Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  Dan stands up.

  I’d be more disappointed about the end of our conversation if I weren’t happy that Katy’s appetite has returned since we last spoke.

  “Congrats on making varsity, Katy,” Dan says. “The Tigers are a great team.”

  She nods. “Anne Arundel County champs last year.”

  “Coach Diller was friends with my older brother back in the day. He had a Division I scholarship to UVA. He’s a good guy. Tough but fair.”

  “He’s pretty cool.” Katy starts to loosen her laces.

  “Good luck this season.”

  She looks up at him as she toes off her cleats. “Thanks.”

  “See you tomorrow, Anne.” Dan waves before ducking inside.

  Once he’s gone, Katy makes a strange face at me.

  “What?”

  “You tell me.” She stares at me the way Richard always did when trying to make a point.

  Suddenly it’s like I’m standing naked in the yard. “Tell you what?”

  “What’s the deal with you and the contractor? I mean, he’s not bad-looking for an old guy, but it is sorta cliché.” There goes another eye roll.

  I rap my knuckles on the table, slightly rattled. “Nothing’s going on between Dan and me.”

  She mutters, “Probably how all these things start, though, right?”

  “These things?”

  She waves her hand around, scowling. “Forget it. I’d rather not picture you getting it on while I’m at school.”

  “Getting it on?” I sputter. “Oh, for Pete’s sake. The divorce isn’t even final, so I’m hardly in the mood for sex. But if I were, I’m not old enough for the idea to be so disgusting. Women my age are still having babies.”

  “Gross!” She fakes vomiting, which sets me back.

  “You’ve never wanted a little brother or sister?” Not that I necessarily crave an infant at this point, but that dream hadn’t died willingly. I don’t know why I reacted like I did after the miscarriage, refusing to try again. Maybe on some level I suspected, even then, that things with Richard wouldn’t last forever.

  “I’ve got one of each now, remember?” Revulsion laces her voice.

  Suddenly we’re right back to steeping in her resentment about sharing a parent with a new stepfamily. “Honey, Brody and Zoe never did anything to hurt you. In fact, they’re probably excited to have a ‘big sister.’ Try not to punish them because you’re mad at their mother.”

  That took every ounce of my inner strength and dignity, because I’m actually a bit nauseated at the thought of Katy’s life fusing with theirs.

  She picks at her fingernail. “Can I be honest?”

  “Always.” My stomach tenses because no one precedes anything positive with that opener.

  “Lauren’s not the only one I’m mad at. I mean, yeah, bitch move to start an affair with a married man, but Dad was more wrong.” She takes a breath, and I think I’ve escaped until she adds, “But you let him go without a fight. Why didn’t you try to stop him?”

  A flock of birds fly overhead while I’m transported back in time to when I’d been sitting on our bed, still in my pj’s, watching Richard pack for his business trip while he told me about Lauren and his plans to file for a divorce. In retrospect, it was a fait accompli before he’d even zipped his luggage.

  I lean forward, stretching my hand toward hers. “I thought about it at first, but tell me the point of fighting to hold on to a man who loves someone else.” When she looks away, I add, “I don’t want to be an obligation. Worse, to be wondering how unhappy my husband is every day. I’d rather be alone.”

  “Obviously neither of you cares how I feel.”

  Dan’s earlier comment about teens learning their place in the world stops me from overpromising. “That’s not true. We care a lot. But, honey, in two years you’ll be in college and then on your own. Your father and I made seventeen years’ worth of choices based on what we thought was best for you, but I couldn’t stay with him after knowing who he wanted. And, frankly, I don’t think I could’ve stopped him from leaving, even if I had tried harder. We did the best we could for as long as we could. We’re not perfect people or parents, but that doesn’t mean we love you less.”

  As I say those words, I feel one step closer to finding some peace.

  Katy pouts. “I hate living apart and having to share holidays and vacations. It sucks.”

  “It does suck. I’m sorry.”

  We both fall silent. I resist the urge to find the right words to soothe her. Nothing I say will change our reality. It’s like Gram said earlier—we’re all on our own. Bleak as hell, but sort of true. So maybe Katy and I need to sit with the discomfort for a while in order for it to fade.

