“What’s this?” Byron asked.
“Tuition for that art class you want to take.”
“Seriously? You’ll pay for it?” Matt had already paid for the first session. This would cover the second session, giving Byron a full summer of art training. His summer just kept getting better.
“On one condition,” Graham said, picking up Byron’s empty sandwich wrapper and rolling it into a ball. “Don’t quit swimming. Or track. Do it all. Just because you can.”
Byron tapped his lip, faux-thinking. “I’ll be pretty busy, trying to keep up with all of that. I might need some transportation.”
“Enough about the damn car, Byron. I got my first car when I was nineteen. I worked for three years and saved every penny to buy it myself. You buy your first car yourself, you take pride in it. You get it as a gift, and it means nothing to you.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Byron said. “No car.” He smiled at Graham, still so easy to rile up over money. And yet. Byron balanced the envelope on his palm. Seemingly weightless, but in fact the most substantial thing his father had given him in a long time. “So what changed your mind?”
Graham looked around the campus, which was summer-quiet and drenched in shade, June gloom in full effect. The temperature was perfect, but San Diego had mostly overcast skies in June, the whole city holding its breath until July came and full summer perfection broke through.
“You shouldn’t quit something you’re good at,” Graham said. “I mean really good at. Once you stop, it’s hard to go back. You’re not at the same level as everyone else anymore. You get left behind.”
Byron wondered what Graham meant, wondered when he had been left behind. But it wasn’t hard to agree to the terms. Swimming in Florida already had Byron doubting his decision to quit swim team. He just loved the feel of the pool, the smell of the chlorine, the pull of the water too much. And he and Gabe had just started running together some mornings. They were planning to be on the cross-country team together. Byron didn’t want to give that up, either.
“Deal,” Byron said. “Swimming, track, parkour, and art.”
“A quadruple threat,” Graham said, smiling.
“I seriously didn’t see this coming. Thanks.”
Graham brushed the palm of his hand along the tips of the blades of grass. “It’s not that I don’t believe in you, Byron. In your art as much as the sports. I didn’t have the opportunities you have. Or the skill. I don’t want to see you walk away from something you have natural talent for.” Graham tugged a fistful of grass free, tossed it aside. “I envy you: out on the track, in the pool. You make it look so easy. And out here with these guys, doing these stunts.” Graham smiled at Byron, tossed a handful of grass his way. “You’re a sight to see.”
Byron couldn’t help smiling. “Wait’ll you see my painting skills. After these classes.” He waved the envelope. “I’ll be a sight to see in the art studio, too. Aunt Becca says I’ll be unstoppable. That the universe is speaking truth through my art.”
“Aunt Becca . . .” Graham began, then he stopped himself, just shook his head, smiling. “I have no doubt you’ll be unstoppable.”
A few guys were practicing moves still, grunting and whooping as they launched halfway up the exterior wall of the library to a window ledge, gripped it, and hoisted their legs. They were trying to do a backflip midair. Byron narrowed his eyes, watching, calculating how he’d do it. When he looked back at Graham he was watching him, smiling. “Can you do that?”
“I think so,” Byron said. “They need to be turning faster. Get their head and shoulders back before their knees even hit their chests.”
Graham laughed. “You’re all crazy. You know, I’ve never been much of an athlete, but I always wanted to be. It was always the athletes who got the cool girls.”
“You got Mom, though.”
“I did. Took her from one of those athletic types.” Graham pointed at the guys practicing jumps and rolls off the picnic table, the buff guys of the group. “Stole her right from under his nose.” Graham stared into space, drifting away, thinking about something that made him look sad, then he came back, looked Byron over, and grinned at him. “Of course, I also have no artistic skill. I’m just a numbers guy. That’s it. Nothing cool about it.”
Byron shrugged, slapped the envelope against his palm a few times.
“It’s kinda cool. I mean, Abby’s a math whiz like you, right? And she’s pretty damn cool.”
Graham smiled and nodded. “She is. Both of you are.”
