Speed of Life

by Carol Weston

  “She was doing your dad!”

  “Eww! Please! Dating my dad. I’m freaked out enough.”

  “Sorry,” Kiki mumbled.

  “So now I don’t know if I should tell her it was me or keep writing anonymously or change my email address before she figures it out. I don’t even know if our ‘special relationship’ was all in my head! Her daughter said she writes a zillion girls. Do I tell her I’m one? Or was one? Do I thank her? Or pretend it never happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Kiki said. “That is a tough one.”

  “I think I crossed some line. It would be like you asking my dad about herpes or something.”

  “Actually,” Kiki said, “I have been worrying a little.”

  “About what?”

  “About some of the stuff Dr. G used to try to scare us about…”

  I was annoyed that the topic was slipping from my worries to Kiki’s. Strange how you could feel close to someone one minute, irritated the next.

  “It’s just that Trevor wants to do a lot more than kiss. I guess that’s my secret.” She sighed. “I don’t want to, but I also don’t want him to break up with me.”

  “Didn’t you just start going out?”

  “More like staying in.” Kiki frowned. “He also wants me to send him a photo of…”

  “Oh God, Keeks, don’t even consider it! Remember what happened to Bettina?”

  “I know, I know.” Bettina was an eighth grader at Spence who texted her boyfriend a picture of her boobs. Later, when she broke up with him, he forwarded it to his lacrosse team. Within days, every private school kid in New York had seen her topless selfie. I got it from Kiki and from Madison. At first, Bettina tried laughing off the whole thing, but now she was transferring to Choate.

  “Kiki, you usually seem happier about new boyfriends.”

  “Think I should write Dear Kate?”

  “Maybe. But don’t mention me! Or just dump him. He doesn’t deserve you.”

  We turned around and started heading back. “How about you?” Kiki asked. “Any new crushes?”

  “Well, last weekend at Kate’s, I sort of met a guy.”

  “Wait. Kate? You call her Kate?!”

  “My dad calls her Katie. I don’t call her anything.”

  “Okay, so you met a guy?”

  “I was trying to skip stones, and I was terrible. He came out of nowhere and started teasing me.”

  “And?”

  “And I told him I’d never done it before.”

  “A virgin in his midst! Did he seem disappointed?”

  “More like surprised. I said I was from ‘the city,’ and he laughed because I guess I’d made it sound like there’s only one city in the world—”

  “Which there is.”

  “—and then—”

  “You made wild, passionate love?”

  “I don’t know why I’m even telling you!”

  “Oh, c’mon,” Kiki said. She and I had been dissecting boy-girl stuff since third grade.

  “He showed me how to flick my wrist.”

  “He showed you how to flick your wrist?!” She stopped in her tracks and made an obscene gesture.

  “Keeks, cut it out. You’re disgusting. You want me to tell you or not?”

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  “It wasn’t like that. It was like…he was sort of holding my hand.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Sam.”

  “Sam and Sofia,” she said. “Sofia and Sam. I like it.”

  “Me too.”

  “Hey, can I tell my mom about your dad?”

  “No.”

  “You know, I always really wished they—”

  “I know.”

  We headed up the hillside, and at Eighty-Ninth Street, I pointed out the tree that Dad had had planted months earlier. “It’s already grown a little,” I said. Kiki stayed quiet. “I dreamed about her last night. I dreamed I was at Kate’s with Dad, but Mom was there too, sitting in a chair. She didn’t say anything. She wasn’t mad or sad or even surprised to be back. She was just there, with us.”

  “Maybe she is,” Kiki offered quietly.

  “I’m going to come back tomorrow. For Mother’s Day.”

  Kiki nodded, and before we left, I turned to the tree and whispered, “Hasta mañana.”

  • • •

  Día de las Madres. When Mom was alive, I never gave much thought to Mother’s Day. It came and went unheralded. Sure, I’d give Mom a card or flowers or some no-big-deal gift, and we’d all go out to dinner. But we ate out fairly often, not just on specific occasions. And Mom and I always got along, so who cared what the calendar said? Mother’s Day never felt like my birthday or Halloween or Thanksgiving or Christmas—days that could inspire countdowns beforehand and reminiscing afterward.

