Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  I bet she is.

  “We’ll get a pizza on our way back from getting your car. But listen, just because I’m not screaming doesn’t mean I’m not upset.”

  “I know.” She slides down a bit in the bed and starts twisting and tugging at her hair.

  I touch a bruise on the inside of her forearm. “What happened here?”

  “Nothing.” She yanks her arm away, which makes me suspicious, especially when she changes the subject. “Take my phone. What’s the difference anyway? It’s not like I’ve got friends texting to hang out.”

  I reach for her arm again, worried about what other signs I might’ve missed. “Katy, let me see your arm.”

  When she relents, I pull it close to inspect for needle marks. Thankfully there aren’t any, so I release her.

  She tucks her arm at her side without further explanation, so I let it go.

  If only I could close my eyes and wake up tomorrow to have everything be okay. Instead, I dangle like a spider in the breeze, evaluating the costs of my lousy options. Is it too much to ask for a fairy godmother, crystal ball, or magic wand for newly single mothers? I need a break so I can begin to work out my own problems—like what to do with the next fifty years of my life.

  “Can we order the pizza?” Katy asks.

  “Sure. Hand me your phone and your car keys.”

  She pulls the phone from her pocket and puts it in my hand. “Keys are in the outside zipper of my backpack.”

  After getting them, I have a change of heart. “Let’s go. I’ll order an Uber.”

  “Why do I have to come?” She looks so young with Timmy at her side—a reminder that she’s immature and inexperienced, despite her grown-up face.

  “You can talk to your coach when we pick up your car.”

  “No, Mom. Please!” She’s vigorously shaking her head. “That’s humiliating.”

  “You have to apologize and show remorse.” I cross my arms to steel myself against her will. “Come on, I’ll go with you.”

  Katy kicks the bed like a child. “Mom!”

  “I’ll meet you downstairs.” I flee to avoid being worn down, trotting down the stairs while ordering an Uber.

  “Anne?” Dan calls from the kitchen.

  “Yes.” I close my eyes, bracing for more bad news.

  “Can you pop in here and triple-check this open shelving . . . the height, I mean?”

  The shelves will be on a short wall and hold some cookbooks and bric-a-brac. I paste a smile on my face and round the bend. “Perfect.”

  Dan’s brows show his surprise, then he gives me a double take. “Everything okay?”

  Part of me wants to unload all of it so I feel less alone in this turmoil. But Dan isn’t my friend, although I could use one. Another necessary change—making friends who aren’t merely Katy’s friends’ mothers or Richard’s partners’ wives.

  “Just a lot on my mind.” To change the subject, I shift my gaze to the two base cabinets he’s installed. “Those look gorgeous, don’t they?”

  For a second or two, I envy that Dan gets to create something every day. He’s taken a risk and lives on his own terms. I haven’t felt that freedom—or courage—since becoming a young mom. I thought coming back to Potomac Point would shake me loose, but it seems like I’m as overwhelmed and underconfident as my daughter.

  “For what they cost, they’d better.” He glances at them, nodding. He’s often suggested substitute items throughout this project, but I know my budget and I know what I like. Dan says, “You must be eager to have a working kitchen.”

  “Let’s just say it’ll be a challenge to lose the weight I’m gaining from eating out so often.” I tug at my belt loops.

  “You look fine.” He then coughs into his hand.

  I release my jeans, self-conscious. “Thanks.”

  After living with Richard’s nonstop opinions on everything from politics to my shoes, I can’t decide if I like Dan’s quietude or find it disconcerting.

  “How’s your grandmother doing?” Dan’s left cheek dimples.

  I blink at the abrupt change of subject. “Physically, she’s comfortable and safe. Mentally, it’s hard to know what’s what.”

  “That must be tough,” Dan says.

  “It is.” Especially now that she’s a bit of a stranger to me for reasons that have nothing to do with dementia.

  Yesterday I stopped by the school library after the PTA welcome coffee to page through 1940s yearbooks. None had any William T. who looked like the man in the photograph, though. A dead end. Given Katy’s latest stunt, perhaps Gram’s past shouldn’t be my focus.

