I Liked My Life

by Abby Fabiaschi

  His expression offers some sympathy, but he doesn’t apologize. “I needed to go alone.”

  “She was my grandma.”

  He nods. “Yep. She was. But I’m sure you can appreciate that it’s a sensitive situation for me.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You’re the one always saying we only have each other. We can’t afford to have secrets.”

  Half his mouth winds up in a teasing smile. “So you don’t keep any secrets from me?”

  I think about Dameon’s kiss and the journal and my recent struggle to see the point of life, then say, “Well, for the most part, I don’t.”

  “I don’t, for the most part, either.” We grin at the fuzzy middle ground. My dad is funny. Well, maybe not funny, but not as serious as I thought either.

  “So what were they like?”

  He grunts. “They’re whacked.”

  “Dad! I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “It’s the truth. They’re eccentric, and I did not receive a warm welcome.” He must sense my pity because his voice turns upbeat. “It’s for the best. I don’t need any more on my plate.”

  “Were they mean to you?”

  “Nah. They just weren’t nice. But the trip wasn’t a waste. I learned a lot. With Mom gone, and everything I’ve uncovered about my own mother, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ve missed something with the women in my life, maybe even something about life in general, and I refuse to make the same mistake with you.”

  I’m honored. It’s like winning a grand prize in a raffle I never knew I entered.

  And there it is, the tender shiver of my mother crawling up my spine, cheering us on.

  Brady

  I had no idea my daughter was a young woman, subject to the seductive glances of men and envious glares of less-blessed females, until this trip. I never even recognized her as beautiful, beyond the way I assume most fathers think of their offspring as good-looking. But Eve is what the current generation refers to as hot. Her complexion is clear and she adds a hint of blush to each cheek, so she always looks like she just returned from grabbing fresh air. She walks with her shoulders back in a confident posture and when she laughs, which has to be earned, her whole body moves with the sound, how it did with her mother. It’s strange to put words to, but I’m getting to know my daughter and I like her. I mean obviously I love her, but I am discovering that I also enjoy her company. She’s sarcastic as all hell, but she’s fearless.

  Her appeal sits with me now like something I can’t quite digest. It’d help if this hot-air-balloon guide would stop staring at her breasts. I ignore him, knowing Eve will be annoyed if I make a stink. “I think that’s the vineyard we ate lunch at yesterday,” I say, pointing.

  “Yeah, there’s the stone patio. This is amazing. I feel closer to Mom up here.”

  Before I can respond, the guide says, “I do too. It’s why I took this job.”

  Eve rolls her eyes at him and whispers, “He feels closer to my mom?”

  Although this dipshit just ruined a moment I’m paying nine hundred dollars for, it’s a relief to see her respond to the predator with authority. Still, the revelation makes me less certain about the boarding-school decision. It was one thing for Eve to leave when I thought of her as a child under the supervision of adults, but quite another if she’s a young lady, capable of making adult-sized mistakes.

  When we step out of the basket, my feet wobble to find their place on the ground. “You okay there, old man?” Eve teases.

  The guide lets out a belly laugh disproportionate to the humor provided. I take advantage of the only offensive move I have and leave without offering a tip. He can ogle his heart out, but he’s not having a drink on me tonight for the privilege.

  We sit for lunch, both famished, having gotten up at four this morning. Eve replays how cool it was to float through the sky, but I’m distracted. She stops talking mid-sentence and says, “Hello? Dad. You there?”

  I cannot hold back my observation. It’s time for one of Maddy’s serious talks. “Sorry. It’s just … well.” My palms start sweating. “I’ve noticed…”

  “Sp-sp-sp-spit it out,” Eve says with a laugh.

  She’s right. I can’t go through life afraid of her. “Okay, fine: I’ve noticed how much older you look, and how many men look at you with interest, and-and I want to make sure you’re aware of it also, so you don’t land in a precarious situation.”

  “Precarious situation?”

