by Sarah Dessen
And then she patted the doorjamb twice and was gone again. I looked back at my cupcakes, noting that somehow Esther had remembered that they were the one thing I’d bought, on impulse, all those weeks ago. I unwrapped them, pulled one out, and took a bite. It was too rich, the icing sticky. But weirdly enough, it did match the coffee perfectly.
Chapter
EIGHTEEN
‘Are you sure about this?’ Heidi asked, for about the millionth time as she stood in the open door. ‘Because I can probably still –’
‘Heidi.’ I shifted Isby to my other hip. ‘Go.’
‘But it just seems so wrong! If anyone should miss this, it’s me. It’s not like I haven’t been to –’
‘Go,’ I repeated.
‘Look, if I find someone there who can relieve you, I’ll just send them –’
I narrowed my eyes, shooting her the best cold bitch look I could muster. She recoiled slightly, and stepped out onto the porch.
‘Okay, fine,’ she said. ‘I’m going.’
I stood there, watching, as she started down the steps. After much debate, she’d selected a long, coral-colored dress with spaghetti straps. It had looked strange on the hanger – too plain, the color odd – but once on, she was a total knockout. All the more reason not to wear the Baby-Björn over it, which had been her original plan, as she’d never found a babysitter.
‘I’m fine,’ I’d assured her, hours ago, when I volunteered. ‘I don’t want to go to the prom, I told you that.’
‘But it’s your one chance!’ She sighed, looking at Isby, who was on the bedroom floor between us on her little play gym, kicking her feet at the ladybug hanging overhead. ‘I just hate how all this turned out for you.’
‘I’m really okay,’ I said. She studied me, doubtful. I said, ‘I am.’
Weirdly enough, this was kind of true. Even with my morning of double rejections. Even though I’d walked my new bike home, instead of riding it, as I just was not up for another bruise to my shins, elbows, or ego. Even after I’d taken that violet dress out of my room and laid it across Heidi’s bed, and slipped on my sweats and a tank top, dressing down just as everyone else began dressing up. In some ways, maybe this was what I’d done back in May, my first time around. But it was also totally different.
I realized now why Maggie was so sure I’d be leaving with more than a bike at the end of the summer. Because it was obvious, this true difference in me now: I had these experiences, these tales, more of this life. So maybe it wasn’t the fairy tale. But those stories weren’t real anyway. Mine were.
Once Heidi was gone, I carried Isby out to the deck, holding her up so she could see the water. There were still people out on the beach, soaking up the last of the daylight, while others were already out for their evening walks, proceeding past in couples, or groups, dogs and children running out ahead or lagging behind. We watched for a while, then headed back inside, where I heard someone knocking at the door.
As I passed the kitchen table, I saw Heidi’s phone, sitting right next to the saltshaker. She’d missed two calls – whoops – before realizing and doubling back for it. When I pulled the door open, holding the phone out with my other hand, I saw it wasn’t Heidi after all. It was my mother.
‘Hi, Auden,’ she said. ‘Can I come in?’
In response, Isby let out a squawk. My mom looked at the baby, then at me. ‘Sure,’ I said, then realized I needed to step back to make room for this to actually happen. ‘Of course.’
I retreated, she advanced, and then, somehow, I was shutting the door behind me and shoving Heidi’s phone into my back pocket before following her as she walked, slowly, through the foyer and toward the kitchen. I wasn’t sure what it was about her that was so jarring, especially since she looked just the same: dark hair piled on her head, black skirt and tank top, the onyx necklace that hung right at her collarbone, emphasizing its sharpness. But still, something was different.
‘So,’ I said slowly, shifting Isby back to my other hip. ‘What are you doing here?’
My mom turned and looked at me. Under the brighter lights of the kitchen, I saw she looked tired, even kind of sad. ‘I’ve been worried about you. Ever since our last conversation. I kept telling myself I was just being silly, but then…’
She trailed off, and I realized how rare this was, her using my dad’s old trick. My mom never liked to leave any of her meaning in another person’s hands. ‘But then,’ I repeated.