37
* * *
Lana
Matt was spending more time away from home, out with Susan. Sometimes Abby sat at his window by herself, eating and watching the world go by. Lana made herself a sandwich and settled into Matt’s chair beside her.
“Don’t tell him I sat here,” Lana joked.
“He’ll know.” Abby smiled. “He’s got psychic powers or supersonic smell or something.”
Lana held up half of her sandwich and Abby considered it, then lifted the top layer of bread, spotted the mayo there, and shook her head. “No sale.”
Lana took a big bite and made a rapturous sound. “Mmm, mayo.” Abby giggled and the sound filled Lana up. “That’s my favorite sound in the world,” Lana said. “You laughing.”
Abby gave Lana a hearty fake belly laugh, Santa-style, that set her chuckling for real. In no time she was snorting and doubled over with giggles. Abby still had her distant moments, her occasional sullen moods, but for the most part Lana had her back, her cherished child. She wasn’t going to let her go again.
“It’s like a dance,” Lana said. “The tenuous relationship between teen girls and their mothers. The pull of independence. The changing roles. The fact that you can always love your mother even though you don’t always like her.”
Abby looked Lana over, serious again, and pursed her lips. “I’m sorry if I make you feel like I don’t like you. That’s not true. I actually always wanted to be more like you. You’re so nice to everyone. And you’re the prettiest of all the moms. Everyone says so.”
“Do they?” Lana laughed. “Is there a mom beauty competition I never knew I was in?”
“Of course there’s a competition,” Abby said, rolling her eyes. “We’re teenagers. Everything’s a competition.”
It was news to Lana. “Funny. I wish I was more like you. Your athleticism, your intelligence, your fair hair, delicate skin, and those beautiful eyes, like peridot gems.”
Abby made a face and they both laughed. “I guess people always want what they don’t have. Take for granted whatever comes easy to them.”
“See?” Lana said. “If I’d known that at your age, my whole life would’ve been different. You’re the wisest kid I’ve ever met.”
“How do you wish your life had been different?” Abby asked. She was eating stalks of celery cradling peanut butter, taking small bites, washing each one down with little sips of milk.
Lana looked out the window at the sunny summer sky and thought about how much had happened in the past year, how hard it had been, losing Graham and finding the cancer cells and fighting for Byron’s art and getting Abby help. She smiled at Abby, her beautiful girl, and remembered the unflinching, fearless child she’d been.
“Not a thing. Because then I wouldn’t be right here, right now, with you.”
“Aw,” Abby said, patting Lana’s head. “My sappy mom.”
Lana laughed. “You know, when you were little, you hated it when guests left. You’d run out that door after them, clinging to their hands, trying to get their keys from them. Eventually I’d have to pull you off of them, and we’d stand on the grass watching them go. You’d wait until they were backing out of the driveway and you’d scream, ‘Goodbye! I love you!’ with such force that half the time they’d get right out of their cars and come back to you. Because we all need more of that. That depth of love.”
“I’m sorry I don’t do that anymore,” Abby said. “I do love y
ou.”
“Oh, I know it, sweetie. Remember, I was once a teenage girl myself. I waged major battle with Grandma Gloria over everything under the sun. It’s the plight of teen girls. We need to knock our mothers off their pedestals so that we can figure out who we are through our own eyes, not theirs. You go ahead and do that, okay? I’m strong enough to take it.”
“You’re the best kind of mother,” Abby said. “Not the overbearing type, not the kind that noses into my business.”
“I don’t want to hover. To make you feel like I don’t trust you,” Lana said. “But I’m not sure that was the right approach. I should’ve interfered more, sooner. Maybe then . . .”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Abby said. “Just like you, I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”
Lana patted Abby’s shoulder. “Just promise me that while you try to find your way, you’ll call me in when you need help, or push me away when you’re ready to be independent. And that you’ll forgive me when I misjudge your mood and get too close when you need space or too far away when you need me beside you. This whole motherhood act is one big guessing game. I really have no idea what I’m doing most of the time.”