  “It means—”

  She puts a hand up. “I know what it means, Dad. Stop worrying. I think that’s just how the French, like, are.”

  How can I explain that she’s too beautiful not to worry without me turning into the inappropriate one? “Well, I do worry, Eve. You’re at the age where people don’t know if you’re seventeen or out of college, and I’m not stupid enough to believe your admirers only exist in this country. It’s a problem.”

  “A problem?” Her arms cross. I’m losing her.

  “Well, it could be a problem if you don’t carry yourself in a conservative way. You have to send a clear message.”

  “What if I disagree?”

  “You’d be wrong. I’m a man. I know about this stuff.”

  She looks me over with a questioning eye, struggling with the assertion that I represent a typical guy. “So what, Dad? Should I yell at people when they look at me?” She rolls her eyes like she did at the pervert guide. It infuriates me, but I want this discussion to be constructive, so I don’t call her out on it.

  “I just want you to be aware that as you grow up and look … older … people’s intentions change. That’s all.”

  “Okay, fine. I get it—”

  “And,” I pause to collect the thought that just revealed itself. “I’d like you to take a self-defense class when we get back.”

  “You’ve lost it.”

  “There are courses that take a day. Your mom took one once, and it’s the least you can do for your poor father who’s just realized that his little girl is a young woman.”

  “Oh, Jesus, here we go.” Her expression is now playful. On some level, she’s enjoying this.

  “I’m serious, Eve. I’m really freaking out over here. Please take the damn class.” Of everything I said, this is the line that endears me to her.

  “Let’s make a deal,” she offers. “I’ll take the class if you go on a date.”

  I’m still working on accepting her knack for catching me off guard. I take a sip of wine to buy time. “This isn’t a negotiation, but why do you want me to go on a date?”

  “I don’t care if you do or not, but I’ve been looking for a way to let you know it’s okay with me. You know, if you ever want to go on a date, I’m fine with that.”

  Her and Meg both. Huh. “I haven’t wanted to go on a date.”

  What I want is sex. You never hear widows voice the sentiment, but I could stave off companionship indefinitely. Sex, not so much.

  “Well, if you ever do, you’ll know I’m fine with it, so you won’t feel like you need my permission.”

  “I appreciate that,” I say. And, surprisingly, I mean it.

  That night I lie alone in the hotel bed, circling around Meg’s and Eve’s consent. I wouldn’t know where to begin in the dating world. I might have been a subpar husband, but I was a faithful subpar husband. I don’t even have a type. I mean, where the hell would I meet someone? I wouldn’t mind getting laid, but can’t picture marching a woman into the house Maddy decorated. And, really, how would I broach my past? I envision the conversation:

  “Are you divorced?”

  “No, a widow.” With no other information the sympathy produced would likely be to my benefit, but then she’d carefully inquire how Maddy passed, assuming cancer. Curiosity killed the cat, as they say.

  “Suicide,” I’d confess.

  Date over.

  Even if I found someone who respected all I’ve been through, I can’t imagine trusting happiness again. I think o
f Rory. She’s a pleaser, like Maddy. The doubt would be torture. I’d drive us both insane relentlessly asking if she was content. And even if she swore she was, how could I be certain?

  Loving a person doesn’t make them who you desire; it makes you vulnerable to their reality.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Madeline

  Meg finished compiling the advice I gave her over the years and, as promised, sent a copy to Eve. It’s matted professionally in a wooden frame with a gray border, the words carefully penned in her script. Despite each thought occurring during different phases of my life—high school through motherhood—Meg wrote it as prose. It looks like one of those old Irish blessings that gets passed through generations and eventually ends up hanging on a bathroom wall where people have time to read it.

  Eve opens the card before unwrapping the frame. I’m grateful Meg took the time to preface my sentiments; many of the statements now deemed sage advice are questionable at best. Death glorified the profoundness of my thoughts.