  “I’m nervous to go to Dad’s on Saturday knowing Lauren doesn’t want me there.” Her comment proves she’s obsessing about this morning’s phone call. She’s got roughly forty-odd hours to prepare for the visit.

  “Maybe you could plan to do something with your dad elsewhere. Go golfing or play tennis.”

  “That’s so structured and weird.”

  I reach across the table to pat her hand. “The weekend forecast is great. Take your bathing suit and lie by their pool with a good book.”

  “That’s part of the problem. It’s all ‘theirs,’ not mine. I’m a visitor—a guest—at my own dad’s house.” Her eyes grow dewy, opening that pit in my stomach that spews acid.

  “Didn’t he make up a room just for you?” I recall him telling her that, although I’ve no assurance that it happened.

  “A small one that I didn’t decorate,” she grumbles.

  “To be honest, he took over decorating our old house, too.” I shouldn’t say things like that, but that was to console her, not to rag on Richard.

  “Whatever. I’ll deal.” She blinks back her tears. “I’ll go shower so we can get dinner.”

  “Okay.” I put my face in my hands once she’s gone.

  She struggles so hard with her emotions. If Gram actually spent time in a sanatorium, I might’ve passed along a hereditary illness. For years Richard’s certainty about Katy’s behavior—calling it rebellion and teen hormones—made me question my concerns. I should’ve trusted my gut a long time ago.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ANNE

  Since Thursday evening, Katy’s apprehension about today’s big sleepover at her dad’s new house has choked us like a cloud of smoke. Yesterday I tried distracting her with lunch by the water and a little shopping, but last night she pushed food around her plate and barely paid attention to the season six episodes of The 100 we’d finally gotten around to watching.

  Presently, my second cup of coffee is getting me through this fraught Saturday morning. “Honey, you won’t have a thumb left if you don’t stop chewing it.”

  Katy drops her hand from her mouth. “Maybe I should wait another week to visit Dad.”

  “I thought you wanted to see him?” I put the empty cup down.

  “I do, but the whole pot thing this week just . . .” Her face is pinched and she’s plucking her hair. “I wish Lauren wasn’t going to be there.”

  So do I, honestly. I worry that she won’t treat Katy like family—yet if she does, might Katy, who takes after Richard, also come to prefer the other woman? This divorce could well cost me my sanity.

  I gently touch her hand to keep her from pulling out more hair. “Your dad loves you. Go break the ice. You can call me if you get upset. Retreat to your room when you need a break. If it’s a disaster, just come home. But it’s only for twenty-four hours—you can handle that.”

  Meanwhile, my stomach is in knots, for her and for me. Her first night with Richard and his new family is momentous, as is our first weekend apart. My first weekend on my own. That rattles my nerves, but I hide it from my daughter.

  Hopefully, Richard stocked the refrigerator with her favorite snacks—string cheese and grapes. He used to be thoughtful that way and knew his way around the kitchen. He’d made a
point of getting up early to make waffles with blueberries whenever she’d had a test. Early on he’d even paid attention to my favorites. And I’ll never forget the sight of him cooking homemade chicken noodle soup—red-rimmed eyes, with Katy at his feet—the day after my miscarriage.

  How did we go from that family to this one?

  Some kinds of pain hit sharp but leave quickly, but this loss is more like a bone bruise—deep and slow to fade. “Text me when you arrive.”

  “You already track me on Find My Friends.” She grabs her keys from the entry-table dish we painted together at one of those pottery-painting places when she was about six or seven.

  Her quip nicks but isn’t fatal. “Did you make plans to see Jen and the gang tonight?”

  “Yeah.” She hefts her duffel bag over her shoulder.

  “That’ll be nice. Tell them hi from me.” I grab her in a hug. “I love you. See you tomorrow for dinner. Any special takeout requests?”

  “Pasta?” She eases away.

  “You got it.” I can’t resist dropping one final kiss on her forehead. “Love you!”

