraying me. I clear my throat, raise my chin, and forge on. “And I’m grateful for the opportunity to have gotten to know you. But you have to know, you are the reason we didn’t know each other until now. You are the reason you didn’t get to see me grow up. Not Mellie.”

  Ruth sucks in a breath. “That’s not—”

  “Also,” I continue, “your politics suck. I don’t understand how people like you, who have everything”—I gesture around at the impressive foyer with its expensive furniture, fresh flowers, and one-of-a-kind artwork—“could ever fight so hard to make sure others never achieve a fraction of what you have.” I take a breath, feeling clearer than I have in ages. “Ruth, please cancel the travel arrangements. I hope it’s all still refundable. I’ll be withdrawing from the tournaments.”

  “But that’s your dream!” she says, not understanding the weight of what I’m saying.

  “It is,” I admit. “But I’ll find another way.” By the time I finish speaking, I’m already halfway up the stairs.

  The last time I ran away, I had no idea what I was doing or where I was going. This time, I know exactly where to go. Home.

  When I come back downstairs minutes later, bags packed, Ruth and William are sitting in the white upholstered chairs in the foyer, shell-shocked.

  “Good-bye,” I say. “And thank you again.” They stand up, but we make no move to hug each other.

  Ruth begins to cry. “Dara, please, don’t leave. You have to understand—the only thing we’re guilty of is trying to make sure you had a good life. That’s all.”

  By tossing my mother aside, she means.

  William, to his credit, just says, “Drive safely.”

  I nod. And then I’m out the door.

  The trip home is long. Thirteen hours due north, not including stops.

  It’s a lot lonelier doing the drive alone, without Sam taking pictures or tapping at his Viking game from the passenger seat. I wonder what his bus ride home was like: if he was missing me too, or if he made friends.

  When the old factory with its Believe wall comes into sight, I pull into the turnoff and grab a racquet and ball. I laugh at the simplistic joy that comes with hitting the ball against the concrete with no fancy court, no demanding trainer. I hope this place never gets torn down and turned into a Target or an office park. It’s special. I don’t linger long, though. I have somewhere to be.

  I’m just over the North Carolina border when I have to stop for gas. While the tank fills, I open Mellie’s last email and hit “reply.”

  Thank you, I write. It’s the entirety of my message. There will be more to say later.

  Then I text Catherine. Did you know?

  She responds while I’m at the register paying for a prepackaged mozzarella and tomato sandwich and a bottle of water. It’s clear she’s spoken to her parents, because when she does text back she doesn’t bother acting confused. Yes. I didn’t agree with it, but I knew. I’m sorry.

  I go back to my car to eat before getting back on the road. The sandwich tastes like rubber and for a brief moment makes me miss the Pembrokes and their gourmet meals. But I’d rather live on gas station food for the rest of my life than make the kind of compromises they were asking me to. As I eat, I Google Marcus Hogan. There’s not a ton of information available—this was before the days of documenting absolutely everything online—but I do manage to pull up some old ranking lists and a couple of images. Mom wasn’t just a player—she was good. I’m surprised to find that I’m proud.

  By the time I hit Virginia, I really have to pee. The bathroom at the next rest stop is filthy and has no soap, but the lady at the next sink over lets me borrow her hand sanitizer.

  These thirteen-plus hours feel like forty. But I keep reminding myself that with each mile I drive, I’m closer to Mom. To Sam too. Even if he is with Sarah again, he’s still my best friend. It keeps me going.

  Somewhere in West Virginia, I get another email from Mellie. I pull over to read it.

  To: acelove6@email.com

  From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

  June 28 (5:49 PM)

  Subject: Niya

  Dear Dara,

  You’re welcome. Thank you for listening.

  Sam is home. He came home a few nights ago, but I didn’t know because I’ve been avoiding Niya. She’s been calling, wanting to know what’s going on, and I did what I do best. I hid. I’m not proud of it.

  But I sent you that email last night, and woke up today feeling different. Free. You know everything. Finally. The Pembrokes know where we are, but it’s too late for them to cause us any more damage. My fears aren’t quite so scary anymore.

  So I called Niya today and asked her to come over. She brought Sam with her—that’s how I learned he was back. He sat there beside his mother as I told her everything. About me, about my past.