  Dear Eve,

  Your mother didn’t believe in each of these things with equal passion, but in the moment she spoke the words they were true to her. I’m not gifted with her self-awareness. I relied on my big sister for guidance as I set my course, and more often than not, I relied on her to gently point out when I lost my way. If I were to summarize her words of wisdom, I’d say this: the most important approval to earn in this life is your own.

  Your mother was a philosopher in her own way, and so, I see now, are you.

  Enjoy, Aunt Meg

  * * *

  MADDY’S TRUTHS

  Make room for who you are by knowing who you’re not. Smile all the time, at everyone, without exception: when you’re happy it will be contagious, and when you’re angry it will drive the person you’re mad at bonkers. Blow-dry before lipstick. Counters before sweeping. Water before dinner. To hell with what everyone thinks about your life, but you should know what you think about it. Don’t stay out past one a.m.—nobody is proud of the stories born later than that. Plans contingent on perfection fail. It’s dangerous to fight who you are. The stupidest thing you can do is believe your own bullshit, but you probably will every once in a while. Flowery perfume smells like a cover-up. Don’t have a room your kids can’t play in or a couch your kids can’t sit on; it’s their house too. If you don’t know what to say, say, “I don’t know what to say.” If you mess up, say, “I messed up.” If you need help, say, “I need help.” Never count on any one thing. Don’t confuse wanting to have sex and rent movies with someone for wanting to marry him. Never buy button-fly jeans—they aren’t flattering on anyone ever. Practice love, compassion, and forgiveness. Try not to speak consecutively for more than two minutes; it’s hard to be a good listener longer than that. It’s good to have one friend who still smokes a lot of pot. It’s important to speak up even if no one will stand behind you. A home is something you create. Gatorade and greasy food cure hangovers. The impression you have of someone is most likely the impression they have of you (that’s why I’m so self-conscious around annoying people). Give yourself a break, but not a free pass. Never become a prize, possession, puppet, or toy—it’s no fun hanging on someone’s wall for any substantial amount of time. When someone gives you the creeps, don’t worry about their feelings or apologize, just get the hell away. Constantly earn the hearts of your friends and family, and expect them to earn yours back. Ask questions. Don’t give out answers you don’t have. Think before you speak. Sometimes you’ll lie, but have a person who knows both your truths and the lies you’ve told; pick someone who won’t judge you. Don’t give up on reading before you find a favorite book, and even then I don’t recommend it. At the end of each day, acknowledge the things you wish you’d done differently so that tomorrow you will. We’re given the gift of life with the consequence of death.

  * * *

  I remember saying all of it at one time or another, some repeated over and over and some thrown out only once, not knowing I had such an attentive audience. But I specifically remember telling Meg that final sentence at her home on the Cape, bundled up by the bonfire. It was almost Halloween. The air was crisp, mosquitoes had died off, and the stars were showing off more than usual.

  Everyone else had gone in for the night when Meg confided that she had severe anxiety about death. “Common enough,” I said, “but we’ll all die.”

  “Well, yeah Maddy, I didn’t say I was stupid, just anxious.”

  We laughed. Look, “you can obsess that our time is limited, ranking your memories on some giant scorecard, or you can truck on. I bet the people trucking on end up with the best scorecard.”

  “Wow. That’s deep,” she said. “Maybe I was wrong about you.”

  I slapped her arm, but then looked in her eyes and saw someone other than my little sister. Meg was a complicated woman, a peer, a mother in her own right. The insight helped me find the words she needed to hear. “Mock me all you want, but I’ve been thinking about mortality a lot too; maybe that’s the age we’re at. And the best I can come up with is this: we’re given the gift of life with the consequence of death. I think it’d be a mistake to focus on the consequence instead of the gift.”

  That night when we hugged before bed, Meg said, “I’m glad I don’t have to be the big sister. It must be such a burden to figure out everything first.”