  My phone pings. Richard’s text informs me that they’ll be home from Zoe’s game by noon. My daughter will soon have stepsiblings. She resents them now, but she won’t forever. Katy’s family will grow while mine shrinks. A bitter pill I’ve no choice but to swallow. Zoe and Brody are as innocent as Katy in all this, but I begrudge them nonetheless and have no interest in accommodating them or Lauren.

  Not for the first time, I face an ugly truth about myself: I have actively wished Lauren ill these past months. That bad karma has come around to kick my butt by making me watch my daughter suffer. Apparently karma knows how to best torment a mother.

  “Trouble?” Dan asks, eyeing me closely.

  Shoot. Anyone in need of easy winnings should play me in a high-stakes game of poker. “Just my ex trying to coordinate schedules with Katy. It’s complicated because of his fiancée and her kids.”

  “Fiancée?” Dan’s eyes are wide, and only then do I remember that he doesn’t know about Lauren.

  “Yep.” At this point, I’ve got no pride left, so I don’t even flush with the heat of humiliation.

  “He moved on fast.”

  Before the divorce, in fact, but that’s hardly flattering. I shrug because nothing will make this conversation any better or less awkward. Thankfully, Katy appears, if somewhat reluctantly. Hopefully, Dan thinks I’m taking her to the pediatrician. “Well, we’ve got to run.”

  I wave goodbye and usher Katy outside to catch the Uber before Dan asks more questions. Most men don’t make me so nervous, possibly because I’ve been more or less invisible to them since I became a mom at twenty. Dan, however, pays close attention to everything.

  Within moments of sitting in silence in the back seat of an overly perfumed Toyota Corolla, the events of the day wash over me. Katy is doing drugs. I can hardly wrap my mind around that. Plenty of my old classmates experimented, but it hadn’t interested me. And despite everything I’ve read about the rise of pot use among teens, I honestly never believed Katy would try it.

  Are Richard’s and my threats and consequences enough to stop her from vaping again, and are they the best way to handle this problem?

  I’m in so deep over my head I need an oxygen tank to breathe. My strength dissolves as my adrenaline ebbs, making me leery of meeting with Coach Diller. Not to make excuses, but my daughter needs help more than she needs punishment.

  We get out of the Uber and walk past Katy’s car, through the long shadow cast by the enormous brick-and-glass school building, to the fields. Katy’s a yard or two in front of me, her shoulders rounded, her eyes fixed on the ground a few feet ahead of each step. The campus—a school that serves three townships—dwarfs her prep school. I don’t know any of the other kids, parents, or teachers yet. The unfamiliarity breeds intimidation, and the reminder of what Katy feels coming here each day breaks me a little more.

  One of the girls is tying her laces on the sideline. I wave when she looks up at us, but she looks down without a word.

  I exhale and turn to my daughter. “Point out Coach Diller.”

  “The beard,” she mumbles, chin tucked, hands shoved in her pockets.

  Of the three adults on the field, only one has a beard. “Thank you.”

  By all rights, he should not bend any rules for my child. I was married to a lawyer and understand the concepts and importance of precedent and justice. Still .
. .

  With a deep inhalation, I step forward.

  Katy grabs my arm. “Wait! Don’t barge out there and interrupt practice. Jeez.”

  Her gaze is glued to the turf, and I can practically see her skin crawling. Hurting and lost and having had no prior experience with handling her own mistakes, she’s ill-prepared for something so big and beyond her control.

  “Good point.” We stand back to wait for the coach to come off the field. Leaning against the chain-link fence takes me back to my high school experience. More geek than jock, I’d never played school sports, so the bond that teammates share eludes me. I’d been relieved when Katy inherited Richard’s athleticism, knowing that gift would help her make friends more easily. Of course, Richard encouraged elite travel leagues and year-round training that I then had to manage.

  Coach Diller makes his way to the sidelines, at which point he notices us. He sidles over wearing a disgruntled expression.