  She was surprised, to say the least. Sam hadn’t told her anything. But she listened. She was hurt that I hadn’t trusted her, but she understood why I’d felt like no one could know. She didn’t understand much about gender-identity issues, but she asked questions. And when the visit came to an end, she gave me a hug and thanked me for telling her.

  In a strange way, you finding that box and running away was the best thing that could have happened. It forced me to start living the life I’d always intended before the Pembrokes messed i
t all up.

  So thank you for that.

  I love you.

  Love,

  Mom

  Okay, no more delays. I’ve never been more ready to be home.

  It’s dark when I finally make it back to the little yellow house. It looks a lot smaller than I remembered.

  Mom’s car is in the driveway. She must still be on a break from work.

  At the sound of the rolling wheels of my suitcase on the front path, her silhouette appears in the doorway.

  “Dara?” she gasps through the screen in the door.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, shocked that my voice sounds so gravelly. I haven’t done much talking today.

  She runs outside and throws her arms around me. I drop my bags, and we stand like that, embracing each other, for a long time. This hug is familiar and comforting, like a perfectly worn-in sweater.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  She shakes her head; I feel it rather than see it. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  After everything we’ve been through, all the crap falls away with those few short sentences.

  “I was just about to make some tea,” she says, stepping back a bit and wiping her blotchy eyes. “Would you like some?”

  I study her for a moment. She’s the mom I’ve always known—long brown ponytail, tired eyes, enigmatic smile—but I understand those features in an entirely new way now. She wanted long hair for so long, and now that she has it, she no longer needs to hide behind it. The lines around her eyes are evidence of her pain, her perseverance. Her smile doesn’t hold her secrets—it holds her story.

  “Tea sounds great,” I say at last. “Can we order a pizza too? I’m starving.”

  She smiles. “Extra spicy peppers?”

  “Always.”

  We hug again.

  “I missed you so much, Mom.”

  “Oh, honey. Me too.” She takes my suitcase handle and we walk inside. Everything is just as neat and clean as always—except for the absurd amount of hot sauce bottles covering the kitchen counters. There must be close to a hundred here, all different heat levels and brands.

  “What …?” I look at her, bewildered.

  She shrugs sheepishly. “It was how I coped. I know it’s pretty manic, but it helped me to take action, looking forward to the day you came back and we could try all these together. I even found coupons for some of them.”

  A laugh bubbles up, expelling any lingering heaviness. Mom worked through her depression by buying the world’s largest supply of hot sauce. I can’t think of any better sign that she really is okay.

  I call in the pizza order, then lug my suitcase down the hall and dump all the clothes into the washing machine—even the ones I washed at the Pembrokes’. It feels important to get a clean start.

  I consider that as I shower and dress, and as I curl up on my little bed, a towel wrapped around my hair. There are more things I need to say to Mom before we can fully move forward.

  A knock sounds at my door.

  “Come in,” I call.

  Mom stands there, holding up two boxes of tea. I point to the green tea with ginger. She turns to go.

  “Hey, Mom, can you come here for a minute?” I sit up and pat the bed beside me.

  She hesitates as if she isn’t sure she’s going to like what I’m about to say. But then she comes and sits, setting the boxes of tea on my nightstand.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to understand why you don’t like the Pembrokes,” I tell her.

  “They’re complicated people,” she says with a sigh. “But they’re not evil. They really did think they were doing the right thing.”

  That reminds me of the political fund-raiser. I tell her about it, and she doesn’t seem particularly surprised.

  “I know this is the last thing you’d expect me to say,” she says, “but I do hope that eventually you’ll be able to have some sort of relationship with them.”

  I shake my head. “No way. Not unless they apologize.”

  “Even if they don’t.”

  “Mom!”

  She smiles sadly. “They’re your family, for better or worse.”

  “Yeah, more like worse.” But the second I say it, I remember what Mom wrote about the Hogans. The Pembrokes, for all their faults, did give Catherine the farm, even though they didn’t understand why she’d want to be in that line of work. And they were willing to give me anything I wanted without explicitly asking for anything in return. Mom’s parents never gave her anything—not even their love. “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you ever think about trying to track down your family?”

  She nods. “I looked them up this week.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. All that reminiscing made me realize I’d shut them out of my thoughts for probably a little too long. Not that I have any interest in reconciling with them. But I realized I had no idea if they were even still alive.”

  “Are they?”

  “All except my father. He died four years ago. Heart attack.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I’m sorry doesn’t feel quite right. “Are you all right?” is what I end up going with.