  As she makes her way to her car, I wave and then stand there watching her drive away. To me, it feels as if my kindergartener is behind the wheel. She used to clutch my hand everywhere we went, and now she runs off.

  Time moves too fast, refusing to pause on precious moments. She’s growing up and will make her own life soon. But wherever she goes, she takes a piece of me with her. I pray I’ve taught her what she needs to know to face the struggles and savor the wins. That she knows, deep down, that she is my miracle and that she is loved without measure or reason.

  I wrap my arms around myself—the only hugs I get these days.

  When I close the door, my house is utterly silent. No hammers or buzz saws. No child or workmen skulking around. No one who needs me to run an errand, make a decision, cook a meal, or help in any way. It’s so foreign I stand in the stillness, frowning, with only my shadow for company.

  I rub my chest, then glance at the seagrass basket in the corner where my new art supplies are stored. After taking a few steps in that direction, I stop to stretch and wiggle my fingers, then place my hands over my roiling stomach. I’m in no frame of mind to create anything interesting, and even if I were, Thursday’s effort proved I couldn’t execute it.

  With a sigh, I straighten the remotes, fluff the sofa pillows, and run Katy’s slippers up to her room. When I come back downstairs, I’m jittery. Maybe it’s the coffee . . . maybe not. I go to the kitchen to clean out that pot, then open the refrigerator and scan my options although I’m not hungry. Its shelves are full thanks to yesterday’s grocery shopping. While in that checkout line, I’d noticed a poster advertising the town’s street fair today. Now there’s something pleasant to do. A little shopping will eat up a chunk of time.

  Then I’ll swing by Gram’s to check on her before that three o’clock yoga class at Give Me Strength that I want to try. Hopefully, she’s less distressed than when I left her on Thursday. Of course, lately our visits haven’t been easy for either of us. I upset her, which then upsets me.

  I open the old tin box and finger the red scarf and rusty nail. Nothing in here suggests time spent in an institution.

  I snap the lid shut. Today is about taking a positive step forward. Time to do something for myself—to do anything that keeps me from looking back at Richard, Lauren, Katy, and Gram.

  Yet no matter how I busy myself today, the toughest part will be the evening. I certainly didn’t expect to cultivate a group of friends after only two weeks, but the renovation and Katy’s escapades have sidetracked my socializing.

  My only childhood friend here was Leslie Cummings. Her family moved to Charleston years ago, though, and she and I lost touch before we’d both graduated from college. My carefree sorority-party days ended immediately upon seeing two pink lines on a pee stick. Leslie would be shocked to learn that I’m living here. Maybe I’ll look her up on Facebook later.

  In any case, all my neighbors are married except for Mr. Conti, the elderly widower three doors down, so they’ll be busy with couples plans. I should hit up that gallery Dan mentioned and introduce myself to its owner today, and once the volunteer committee for the school art show gets into gear, I’ll make a friend or two there as well. But until all that falls into place, my Saturday night dates will be with Ben & Jerry’s and Netflix.

  Opting not to shower before exercise, I dress in yoga pants and a T-shirt and grab my mat. On my way out the door, I peek at myself in the mirror—a mess of curls and stress. Not at all the “pert” girl Richard used to exclaim I was in the mornings. But this isn’t Arlington. I’m a stranger here, so it doesn’t matter if I’m looking “sporty.” And my oversize Dior sunglasses should provide ample cover.

  When I get to town, the sleek-looking fitness center—white painted cement block, plate glass, silver accents—stands out against the otherwise quaint beach-town character of the surrounding shopping district. Beneath a bluebird September sky, shop owners are carrying products in and out of their stores. Small crowds are roaming the tents, tearing through boxes and racks, bargain hunting. My stomach growls, reminding me that two cups of coffee are not enough sustenance. I park on Main Street and jog toward Sugar Momma’s, the vivid pastry shop whose striped awning flaps in the breeze, then order a pistachio muffin the size of a softball and an Earl Grey tea to go.

  The woman working the counter is humming along with some Khalid song I recognize only because of Katy. Her little shop is bustling with chatty customers, and I make a mental note to remember to bring my daughter here next week.