  “Katy.” He nods at her, then extends his hand to me. “You must be Mrs. Chase.”

  That name again. A hot brand to the heart each time. “Please call me Anne.”

  “I’m guessing you’re here to plead Katy’s case.” He eyes us both.

  “Katy’s here to plead.” I bow slightly before stepping back. My stomach drops when I see my daughter blanch. I’m not sure which is more taxing—watching her suffer or questioning my methods—but Katy needs to take responsibility for her actions. “I’m only here for support.”

  Katy disentangles her fingers from her hair. “Coach, I’m sorry I vaped. I know you don’t owe me any favors, but I swear it won’t happen again. Please don’t kick me off the team. I really love soccer and promise I’ll contribute a lot on the field. This team is the one thing I have to look forward to since the move and divorce and everything . . .” Her voice cracks and she trails off, but he caught enough.

  She’s gazing at her feet again. Her cheeks are red, her face damp with perspiration. Everyone experiences anxiety, which makes it very hard for me to judge whether, at any given moment, my daughter’s involves typical or atypical levels of stress. She tenses when I touch her shoulder in support. I drop my hand, but seeing her squirm makes me ache with the need to offer comfort.

  Coach Diller faces me, offering me the chance to add something.

  “I’m sorry to meet under these circumstances,” I begin. “All I can say is that this is a first, and hopefully a last, for Katy. It’s been a tumultuous summer and transition, but now that I’m aware of this, I’ll be keeping an eye out.”

  He crosses his arms with a sigh. “Katy, I’m no dummy. I know what kids are up to, so I won’t pretend like you’re the only girl on this team who’s tried pot. But you got caught, so here’s the deal. Come to practice starting tomorrow. You’re suspended from playing in games for ten days, but then—assuming you commit—you’re back on full tilt. However, if you smoke again, you’ll be off the team. Are we clear?”

  I could drop to my knees in thanks I’m so relieved. Katy pulls her thumbnail from her teeth and nods. “Yes, Coach. Thank you. I promise, I won’t do it again.”

  “Good. Now I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to get back to practice. See you tomorrow.” He waves us off.

  Katy and I head back to the parking lot together. When I put my arm around her shoulders, she shrugs me off while glancing backward to see if anyone saw us. I understand her impulse, but that doesn’t make it hurt less. My role as her mother—the thing I most identify with—is being stripped away from me before I’m quite ready.

  But I’m proud of her for facing the music, and of myself for letting her. Maybe this is the reminder I needed to begin letting go of managing her life so I can start to focus on reinventing mine.

  “That wasn’t so terrible, was it?” We get in her car, and I start the engine.

  “For you, maybe.”

  “Katy, he was very reasonable.” Finally, I can breathe. “You did that well, and I hope you meant what you said about the drugs.”

  Katy turns on the radio to drown out a lecture. “Can we get the pizza now? I’m about to faint.”

  Her nonanswer doesn’t go unnoticed, but I let it go. It’s been a rough day, but a good pizza will help. Hopefully, we’ll get through the rest of the week without any more surprises.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ANNE

  After a restless night of alternating between overanalyzing Katy and giving myself a pep talk about taking personal steps forward, I got dressed early and drove to Art Smarts to purchase a sketch pad and a set of Caran d’Ache Neocolor II crayons.

  It sounded like a great idea at first. Something for myself. Excluding simplistic graphic design work for booster clubs and the PTA, I hadn’t attempted anything artistic in a decade. Yet art helped me adapt to my new life at eight, so it may also help me now.

  Sketching on my back patio on this sunny Thursday morning could be lovely if it weren’t for a couple of things. One is that the french doors at my back merely muffle the hammers and saws and drills. Every so often a loud bang or shrill whir makes me jump in my seat. Another problem is that by now Dan’s probably gotten wind of Katy’s suspension. I don’t love the idea of giving him more data to add to his poor opinion of me, but at least he hasn’t nosed into our business.