‘I came anyway,’ she finished. ‘Call it a mother’s prerogative. I wonder if your dad and Heidi can spare a cup of coffee?’
‘Of course,’ I said, walking over to the cupboard to pull out a mug. I was trying to reach up to get one and manage Isby, who had suddenly decided to go all squirmy on me, when I looked over at my mom, who was watching me with a curious expression. ‘Do you think you could –’
‘Oh,’ she said. Then she sat up straighter, as if about to be graded on something, and held out her hands. ‘Certainly.’
I handed Isby over, feeling my mom’s fingers brush mine as she left my hands for hers. Before I turned back to get the coffee, it struck me how strange it was to see my mother with a baby. She looked awkward sitting there, her arms bent at the elbow, studying Isby’s face with a clinical expression, as if she was a puzzle or riddle. In turn, Isby stared back at her, googly eyed, moving her little hands in circles, around and around again. Still, when I slid the coffee in front of her a few moments later, I stood at her side, prepared to take over. But she kept her eyes on the baby, so I sat down instead.
‘She’s very cute,’ she said finally. ‘Looks a little like you did at this age.’
‘Really?’
My mom nodded. ‘It’s the eyes. They’re just like your father’s.’
I looked at Isby, who seemed to be not at all worried about being held by a stranger, much less one who was clearly somewhat uncomfortable. As far as she knew, everyone she met had her best interest at heart.
‘I didn’t mean to worry you,’ I said to my mom now. ‘I’ve just… there’s just been a lot going on.’
‘I could tell.’ She eased Isby into a seated position, picking up her coffee with her other hand. ‘But I still got worried, when in that last call, you started asking about the divorce. You sounded so different.’
‘Different how?’ I asked.
She considered this for a minute. Then she said, ‘The word that comes to mind is younger, actually. Although for the life of me, I can’t explain why that is.’
It made sense to me, but I didn’t say so. Instead, I reached out, taking one of Isby’s fat fingers and squeezing it. She looked at me, then back at my mom.
‘The truth is, I thought I was losing you,’ she said, more to Isby than to me. ‘When you came down here, to your father and Heidi, and made all these friends. And then with the argument we had about the dorms… I suppose I’d just gotten comfortable thinking we were on the same page. And then, suddenly, we weren’t. It was very strange. Almost lonely.’
Almost, I thought. Out loud I said, ‘Just because we don’t see eye to eye on everything doesn’t mean we can’t be close.’
‘True,’ she agreed. ‘But I suppose it was just very jarring for me. To see you changing so quickly. It was like you had this whole world of traditions and language I didn’t understand, and there wasn’t a place in it for me.’
She was still looking at Isby as she said this – face to her face, her hands around the baby’s waist – as if these words were meant for her ears alone. ‘I know the feeling,’ I said.
‘Do you?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah. I do.’
Now, she turned, looking at me. ‘I could not bear,’ she said slowly, making sure each word was clear, ‘to think that a choice I made in my life had somehow ruined yours. That would be unthinkable for me.’
I thought of us that night on the phone, the way her voice had softened suddenly, when I’d brought up the divorce. My mother had always had her cold, hard shell, thi
s brittle armor she put up between her and everyone else. But maybe, all along, she’d seen it differently. That I was not outside, banging to get in, but in there with her, protected and safe, giving her all the more reason to stay that way.
‘You didn’t ruin my life,’ I told her. ‘I just wish we’d talked more.’
‘About the divorce?’
‘About everything.’
She nodded, and for a moment, we just sat there, both of us watching Isby, who was studying her feet. Then she said, ‘That’s never been my strong suit. The emotional talking thing.’
‘I know,’ I agreed. She looked at me. ‘It wasn’t mine either. But I kind of got a crash course this summer.’
‘Really,’ she said.
‘Yeah.’ I took in a breath. ‘It’s not that hard, actually.’
‘Well.’ She swallowed. ‘Maybe you can teach me sometime.’
I smiled at her. I’d just reached to put my hand over hers, feeling it warm beneath mine, when I felt Heidi’s phone buzz in my back pocket.
