by Leila Sales
“You killed it out there, Huntley,” Lindsey told him. “You wiped the court with those guys. I bet they’re scared to come back next time.”
Roman had been in the game for all of six minutes, and Lindsey was a terrible liar, but it was possible that a child might believe her.
Roman didn’t seem to be paying attention to her, though. “I don’t know where Mom went,” he said.
“To New York, Roman,” Arden said. “You do know.”
He shook his too-big head. “I saw her in the stands, though. I saw her while I was playing. But she wasn’t there afterward. Why wouldn’t she come say hi? Because we lost?”
Arden and Lindsey exchanged a glance. “She wasn’t there,” Arden said. “I promise.” But there was a tightness in her chest. If her mother had been there, she would have noticed—right?
“Yes, she was,” Roman insisted. “She was sitting right under the exit sign.”
Then Arden realized what had happened. Roman hadn’t been wearing his glasses, so of course it made sense that he would have gotten confused, from a distance. “No, Roman,” she explained, and she felt so bad for him, her baby brother, who had so much learning to do about the world and all of its disappointment. “That wasn’t Mom. That was just me.”
Arden’s mother explains herself
It was funny that Roman thought their mother would come home for his basketball game, because the next day, she sort of did. Not in a literal, physical sense. But she sent a letter. It was addressed just to Arden, and her father hand-delivered it while she was sitting in her room doing homework on Monday after rehearsal.
“No,” Arden said when he handed it to her. “What is this? No.”
“Your mother asked me to make sure you got this.”
“And what, you just do everything she tells you now?”
“I think doing this particular thing makes sense,” Arden’s father said. “You won’t take her calls. You don’t respond to her e-mails. I think you should hear her out.”
“Do you know what she says in here?” Arden asked, weighing the unopened envelope.
“I have a pretty good idea.”
Arden gave an impatient snort. “I don’t have time for this. There’s a huge math test tomorrow that I’ve barely studied for, and I’m supposed to call Chris in twenty minutes, and Naomi is freaking out over some costuming thing, and I can’t rearrange my entire life just because Mom has written a letter.”
“Fine,” her dad said. “I don’t have time for this, either. It’s pro day for a lot of big college teams, and I need to keep track of it all.” He turned and left her room.
A minute too late, Arden said, “Oh, Dad, that’s not what I…” She sighed. She hadn’t wanted to fight with her father. But the person she wanted to fight with wasn’t there.
A letter. Could there be a more one-sided form of communication? A letter was saying, I’m going to state my thoughts, and you can’t argue with them because I’m not even there to hear you. All you can do is listen to me. A letter was not a conversation.
Arden threw it in the recycling bin. Then she fished it out and opened it. Her curiosity always got the best of her.
This is what her mother’s letter said:
Dear Arden,
I know you’re angry at me, and I don’t blame you. I’m certain what I’ve done has been traumatic for you, and it pains me to think about how you might be suffering, or what you might think of me now. But this was something I had to do. I’m hoping that enough time has passed since I left that you might be willing to consider what I have to say, to try to understand why I felt like I didn’t have any other options.
The first thing I need you to know is that I did not leave because of anything you or your brother did, or failed to do. I love you both with all my heart, and all my soul, and nothing that you ever do, or fail to do, could change that. Please understand that.
Things between your father and me have been difficult for a while, and in recent years, instead of improving, they’ve only gotten more challenging. As you’re well aware, your grandparents fought constantly when your dad was growing up, and it affected him in a lot of negative ways. So it was important to him that you and Roman not be exposed to the same sort of parental conflict that he was, and I agreed with that. But the truth is that just because two people aren’t yelling at each other doesn’t mean that they’re making each other happy.
To put it simply, your father and I have very different ideas of what it means to be a parent. And I reached a breaking point. I felt like I had done all the running of our household for seventeen years. I wasn’t getting the sort of support from your father that I needed. And I couldn’t take it anymore.