  She’s lounging on the hammock in a sun hat, reading a short-fiction assignment from her AP Lit class. A passerby might think she’s on vacation instead of under suspension. But seeing her finally start to relax a little makes it harder for me to treat this like a punishment. She’s staying on top of her school assignments, and I’ve tasked her with weeding, laundry, and running errands. Hopefully, those extras will make her eager to return to the classroom on Monday.

  The last snag is a case of nerves. No one but me need ever see these early efforts, yet my fingers fumble with the crayons. Unlike years ago, I don’t get struck with inspiration in the face of the blank page—no sound, or color, or mood propels me. The crayon doesn’t take over, and my body doesn’t resonate with a developing idea. Rather than give up, I choose to practice by copying the nature around me.

  A childishly mundane choice. My first strokes are halting and hesitant. Drawing does not return as naturally as riding a bike, that’s for sure.

  It takes effort to block out the distractions and focus on fleshing out the images of the sycamore, maple, and fir trees rimming our yard, which seem twice as large as they did two decades ago. I dip an old paintbrush in water and lift some color from a crayon to blend on the page. Voilà, watercolor. The work is amateurish, but the brush starts to feel good in my hand, like getting reacquainted with a long-lost friend.

  Katy’s sigh drifts down the terraced yard to remind me why she’s here instead of at school—drugs. Doubts flare. Perhaps now isn’t the time to indulge my own passions. In the grand scheme of things, what’s another two-year delay—just until she goes to college? Of course, even then I’ll be hard-pressed to stop worrying.

  I press a hand to my chest at the thought of her leaving. She needs to spread her wings, but that requires me to let go of the most precious thing in my life.

  Sometimes it seems as if my whole life is a test on enduring loss.

  I glance at the weak work in front of me and tear the sheet from the book, crushing it in a flushed pique of embarrassment. While I’m wading in the shallow end of self-pity, my phone buzzes. Richard’s name on my screen forces a scowl. He’d better not be canceling Katy’s visit on Saturday. She’s currently engrossed in her book, so I close my eyes and brace for an unpleasant conversation. “Hello, Richard.”

  “Anne, it’s Lauren.”

  I blink my eyes open. Her voice—sharp yet feminine, like a young Sharon Stone—is familiar despite my having heard it only twice before. Once by accident when she answered Richard’s cell, and once the week before I moved, when I ran into her and Richard at Bagel Barn on a Sunday morning. That had been particularly awful—me in sweats and a T-shirt running out in the middle of packing mov
ing boxes, them freshly showered and dressed, laughing together. Lauren can’t see me now, but my palms are sweating. “Did something happen to Richard?”

  The pang wrought by that concern makes me glower because I do not want to care about him any longer.

  “Richard’s fine. At least physically fine.” Lauren sighs like some 1940s stage actress, as if whatever emotional crisis he’s having is somehow everybody’s problem. “Honestly, he’s struggling with being stuck in the middle, so I think you and I need to talk, mother to mother.”

  My veins become lit fuses.

  I slowly rise from my chair to make my way inside so Katy cannot hear any part of what is certain to be an explosive conversation. Inside the house, the hammers and drills will drown out every other word, but that’s okay because Lauren and Richard’s relationship strife isn’t my problem. This woman’s got gall to expect me to help ease things between her and Richard. “Does Richard know you’ve called me?”

  Without answering my question, she says, “He told me about Katy’s trouble at school.”

  I’m silent because her judgmental, pitying tone has me in a choke hold.

  “Anne?”

  I clear my throat. “Yes?”

  “Oh, I thought you hung up.”

  “No, but I might.” The painting over the mantel reminds me of the joy I felt painting it—of the sense of mastery of oils and my own style, so unlike the woman on the patio who just crumpled her work. Where did that woman go? “What do you want, Lauren?”

  “Something neither you nor Richard can give me, I’m afraid. I know Katy wants to see her dad, but how can I be certain that she won’t bring drugs into our house?”

  Kaboom!

  Throwing my phone against the wall will cost me money, so I refrain. “Interesting dilemma, because I’m pretty sure Katy wants something you can’t give her, either.”

  “What’s that?”