  Her words inflated me. My life wasn’t what I’d imagined. I envisioned commanding a larger sphere of influence. In my twenties I felt certain I’d be a CEO someday; in my thirties I came to believe that my contribution to the world was whatever Eve delivered (leveraging skills from her kick-ass mom); in my forties I realized Eve could cure cancer, but bragging about your awesome kid isn’t enough to sail you through four more decades. It gnawed at me. Eve graduating would conclude my daily purpose if I didn’t turn up a new beginning. Already the to-do list was thinning. Eve could drive. She no longer needed to talk through every unpleasant social interaction, and she certainly didn’t need my help with homework. If it wasn’t for volunteering at the library, I’d already have gone crazy. I became fearful of what happened to matriarchs after everyone grew up. Meg’s words provided solace. My world turned out to be small, but damn it, my sister needed me, and so did Eve and Brady. Happiness is an every man for himself endeavor. To three people, I was everything, and that turned out to be enough.

  Eve reads Meg’s list as though she’ll be tested on it. Most of the lines she’d heard me say before, but some are revelations. I was not, for example, planning to be so cavalier about sleeping with people and smoking pot. Meg believed my essence could only be captured with an unedited version. She’s been on a mission to find her authentic self.

  Brady is also surprised by Meg’s openness. Months ago he’d have been angry, but now, with his increased comfort in Eve’s capacity, he lets the perceived infraction slide. When Eve heads back upstairs, Brady touches the frame and calls Meg. “‘Don’t feel pressure to use chopsticks,’” he says when she answers. “‘The fork is functionally superior.’” They both laugh for a moment, but Meg’s end of the line quickly turns to weeping.

  They haven’t spoken since the funeral. It’s hard to be around people whose loss matches your own. It’s almost competitive. “I miss her, Brady,” my little sister mourns. “I miss her so much.”

  “I know, Meg. Me too.” He pauses. “Listen, I should have called sooner, but—”

  “I have a phone. I know.”

  Brady resists his rising emotions. “You and Dan have been my family for twenty years. There’s no one left on my side, for Eve and me. I don’t want to lose you.” He sucks the snot back into his nose at one last attempt to ward off tears. It doesn’t work.

  “You haven’t lost us. Dan and I should’ve reached out. It’s intense still. It’s hard to imagine talking about anything other than the person missing. But we’ll get there.”

  Brady’s voice lowers to a whisper. “I was afraid you blamed me.” He feels completely n
aked saying so. “I figured you thought something horrible must’ve been happening behind closed doors. Hell, maybe it did, but I certainly didn’t know about it.”

  “No, Brady. Never. It didn’t even cross my mind.” She’s lying; of course it crossed her mind. But Meg had the hardest time picturing me in trouble and not raising my hand for help. “I don’t know what happened,” she says, “but whatever it was, we both missed it.” Her words, while not completely exonerating him, succeed in spreading the blame across more than one conscience.

  There’s silence as they pull themselves together. Brady is the first to speak. “So Eve said she called about staying there next weekend.”

  Meg takes one last emotional breath. “Yep. We’re set. It’s too bad you didn’t make it to the Cape this summer, but it’s pretty amazing you’re running a marathon. The McManns are impressed. Dan said he’ll eat a hot dog in your honor on Saturday.”

  “Don’t be too awestruck. I have a lot of guilt to run off.”

  My sister lets out an uneasy laugh. “I’m thinking of quitting work, Brady.”

  “Why?”

  “Same reason you started running, it sounds like.”

  Brady sighs. “You have nothing to feel guilty about, Meg.”

  “I don’t know about that. I was never a giver like Maddy. I always took up more oxygen than her, and I feel horribly in the wrong about that now.”

  “No. No. You’ve always been someone who makes things happen. Maddy admired that about you.”

  Meg sniffles. “So, you vote for not quitting?”

  “No, Maddy and I vote for not quitting. It’s dangerous to fight who you are, right?” It’s the first time Brady is positive that the voice he hears is truly mine. My power is fading, but his mounting openness makes up for it.

  “Oh, Brady, bless you. I still need my big sister’s advice, you know?”