  “Yes. I am.”

  The teakettle begins to whistle in the kitchen. “What about the rest of them?” I ask. “Do you ever think of reaching out? You write pretty good emails …”

  She smiles at that. “Maybe my sister, Joanna. Someday. I don’t know if I’m ready yet.”

  “Maybe Kristen too? And Kelly Ann?” I ask.

  “Maybe, yeah.”

  There’s something else I want to say about Mom’s emails, but the teakettle won’t let us ignore its piercing wail any longer. Wordlessly and in tandem, we get up, go to the kitchen, and make our tea—hers with sugar, mine with lemon. We sit at the table with our mugs and sip slowly.

  Then Mom remembers the hot sauce. She stands up and grabs one of the bottles—Devil’s Nectar—and two spoons. She holds them up, eyebrows raised.

  “Bring it,” I say.

  She pours a little in each and we clink spoons and down it. “Oh my God,” I rasp, coughing. “That’s hot.”

  Mom’s eyes are watering, and she waves a hand in front of her face as if to cool it down. “That’s an eleven.”

  “An eleven?!” It’s hard to speak. My tongue is on fire. I take a gulp of tea. “We’ve never had an eleven.”

  “I think that’s the hottest hot sauce I’ve ever had in my life,” she says, getting up and sticking her face in the freezer.

  I start to laugh, and before long we’re both in hysterics. “Mom,” I say, when the giggles die down and she’s rejoined me at the table. “Do you ever think of publishing your story?”

  Her eyes bulge. “What?”

  “You love writing, and you’re really good at it. And your story is … important. It helped me understand. It might help other people understand too.”

  She sits back in her chair. “I’ve never thought about it. My impulse is still to keep everything private, after all this time.”

  “But you said you’d wanted to live openly. Now you can.”

  “I guess you’re right.” She blinks away tears again, and this time they’re not from the hot sauce. “So what’s going on with tennis?” she asks.

  I look up at her. It’s an obvious attempt at a change of subject, but still. She’s waiting for my answer, actually interested in what I’m going to say. She’s not closed off. There’s no wall. “I’m going to withdraw from the tournaments. I don’t want the Pembrokes’ help with this. I want to make it on my own.”

  She nods. “And you will.”

  “I was thinking of looking into application deadlines for the spring term …”

  Her hand flies to her mouth. “Really?”

  “All right, don’t get too excited. I figured I’d try it for a semester, see how it goes. If I could get a scholarship, it really would make the most sense, financially. I wouldn’
t have to depend on anyone.” Mom’s expression is so happy, I almost don’t want to lay my ultimatum on her. “But I’ll only do it if you practice with me sometimes.”

  “I will. I promise.” She takes my hand again. “I admire you, Dara. This journey you’ve been on, your determination to find your own way. Even when you’ve been knocked down, you keep fighting. That’s why you’re going to be a champion someday.”

  For the first time since I’ve been home, I start to cry. “Thanks, Mom.”

  The doorbell rings.

  She grins. “Pizza’s here.”

  The next morning, I do four things.

  First, I go for a long run.

  Then I make some calls. The first is to Monique to let her know I’ve moved home. She sounds a little put off, but not too torn up about it; I suspect she’s going to miss the paycheck more than she’ll miss me. Then I call Bob and resume our training schedule. He actually woots when I tell him. I text Mary to fill her in, and she texts back a thumbs-up emoji. I think I’ll bring them both dark chocolate on Tuesday.

  I call the juice stand too, and get my job back. Arielle’s making me start at the bottom of the seniority ladder again, but it’s better than nothing.

  When the calls are done, I withdraw from the tournaments. It hurts my heart a little to do so—I was so close—but it’s the right thing. Mom did promise she’d take me to get a passport this week, though. And she’s going to renew her own too—she told me last night she’s never had a passport with the correct gender on it. But first she’s going to take that long-awaited final step and update her birth certificate.

  Finally, I put on a T-shirt, my favorite leggings, and my bravest face, and get ready to go next door.

  Mom’s in the kitchen, organizing the canned foods in the pantry. “Where are you off to?” she asks.

  “I need to go see Sam.”

  “Why do you look so nervous?”

  I sigh. So much for the brave face. “Things between Sam and me have gotten … complicated.”

  She tries to hide her smile. It doesn’t work.