  This time, Mother’s Day was different. The relentless advertising wore me down, and the Sunday arrived like a scorpion with a sting.

  “It’s not too late,” blared a pharmacy’s in-store announcement, “to show your mom how much you care. You’ll find everything you need in aisle six to make your mom’s day special.”

  Wrong. It was too late. Way too late! And while a lot of people missed Maria Wolfe, only I missed her as Mom.

  That afternoon, I decided to look at old photos and listen to music by Rodrigo and Granados. Fotos y música española. That was how I would honor the day.

  “Want to go out to dinner tonight?” Dad asked before leaving to do his rounds.

  “And watch all the happy families celebrate their beloved mothers?”

  “Point taken. Want to order in?”

  “How about paella from Café con Leche? Even though Mom thought their chorizo was too salty.”

  “Sure,” Dad said.

  I told him I was planning to say hi to Mom’s tree, and we agreed to meet at seven.

  As I pored through photos in boxes and on my computer, I was struck by how many more recent photos there were of my friends and me than of Mom and me. Why hadn’t we taken more of the two of us?

  I walked to the park, and it was filled with families, couples, runners, dogs.

  When I got to the little dogwood tree—Mom’s tree—I sat down on the ground and hugged my knees to my chest. I was silent at first, breathing in the scent of earth and cherry blossoms, feeling the warm sun. I looked around. Some trees had already lost their blossoms. Some were surrounded by a quilt of pink petals.

  I hadn’t planned to speak out loud, but suddenly, I started talking. Someone passing by might have thought I was talking into a phone or rehearsing lines. Or maybe, if they saw my tears and realized it was the second Sunday in May, they might piece it all together.

  “Mom,” I said quietly. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but it feels a tiny bit like I’m talking to you.” My eyes began to burn. “I know you wouldn’t want me to show up and cry all the time, so I don’t.

  “But part of me wants to. This is my second Mother’s Day without you. Someday, it’s going to be two years without you. Then five. Then ten. Then twenty-five! I just can’t believe you’re never coming back. Ever! It doesn’t seem possible. Or fair.”

  I wiped my eyes and looked around. I was sobbing. Officially making a scene.

  “Mom, I miss you. That’s all I really want to say. I’m living my life. I’m getting good grades and seeing friends and babysitting. But I miss you so much! I get jealous of other girls who have moms—moms who will go to their middle school and high school and college graduations. And their weddings! Moms who will meet their future kids. I can’t believe you won’t be there for any of it.”

  I took a breath. “Most people don’t get it. At least not the girls with two parents. I know other people go through other stuff, but how can anything be this hard?” My shoulders were sh
aking. “Es tan difícil. And Dad’s not always around.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come and water your tree with my stupid tears. And I’m not blaming you. I know you wish you could be here too. You didn’t want to leave so soon. I don’t mean to complain or make you sad—if you can even hear me. It’s just that sometimes, I do feel sad, so sad. And broken inside. Sometimes, I think I’ll never be completely happy again.

  “But, Mom, I’m trying to be brave. And I want you to know that even though I miss you, I’m being a good girl.” I knew that sounded childish. “I’ve gotten through a whole year without you—a year and a month and a week. And I’m getting better at not being sad and silent all the time. But please don’t think I’m forgetting you! I’m not. Not for a minute! I guess I’m just starting to learn how to live without you here.”

  I wiped my eyes with my sleeve.

  “I still love you as much as ever! I have your picture in my wallet and your love in my heart and your genes in my blood.”

  I went quiet.

  “And now I don’t know if I should tell you this or not, Mommy, but here goes: I’m never going to get a new mom. Claro. You’re it for me. Mother’s Day, for me, is you. But Daddy has been seeing somebody. And I’m trying to be okay with it because he was so sad for so long! But I’m not really okay with it.