“I promise,” Abby said. She got up off her chair and settled on Lana’s lap. She wrapped Lana’s arms around her, a seat belt of affection. “But I think you’re pretty good at this motherhood gig.”
“Gabe seems like a very nice young man,” Lana said. Abby nodded, the sun flashing off her blond hair. “But know that if he breaks your heart I’ll hurt him. Bad.”
Abby laughed, turned, and kissed Lana’s forehead. “I’ll warn him. Nobody wants to make warrior-mama mad.”
Summer was unfolding before them: quiet and kind. Lana’s mornings were spent in the reading lab, her afternoons free for walks with Camille, her evenings for her kids, Matt, her weekly yoga class, and precious dates with Abbot. She was building a new life, moment by moment, on her own terms. But she still had the divorce to deal with.
Lana realized at the first mediation appointment that she’d been suffering a week of anxiety about it for nothing. The mediator, Allen Greer, was a soft-spoken man in his late fifties, portly and calm and all business. He went over his rates, the basic structure of future appointments, explained the various ways to determine temporary spousal and child support during the divorce.
“Talk it over, decide if you want to hire me, and get back to me,” he said as he shook their hands. “If it’s a go, simply pay the retainer and I’ll get you the paperwork to start filling out.”
Graham and Lana stood on the sidewalk out in front of his office smiling uncomfortably at each other. They’d been seated elbow to elbow in Allen Greer’s conference room for only twenty minutes, but it was the most time they’d spent together since Graham had left.
“Here we go,” Graham said.
“He seems nice enough. Competent.”
“Sure, he’s fine. I guess I’ll head in and give him the retainer fee now. Sound good?”
“Sounds good.”
Lana headed for her car as Graham headed back into the law office. She had lunch plans with Abbot at a nice restaurant in La Jolla overlooking the cove, his idea, to have something nice to look forward to afterward. She was nearly an hour early, since the mediation appointment had been so brief. She had time to wander along the cove, watch kids frolicking in the baby waves at the tiny inlet beach, spot a seal’s glossy black head gazing shoreward about a hundred yards out to sea.
She was staring at the ocean, endless and peaceful and full of possibility yet ultimately unchanging, feeling lost in its vastness, when she heard a familiar trill.
“Lana, dear!”
She turned, already smiling, and spotted her old neighbors Dixie and John, walking arm in arm down the paved path. They took turns hugging and remarking on the beautiful day.
“You look wonderful,” Dixie said. “I haven’t seen you since that time in the drugstore.”
“Valentine’s Day,” Lana said.
“You must’ve taken my advice and given Janelle a call.” Dixie touched her hair and laughed.
“Dixie told me about you and Graham,” John said. “I sure am sorry to hear it.”
“Thanks,” Lana said. “We actually just started the divorce process today. It’s time.” She shrugged, smiled, felt nothing but resolution at the words. Bad news about her marriage had lost its power over her.
“Well, we must have you over for dinner,” Dixie said. “You and the kids. I haven’t seen them in so long.”
“Actually, we’re having a party at the beach for the Fourth of July, if you’d like to join us,” Lana said.
Dixie and John exchanged smiles, such a long-running couple that they no longer existed as separate individuals, and agreed.
Lana headed into the restaurant and found Abbot waiting for her.
“There she is,” he said. “You look happy.”
“I am.” She smiled. “Ridiculously so.”
She was even happier when Allen Greer got back to her with the support amounts. She looked over the numbers and felt a wave of relief wash over her. She’d be able to live on it. Not extravagantly, but between the support and her income and Matt’s help, she could keep the house and the lights on within it, and they would all have clothes and food and a little left over for some fun.
Graham was back to seeing the kids more often. Lana hoped it wasn’t just because his support amount was based on how much time he spent with them. She figured whatever the incentive, the kids deserved more time with their father, and it was good they were getting it. But she also took to writing down every minute they spent with him, in case he tried to artificially inflate his percentage of time with the kids to reduce the support amount. She was learning to look out for herself and her children, unapologetically.
