Starry Eyes
Page 68
Except I’m not. Because you can’t control everything. Sometimes, you can be minding your own business, but your father is busy having affairs. Sometimes, you can plan all the details of a trip with friends, but those people weren’t really your friends at all. Sometimes, you can follow a well-planned route through the woods and still get stalked by mountain lions.
And sometimes, sometimes, you give up on your best friend, but he never gave up on you.
“I never knew Dad was struggling with my mother’s death,” I tell Joy. “But you know what? When I make bad choices, I have to pay for them. He’s a grown man, so he gets a free pass? I think that’s shitty. And I think you deserve better than him. We deserve better.”
“Zorie,” she pleads softly.
“I was so worried about what would happen if you and Dad got divorced, because I couldn’t stand the thought of being forced to live with him. I imagined you deciding that you were done raising a kid who wasn’t really yours, and then my life would fall apart all over again. I’d lose another mother.”
“That will never happen,” she says, grabbing my shoulders. “Do you hear me? You’re the reason I agreed to make this marriage work. You, not him.”
“What?” I say, confused.
“I stayed for you. Because you need me, and I need you.” She cups my head in her hands. “I am raising my own kid. You are mine. I didn’t need to give birth to you to love you, sweet thing.”
I’m crying now, and I think she is too. We’re apologizing in whispers, and she hugs me as she always does, hard enough to hurt.
And it’s a good pain.
When the tears slow, she eases up on the hugging and strokes my back. “I’m sorry about tonight. About the meteor shower and the scene . . . about Lennon.”
“I can’t believe we left him there. He would never leave me.”
“I called Sunny and apologized before I came up here to see you.”
“Is she mad?”
“She’s not happy. I didn’t tell her much, but she sounded like she already knew more than I did about what’s been going on.” Her eyes catch mine. “Are you in love with Lennon?”
Am I?
Oh, God.
I am.
I’m in love with my best friend.
I blink at her through tear-stung eyes. “I think . . . I may have been for long time.”
She nods and sniffles, smiling softly. “I’ll talk to your father. He’s emotional now, but maybe he’ll realize that he’s being stubborn. I can’t promise he’ll change his mind tomorrow, but eventually he’ll have to see reason. Okay?”
That’s actually not okay. I don’t want to live with my hand out like a beggar, asking for my father’s permission to see Lennon. But I don’t say this. I know she’s trying.
“It’s late,” she tells me. “And you’ve had an eventful night. Get some rest, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Yes?”
I nod, and she gives me a tired smile before leaving my room.
Here I am, selfishly talking about being in love, as if she didn’t have any problems of her own in that department. I can only fathom what she’s gone through with my father. I think about how she matter-of-factly rattled off the name of Dad’s mistress, as if it was just something she’d accepted.
Molly.
That’s the name my mom used.
Only, that’s not the name that was on the photo book’s envelope.
Catherine Beatty.
One of many.
Was it the same woman? Maybe she was using a fake name to send the package. All I know is that Lennon recognized the woman from the photo book because he’d seen her in the hotel with my dad. And then there was Reagan’s accusation that my dad tried to sleep with Michelle Johnson’s mom after the Olympic fund-raiser. I don’t know if that’s true, but my mom said they went to counseling this past winter. The Olympic fund-raiser was this spring. Something doesn’t add up.
What should I do?
I perch on the edge of my bed and begin analyzing my options. I could give her all this information and risk my parents getting into a fight—or worse. I could confront my dad privately and hope to what? Shame him into telling the truth? Then what? I could keep all of this to myself, and maybe things would go back to normal.
Isn’t that the result I want? To avoid pain? To cling to some semblance of normality? Dueling images of my parents together and apart float in my head, and I try to sort them out and solve all the equations, but other things erode my thoughts. Things from the last week. The bear attacking Brett’s tent. My snake bite. The mountain lion. Lightning in the sequoias. Falling asleep in Lennon’s arms.
Unpredictable outcomes. Some of them bad, some good.
All at once, I realize that I need to let go. Of planning. Trying to control everything. It doesn’t work. The best-laid plans of mice and men often turn to shit.