‘Shoot,’ I said, pulling it out. ‘I better get this.’
‘Go ahead,’ she replied, sitting back and resettling Isby on her lap. ‘We’re fine.’
I got to my feet, then hit TALK without checking the ID. ‘Hello?’
‘Heidi?’
The fact that my dad didn’t recognize my voice said something, although I wasn’t sure I wanted to think about what, exactly. I considered just hanging up, taking the coward’s way out. But instead I said, ‘No. It’s Auden.’
‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘Hi there.’
‘Hi,’ I said. I looked at my mom, who was watching me, then turned my back, starting into the foyer. It still seemed too close, though, so I headed upstairs. ‘Um, Heidi’s not here. She left her phone by accident when she went to the Beach Bash.’
It was very quiet on the line, so quiet that I had to wonder why there is interference or static only you really want to hear what the other person is saying. ‘Well,’ he said finally. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m okay,’ I told him. ‘Busy.’
‘I figured. I’ve left you some messages.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m assuming you’re angry at me.’
‘No,’ I said, going into the bedroom, where my purple dress was still lying across the bed. I picked it up, carrying it to the closet. ‘I’ve just been working some things out.’
‘And I, as well.’ He coughed again. ‘Look, I know you’re there with Heidi, hearing her side of things –’
‘Heidi wants you to come home.’
‘That’s what I want, too,’ he said. ‘But it’s just not that simple.’
I pushed the dresses down the closet rod, the hangers clacking against each other, and stuffed the purple dress back in. Instead of shutting it, though, I kept moving through the line, looking at the other things there. I asked, ‘Then what is it?’
‘What?’
I pulled another black dress out, this one with a pleated skirt, then shoved it back. ‘You keep saying that, how it’s not simple. So tell me what it is, then.’
I could feel his surprise, tangible, which I guess shouldn’t have been that shocking itself. He was used to me chalking up whatever decisions he made to a peculiar kind of logic, all his own. It excused so much: it excused everything. He was a writer, he was moody, he was selfish. He needed his sleep, he needed his space, he needed his time. If he’d kept himself apart from the rest of the world, these things would have been just quirky annoyances, nothing more. But that was just the thing. He did involve other people. He reached out, drew them close. He made children with them, who then also could not separate themselves, whether they were babies or almost adults. You couldn’t just pick and choose at will when someone depended on you, or loved you. It wasn’t like a light switch, easy to shut on or off. If you were in, you were in. Out, you were out. To me, it didn’t seem complicated at all. In fact, it was the simplest thing in the world.
‘See,’ my dad said now, ‘this is what I meant when I said you were angry. You’ve heard Heidi talking, and you’ve only gotten one side of the story.’
‘That’s not why I’m upset with you,’ I told him, pushing more dresses aside. There was something so satisfying in the sound of the hangers clacking, all those colors blurring past. Pink, blue, red, orange, yellow. Each one like a shell, a skin, a different way to be, even if only for a day.
‘Then what is it?’ he asked.
Black, green, black, polka dot. ‘It’s just,’ I said, ‘you have the opportunity for a second chance here.’
‘A second chance,’ he repeated.
‘Yeah,’ I said. Short-sleeved, long-sleeved, narrow skirt, full. ‘But you won’t even take it. You’d rather just quit.’
He was quiet, the only sound the hangers sliding. I was almost to the end now, the choices narrowing to few, then fewer still. ‘Is that what you think?’ he said slowly. ‘That I’m quitting on you?’
‘Not on me,’ I said.
‘On who, then?’
And then, suddenly, there it was. A simple black dress with tiny beads hanging from the skirt, matching those along the neckline. A dancing dress, a flapper dress. The perfect dress, the one I’d been looking for all along. And as I stared at it, I found something else as well. The answer to his question, and the reason, I realized suddenly, why this summer had brought so much of this to the surface.
‘Isby,’ I told him.