  Rather than sit alone at a table, I nosh on the muffin while strolling through town. It’s a little dicey balancing it and the tea while thumbing through racks, but soon enough I devour the muffin, freeing up one hand.

  As I peer down the middle of the road, the chaotic street fair rambles on for blocks. At the far end, the rainbow colors of a bouncy house wobble amid a mob of children, sweeping me back to the lavish birthday parties we’d thrown for Katy. Foolish wastes of money that she surely doesn’t remember well, but we’d taken great joy in spoiling her. Some of my favorite memories are of me surrounded by gaggles of young children screeching and running wild, messy with ice cream stains.

  I shake my head, dragging myself from nostalgia. Yearning for yesteryear won’t help me figure out what to do with myself now, so I focus on the next tent.

  L’Armoire is quite stylish, selling dresses and jumpsuits from Vince, Burberry, and Nanette Lepore. But my life isn’t about client dinners and “ladies who lunch” anymore, so it would be wasteful to buy fancy new clothes. I do love the bold floral prints of Samantha Sung dresses, though.

  Ultimately nothing speaks to me, so I move on. Playin’ the Blues showcases piles of distressed denim and faded T-shirts that run more to Katy’s tastes than mine, but I won’t shop without her. She’ll hate anything I choose for no reason other than my liking it automatically makes it uncool “mom” clothing. I toss the jean skirt back on the pile and try the next tent.

  Mirror Mirror, a cosmetics store, catches my attention. Katy doesn’t wear a lot of makeup, but she loves skin care products. Never one to primp much, I’m unfamiliar with them but select some “miracle masks,” a cellular three-minute peel, and a “facial in a box” to plan a fun surprise for tomorrow night when Katy returns. Maybe I’ll order takeout sushi and try to convince her to watch A Star Is Born again, too.

  My bag of goodies jostles against my hip as I continue my exploration amid the commotion.

  I stumble upon Little Lamb, where the most gorgeous baby clothes make me sigh. We were broke students when Katy was born. Richard’s parents funded his law school tuition, and the rest of our money went toward renting a tiny apartment and food, so Katy never had such beautiful outfits. Still, she looked and was precious.

  Massaging the base of my neck, I bite down on my lip while ogling the frilly soft things. So tiny. A bittersweet reminder
of the time of life when every discovery brought more wonder and joy. The infancy days, long before worries set in and surpassing milestones became Richard’s obsession.

  My God, the exhaustion and sore nipples and mommy brain fog had turned me into a monster some days. Thankfully, Richard had been at home—studying, but there—during those earliest years. Katy had completely fascinated him at the start. He’d been so young and exuberantly certain of our future. Determined to create a dream life for us all. He’d swept me up in his fantasy, and by the time I realized that career was overtaking family on his list of priorities, it was too late to reel him back. Now the memory of our once-tight little family hollows out a chamber in my heart.

  Those days of being satisfied with my place in life and confident about my mothering skills and my marriage feel more like an old movie than my own past. Turns out the truth of my life is a series of missteps and reactions more than careful planning and choices. An artist turned wife and mother turned divorcée. Now I’m little more than a stranger to myself.

  I’m dabbing my eyes like some loon when a familiar voice calls my name.

  “Anne?” Dan’s standing just outside the tent.

  Thank goodness for my sunglasses.

  “Oh, hi!” My cheeks are probably as pink as the baby clothes that made me weepy.

  His gaze falls on the little dresses, then he tips his head. “Will I be turning your spare bedroom into a nursery next?”

  “God, no!”

  That came out harsher than necessary, making me grimace.

  Dan’s hands rise in surrender as he snickers. “I didn’t think so, but one never knows.”

  “If I were pregnant, it’d be the Second Coming.” My hand covers my mouth, but thankfully we both laugh.

  If I had another shot at motherhood, would the wisdom I’ve earned through experience make me better at it? Doubtful, since I haven’t mastered being Katy’s parent, and I’m running out of time with that, too. That inescapable future—my daughter’s burgeoning independence—can knock me over like a strong wave.