Could I have avoided some hives and a whole lot of nail biting if I’d just handed over the photo book to my mom? Because all that worry got me nowhere. Here I am, still knowing my father’s a liar, but unsure what will happen. Still wondering about the fate of my family. Still unable to prevent a disaster.
I can’t constantly be on guard, trying to avoid every single catastrophe, measuring and managing every expectation.
Besides, Lennon’s right. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.
From now on, no new plans. No trying to control every detail of my life. You can plot a course that will get you to your destination, but you can’t predict what you’ll find along the way. So I’m just going to let life happen, and whatever that brings, I’ll face.
Starting now.
The photo book is still in the drawer where I left it. I take it out, along with the letter. It’s not my secret to keep. It never was.
My purse is where I left it in the closet before the camping trip. I stuff clean clothes and my cell phone charger inside it. Then I head downstairs, calling Andromeda to follow and get in her dog bed at the foot of the stairs. All of the lights are off but the one over the kitchen sink, where Mom is drinking a glass of water. My dad is nowhere in sight.
“Here,” I tell her in a quiet voice when she looks up at me. “This is the package you asked me to get from the Mackenzies the week before my camping trip. I told you they didn’t have it, but they did. They opened it by accident, and when I was carrying it back to the office, I peeked. I hid it from you. I’m sorry.”
Hesitantly, she takes it and opens the letter. Her hand shakes. She blinks several times. And then she closes the letter and slips it inside the photo book.
“Dad lied to you. It wasn’t just Molly, or this Catherine person. Reagan knows about another incident. I saw Razan Abdullah at the glamping compound, and she asked me if you and Dad were still together.”
She stares at me with a shocked look on her face.
“People are talking,” I tell her. “That’s probably why Dad’s been losing clients and you haven’t. Because everyone knows he’s a scumbag.”
We stand there, neither of us looking at each other for a long moment.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I love you, and I’m so sorry. For everything.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she says quietly, and heads toward my parents’ bedroom. A second later, she disappears, shutting the door.
I don’t know what’s going to happen now, but dread knots my stomach, and I feel the urge to run after her and snatch the photo book away.
And sometimes, sometimes, you give up on your best friend, but he never gave up on you.
“I never knew Dad was struggling with my mother’s death,” I tell Joy. “But you know what? When I make bad choices, I have to pay for them. He’s a grown man, so he gets a free pass? I think that’s shitty. And I think you deserve better than him. We deserve better.”
“Zorie,” she pleads softly.
“I was so worried about what would happen if you and Dad got divorced, because I couldn’t stand the thought of being forced to live with him. I imagined you deciding that you were done raising a kid who wasn’t really yours, and then my life would fall apart all over again. I’d lose another mother.”
“That will never happen,” she says, grabbing my shoulders. “Do you hear me? You’re the reason I agreed to make this marriage work. You, not him.”
“What?” I say, confused.
“I stayed for you. Because you need me, and I need you.” She cups my head in her hands. “I am raising my own kid. You are mine. I didn’t need to give birth to you to love you, sweet thing.”
I’m crying now, and I think she is too. We’re apologizing in whispers, and she hugs me as she always does, hard enough to hurt.
And it’s a good pain.
When the tears slow, she eases up on the hugging and strokes my back. “I’m sorry about tonight. About the meteor shower and the scene . . . about Lennon.”
“I can’t believe we left him there. He would never leave me.”
“I called Sunny and apologized before I came up here to see you.”
“Is she mad?”
“She’s not happy. I didn’t tell her much, but she sounded like she already knew more than I did about what’s been going on.” Her eyes catch mine. “Are you in love with Lennon?”
Am I?
Oh, God.
I am.
I’m in love with my best friend.
I blink at her through tear-stung eyes. “I think . . . I may have been for long time.”
She nods and sniffles, smiling softly. “I’ll talk to your father. He’s emotional now, but maybe he’ll realize that he’s being stubborn. I can’t promise he’ll change his mind tomorrow, but eventually he’ll have to see reason. Okay?”