But she was also learning to love again.
On the Fourth of July they headed to the beach early to stake out a prime spot, a grassy picnic area just steps from the sand. Abbot and John took turns manning the grill while Lana and Camille caught Dixie up on the neighborhood gossip. Lana had brought sparklers for the kids, who were probably too old for them, but some traditions were worth keeping no matter how much time marched forward.
Abbot’s two sons were visiting him, on summer break from college and fresh from their mother’s wedding in Colorado. They were handsome, broad-shouldered boys like their father, gentle and genuine and easy to get along with. One of them played guitar and sang old Bob Dylan tunes while Abby and Gabe snuggled nearby. Byron was teaching some parkour moves to Abbot’s younger son while Betsy videotaped it and cheered them on.
Matt and Susan walked down the beach, shoes in hand, talking. Lana could see Matt gesturing out to sea as he spoke, waving his hands emphatically toward the setting sun, and Susan laughing and shaking her hair in the breeze as she listened.
They had all come so far, but still, thankfully, had so much further to go, so much more to do, and more time to do it. Lana inhaled the briny tang of the ocean, took in the endless swath of blue, the world laid out before them.
Abbot appeared at Lana’s elbow, holding a brownie, waggling his eyebrows.
“Bad influence,” Lana said, holding his hand still to take a bite.
“Good influence,” Abbot said, wrapping his arm around her waist.
“I love you,” Lana said.
“That must be one damn good brownie,” Abbot said. Lana laughed and leaned against him. Abbot kissed her temple, held her a little tighter. “And I love you.”
The kids lit the sparklers, took off down the beach with them, streaks of light carving a path in the darkness.
Acknowledgments
I had many supporters as I worked on this novel, and I sincerely appreciate every one of them. I am particularly grateful to the following people:
Harvey Klinger, agent extraordinaire, mentor, and motivator, for bringing out the best in me as a writer.
Everyone at Touchstone Books and Simon & Schuster who
gave their time and energy to this project, especially Miya Kumangai.
Stacy Creamer, for turning a dream into reality.
My beta readers: Jessica Harris and Dav-Yell Grant Bruce for their feedback and support.
My dedicated Sunday babysitters: Bob Dunn and Kathie Dunn, for watching my girls while I write, and for being such terrific parents and grandparents.
Carol Dunn, proud mom and spoiling grandma, and Tracy Dunn Arrowsmith, best sister ever and fun auntie, who have watched me grow from a quiet little dreamer girl into whatever I am now and loved me fiercely the whole time.
Heather Swift and Holly Coleman, for their guidance and insight.
Meg Waite Clayton, Ellen Sussman, and Michelle Richmond, for their encouragement and advice.
Jeanene Nehira, Liz Radding, Rhea Karahalios, and Tracy Voeller, for always listening. And Sue Devries, Dana Dee Little, and Janie Ellison, my back-up mothers, for always knowing just what to say.
Jeffrey Harris, for giving me my best motivation ever: the two little girls that I love with all my heart.
My sweet Vizsla Toby, my favorite hiking buddy, for keeping me company while I write.
My vast network of family and adopted family: the Dunn, Jaeger, Branstetter, Harris, Whitfield, Bass, Kempster, and Boice clans, for being there, believing in me, and reminding me often.
My bright, talented, funny, athletic, artistic, beautiful daughters, Zoe and Maia, who turn even my hardest days into the best days I could possibly imagine. This novel is my proof to you that no dream is too big. Dream your own huge, ridiculously impossible dreams and go for it. I’ve got your back.
And most sincere love and gratitude to my uncle, Michael Dunn, for all he taught me about love, brilliance, quirkiness, kindness, self-acceptance, and the challenges and rewards of living with Asperger’s. I love you and miss you.
TOUCHSTONE READING GROUP GUIDE
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The Art of Adapting Page 36