  “Anyway, if you’re ever looking down from above, I mean, if that’s how it works, you might start seeing me with another lady. But nobody will ever replace you, Mom. Because I’m never letting you go. You’re my mom and you will always be right here inside. Dentro de mí. Aquí, Mami.

  “Next week, at the moving up ceremony, you’ll be with me too, okay? And when we move to another apartment. And someday if I have a daughter, her middle name will be Maria and I’ll tell her all about you.” I hadn’t expected to say that.

  “For now, though, I’m just going to keep going because you’d want me to—and because it helps Dad. But no matter what, te quiero ahora y para siempre. I love you now and forever.”

  With that, I stood up.

  I looked at the tree and waited to see if the wind would bend it or a flower would bloom or there would be some answer. But no, nothing. The air felt cool, and I rubbed my arms and hugged myself. I couldn’t think of a way to say good-bye in English or Spanish, so I blew the tree a kiss.

  • • •

  That night, I was surprised to see an email from Dear Kate.

  Hi, Catlover—

  I hardly ever write girls unless I’m writing them back, but I was just thinking about you, so I looked up your email in my old mail. How are things? I bet today was hard. After my dad died, I felt like ripping the Father’s Day ads out of all the newspapers and magazines! I especially hated ads that said, “Make his day special,” and contests that said, “Tell us, in 100 words or less, why your dad is a great guy.” I still don’t like Father’s Day, though I’ve learned not to let it hurt.

  Anyway, take care of yourself, okay?

  Kate

  Wow.

  Maybe Alexa didn’t give her mom enough credit. Maybe Dear Kate did care about her pen pals. I phoned Kiki and asked, “Do you think she thought about Catlover99 because she met me? Or because of Mother’s Day?”

  “I don’t know,” Kiki said. “But she wrote me too.”

  “What?!”

  “I wrote her and said I was fourteen and asked: What is the right age for sex?”

  “You did not!”

  “I did. And I’m about to read you what she wrote. But listen up because then I’m pressing Delete!”

  “Okay,” I said, and Kiki started reading.

  Dear Fourteen,

  There is no “right age,” but fourteen seems way, way, way too young, which is perhaps why you wrote me. Sex too soon is a terrible idea and can lead to disease, pregnancy, and plain old heartbreak. There’s no such thing as casual sex because there’s no such thing as a casual baby or casual abortion. Please remember that saying no to someone else can mean saying yes to yourself. Many girls (and guys) are virgins all through their teen years. It only seems as if “everybody’s doing it.”

  “Did you write back?”

  “Nope. Did you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Kiki said.

  I hesitated, then read:

  Dear Kate,

  Thank you for writing me. Things are okay. I miss my mom, but I met my dad’s girlfriend and she’s very nice. Today was hard, but I visited the tree we planted for my mom.

  Catlover

  I admitted to Kiki that I’d spent ten minutes trying to decide between “Sincerely,” “Yours,” “Thank you,” and “xo” and ended up just signing Catlover.

  I did not tell Kiki that I also sent a quick follow-up email that I thought was clever because it gave me a way to ask for more advice.

  Dear Kate,

  Sorry, but I do have one more question. When I met my dad’s girlfriend, I also met her twin girls. I don’t think they like me. Any tips?

  Thanks!

  C

  At first, there was no reply, and I worried Dear Kate might be kicking herself for getting back in touch. But then this came:

  Hi again—

  These twin sisters, like you, are going through an adjustment. You’re worried about sharing your dad; they’re worried about sharing their mom. It’s natural for them to feel territorial and protective. They may warm up—especially if you can figure out what you all like to do: Bake? Bike? Hike? Do you like the same movies, music, sports, shows, sites, games? If they stay chilly, let this be their problem, not yours. (Not easy, I know.) Last thought: If your dad and his GF break up, none of this will matter anyway. So no need to overthink things.

  K

  Break up? I was still getting used to the idea of Dad and Kate going out!