That’s actually not okay. I don’t want to live with my hand out like a beggar, asking for my father’s permission to see Lennon. But I don’t say this. I know she’s trying.
“It’s late,” she tells me. “And you’ve had an eventful night. Get some rest, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Yes?”
I nod, and she gives me a tired smile before leaving my room.
Here I am, selfishly talking about being in love, as if she didn’t have any problems of her own in that department. I can only fathom what she’s gone through with my father. I think about how she matter-of-factly rattled off the name of Dad’s mistress, as if it was just something she’d accepted.
Molly.
That’s the name my mom used.
Only, that’s not the name that was on the photo book’s envelope.
Catherine Beatty.
One of many.
Was it the same woman? Maybe she was using a fake name to send the package. All I know is that Lennon recognized the woman from the photo book because he’d seen her in the hotel with my dad. And then there was Reagan’s accusation that my dad tried to sleep with Michelle Johnson’s mom after the Olympic fund-raiser. I don’t know if that’s true, but my mom said they went to counseling this past winter. The Olympic fund-raiser was this spring. Something doesn’t add up.
What should I do?
I perch on the edge of my bed and begin analyzing my options. I could give her all this information and risk my parents getting into a fight—or worse. I could confront my dad privately and hope to what? Shame him into telling the truth? Then what? I could keep all of this to myself, and maybe things would go back to normal.
Isn’t that the result I want? To avoid pain? To cling to some semblance of normality? Dueling images of my parents together and apart float in my head, and I try to sort them out and solve all the equations, but other things erode my thoughts. Things from the last week. The bear attacking Brett’s tent. My snake bite. The mountain lion. Lightning in the sequoias. Falling asleep in Lennon’s arms.
Unpredictable outcomes. Some of them bad, some good.
All at once, I realize that I need to let go. Of planning. Trying to control everything. It doesn’t work. The best-laid plans of mice and men often turn to shit.
Could I have avoided some hives and a whole lot of nail biting if I’d just handed over the photo book to my mom? Because all that worry got me nowhere. Here I am, still knowing my father’s a liar, but unsure what will happen. Still wondering about the fate of my family. Still unable to prevent a disaster.
I can’t constantly be on guard, trying to avoid every single catastrophe, measuring and managing every expectation.
Besides, Lennon’s right. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.
From now on, no new plans. No trying to control every detail of my life. You can plot a course that will get you to your destination, but you can’t predict what you’ll find along the way. So I’m just going to let life happen, and whatever that brings, I’ll face.
Starting now.
The photo book is still in the drawer where I left it. I take it out, along with the letter. It’s not my secret to keep. It never was.
My purse is where I left it in the closet before the camping trip. I stuff clean clothes and my cell phone charger inside it. Then I head downstairs, calling Andromeda to follow and get in her dog bed at the foot of the stairs. All of the lights are off but the one over the kitchen sink, where Mom is drinking a glass of water. My dad is nowhere in sight.
“Here,” I tell her in a quiet voice when she looks up at me. “This is the package you asked me to get from the Mackenzies the week before my camping trip. I told you they didn’t have it, but they did. They opened it by accident, and when I was carrying it back to the office, I peeked. I hid it from you. I’m sorry.”
Hesitantly, she takes it and opens the letter. Her hand shakes. She blinks several times. And then she closes the letter and slips it inside the photo book.
“Dad lied to you. It wasn’t just Molly, or this Catherine person. Reagan knows about another incident. I saw Razan Abdullah at the glamping compound, and she asked me if you and Dad were still together.”
She stares at me with a shocked look on her face.
“People are talking,” I tell her. “That’s probably why Dad’s been losing clients and you haven’t. Because everyone knows he’s a scumbag.”
We stand there, neither of us looking at each other for a long moment.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I love you, and I’m so sorry. For everything.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she says quietly, and heads toward my parents’ bedroom. A second later, she disappears, shutting the door.
I don’t know what’s going to happen now, but dread knots my stomach, and I feel the urge to run after her and snatch the photo book away.