When I said her name, I saw her face. Squawking, cooing, wailing, drooling. Sleeping, wakeful, fussy, content. The first day I’d seen her, asleep in Heidi’s arms, and how she’d been only seconds ago, her eyes following me as I left the room. All these little parts of her, just the very beginning of who she would and could be. It was early yet. She had everything ahead of her, and more than anything, I hoped that she wouldn’t need a lot of second chances. That maybe, unlike so many of us, she’d find a way to get it right the first time.
‘Isby?’ my dad repeated. ‘You mean the baby?’
‘That’s what I call her,’ I told him. ‘That’s who she is to me.’
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ‘Auden, I love Thisbe. I’d do anything in the world for her, or for you. You have to know that.’
This was what my mother had said, too, only moments earlier, and I’d chosen to believe her. So why was this so much harder? Because my mom had come to me. Traveled all this way, taken that risk, retraced some, if not all, of her steps to get us back to a place where we could, hopefully, forge a new path together. My dad was still in the same spot, and as always, he wanted me to come to him. Like I’d done at the beginning of the summer, in this house, and at home as well. Always crossing that distance, crossing town, accommodating, making excuses.
‘If that’s true,’ I said to him, ‘then prove it.’
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ‘How am I supposed to do that?’
Sometimes, you get things right the first time. Others, the second. But the third time, they say, is the charm. Standing there, a quitter myself, I figured I’d never know if I didn’t get back on that bike, one last time. So instead of replying, I pulled the black beaded dress from the closet, draping it across the bed. ‘You figure it out,’ I told him. ‘There’s something I have to do.’
I’d planned to drive. In fact, I’d had my keys in hand as I ran out the door, the black dress swishing around my knees. But then, I saw the bike, sitting right against the steps where I left it, and the next thing I knew, I was climbing on. I raised up on the pedals, tried to remember everything Maggie had taught me over the last few weeks, and then pushed off before I could change my mind.
It was weird, but as I started down the front walk – wobbling slightly, but upright at least so far – all I could think of was my mom. When I’d hung up the phone moments earlier, I’d pulled on the dress and found my flip-flops and bag, figuring I’d put Isby in the stroller and take her with me. But as I started to strap her in, hurriedly explaining myself to my mom, th
e baby started to fuss. Then cry. Then scream.
‘Oh, no,’ I said as her face flooded with color. I knew the signs of a full-out fit when I saw one. ‘This is not good.’
‘She doesn’t like the stroller?’ asked my mom, who was standing behind me.
‘Usually she loves it. I don’t know what the problem is.’ I bent down, adjusting the straps, but Isby just yelled louder, now kicking her feet for emphasis. I glanced up at my mom. ‘I better just stay here. She’s really unhappy.’
‘Nonsense.’ She gestured for me to move aside, then leaned over, undoing the straps and lifting Isby up. ‘I’ll watch her. You go have fun.’
I did not mean for my expression to be so doubtful. Or shocked. But apparently it was, because she said, ‘Auden. I raised two children. I can be trusted with a newborn for an hour.’
‘Of course you can,’ I said quickly. ‘I just… I hate to leave you with her when she’s like this.’
‘She’s not like anything,’ my mom said, pulling the baby closer to her and patting her back. Weirdly enough, before, when Isby had been googly and cheerful, it was clear she was uncomfortable, but now, amid the screaming, she looked completely at ease. ‘She’s just giving me a piece of her mind.’
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ I said, raising my voice to be heard above the din.
‘Absolutely. Go.’ She put the baby over her shoulder, still patting. ‘That’s right, that’s right,’ she said, over the shrieking. ‘Tell me everything you have to say.’
I just stood there, watching as she started to pace the kitchen floor, rocking Isby in her arms. As she walked, she fell into a rhythm: step, pat, step, pat. The baby, over her shoulder, looked at me, her face still red, mouth open. But as the space increased between us, she began to quiet down. And down. And down, until all I could hear was my mother’s footsteps. And then something else.
‘Shh, shh,’ she was saying. ‘Everything’s all right.’
Her voice was low. Soft. And with these last words, suddenly familiar in a way it had not been ever before. That voice I thought I’d imagined or conjured: it was her, all along. Not a dream, or a mantra, but a memory. A real one.