  • • •

  “Kiki, want to go to Armonk tomorrow?” We were in her kitchen microwaving Vietnamese dumplings. “I don’t know if Sam or Alexa will be there, but Dear Kate will.”

  “Omigod! I’ve been waiting for you to ask!”

  I told her that last time I was there, I’d fallen asleep in Kate’s hammock and woken up with a deer a few feet away from my face. At first, I was scared, but then I realized that in Armonk, the deer are about as aggressive as golden retrievers. I also told her that Dad had given me a lecture about how we had to check for tiny deer ticks.

  “Lyme disease is like gonorrhea,” he’d said, “easy to get, easy to cure, but devastating if left untreated.”

  “Kind of a buzzkill,” Kiki said.

  “I think doctors know too much.” I said. “Dad’s all about being careful.”

  The next day, Dad was looking at real estate listings, and I told Kiki to come over. I couldn’t believe Dad and I really had to leave Teacher Tower. Apparently, after Dad’s practice grew, he and Mom had considered moving into a bigger apartment but had decided against it because they loved “the price, location, and neighbors,” and because for us, Halsey really was home.

  Not for much longer. On August 1, a young teacher and his family, the Gidumals, would be settling into 5C.

  Dad and I had gone to look at a few apartments, but his heart wasn’t in it. Everything was expensive or dark or small, and when we did see something halfway decent, some other couple (always a couple, never a father and daughter) jumped in and bought the place.

  “We can always rent,” Dad said, though he didn’t like “throwing money away.”

  As for throwing things away, I was terrible at it. In Spanish, the word for souvenirs and memories is the same: recuerdos. And who wants to throw out memories?

  Dad had a sentimental side too. I’d told him he should get rid of his Hawaiian shirt with the pineapples on it, and he’d said, “Can’t. Mom liked it.”

  I understood because two o
f Mom’s dresses now hung in my closet on either side of my clothes, like bookends. Sometimes, I’d touch them, smell them. No doubt I’d hang them in our next apartment too, wherever that might be.

  • • •

  When we got to Armonk, Kiki shook Kate’s hand and started gushing as much as she had on stage back in February. A few minutes later, Alexa joined us in the backyard by the weeping willow. I was glad she’d missed the hero worship. I hadn’t seen her since Spicy Soup Day, and I hoped Kiki and Alexa would get along.

  “Can that hammock hold all three of us?” Kiki asked.

  “Easy.” Alexa led the way, and we climbed in.

  “This is the life!” Kiki said, looking at the sky through the pine branches. “I can’t believe Dear Kate’s your mom!”

  “She has all the answers,” Alexa deadpanned.

  “And I can’t believe I’m at her house—your house! Sofia, take a picture of me and Alexa.”

  Alexa smiled, and I could tell she liked Kiki. Everyone did. Alexa might even think I was cooler because Kiki was my best friend. We stretched out to enjoy the warm late-spring sun. I closed my eyes and saw rosy pink.

  Kiki studied the deck. “Let’s take time-delay pictures of us jumping off the stairs.”

  If I’d suggested this, Alexa would have dismissed the idea. But she said, “Sure. Why not?” and we spilled out of the hammock. I set my camera on a bench, and we climbed the steps and took photos of ourselves in flight. In one, all three of us were airborne.

  Alexa asked, “What would you guys be doing if you were in New York right now?”

  Kiki shrugged. “I don’t know. Seeing a movie. Shopping. Going to Starbucks. Getting manicures? Studying? Some Saturdays, Sofia makes sandwiches in a soup kitchen, and I help at my mom’s restaurant.” I knew it bugged Kiki that she had to earn her money, whereas Dad gave me an allowance and, lately, extra handouts.

  “My father lives in New York,” Alexa said, “but I can’t picture myself living there.”

  “You should hang out with us!” Kiki said.

  Or not, I thought.

  “Can’t. I have finals coming up. I have a Spanish test on Monday.”

  “Sofia can help you. She saves me. You should take advantage of her!”