I felt like years of injustices and unequal distribution of responsibilities all caught up to me at the same time. It frustrated me to feel that your father prioritized his job over his home and, even when he was home, that he prioritized his fantasy sports over his real family in front of him. It’s never seemed fair to me, and lately it’s seemed less tolerable than ever.
It’s not something you and I have talked much about, but I think you know that before you were born, I was working on getting my master’s degree in social work. I had this idea that I could be a really great social worker. And maybe I couldn’t have, maybe that was all in my mind, but that’s what I imagined.
I was incredibly excited to have a baby. It was my dream come true. But I realized very quickly that I couldn’t be the sort of mother I wanted to be—the sort of mother I thought you deserved—and also be going to classes and studying and doing field work. It didn’t seem possible. Someone had to take care of you. And I didn’t want to get a babysitter for you, or send you to day care where a bunch of babies would all be vying for attention. I thought you should be raised by a parent. And your father was not interested in being that parent. So I set aside my master’s degree and figured I would come back to it once you were in school.
Once you were settled at school, we had Roman. And, again, this was my dream come true. The problem wasn’t that I got to be a mother again—that was a blessing. But your father didn’t agree that, since I had done all the work of raising you, this time around maybe it was his turn. He felt like he was the breadwinner of the family, and he was doing pretty well for himself at that point, and he loved his career. And my idea of going back to school was a pipe dream, which might never turn into anything profitable. He was going to stay at his job, and if I wanted to go back to school, he said, then Roman could go into day care.
But I’m sure you remember what a fussy baby your brother was. He needed his mother. He needed me. I wasn’t going to hand him over to some stranger who could never love him with the intensity that I did.
And your father said, basically, that was my choice. I could choose grad school or I could choose spending all my time with my children, and I chose my children, I chose that freely, and so what reason did I have to be unhappy?
Making that choice made me feel like I mattered—I must matter, if my family needed me so much. And then I kept making that choice every day, until eventually it became too late for me to unmake it.
I kept thinking I would someday go back and finish my degree. But there was always something else to do. There was always a basketball practice or a parent-teacher conference or an upcoming Spanish test. I loved being so involved in the lives of my family, but at the same time I felt like I’d lost sight of myself. I only knew who I was in relation to somebody else. For years I was somebody’s wife, somebody’s mother, somebody’s friend, somebody’s daughter. And for once, I wanted to be somebody for myself.
I didn’t know how to find that in Cumberland. I felt like as long as I was in that same house and that same situation, I would keep making those same choices. So, I left.
I don’t know if this is anything you’ll be able to sympathize with, or if it will give you any peace to know all of this. I’m telling you because I hope that it will help, and because I think you’re old enou
gh to hear what’s going on.
Your father and I are trying to work things out. We’re talking about all of these issues, and I’m hopeful that we can come to some sort of understanding, some way forward, so I can come home again. The bottom line is that I love you totally and completely, and I always have, and I always will. I would be happy to discuss all of this further with you. Or just to hear how you’re doing. You can e-mail or call me at any time.
Love,
Mommy
Arden stared at the letter for a long time, the words blurring together until they became just meaningless shapes. Then she tore it up into as many tiny pieces as she could, and she threw every last one of them in the garbage.
Stalking people, take two
It wasn’t fair of Arden’s mother to blame her running away on Arden’s dad. It was ridiculous and self-centered. Okay, so he didn’t do the everyday parenting. He rarely took Roman to sports games, collected Arden from school, managed their schedules, oversaw their doctors’ appointments and haircuts, set up playdates, or noticed when they outgrew clothes or finished a carton of milk. Yes, their mother did all that boring, mundane stuff. Give her a standing ovation.
But that didn’t make their dad a bad parent. On the contrary, when there was a big thing in his kids’ lives, their dad was first in line to document it with photos and video, or to cheer them on, or to coach them in the necessary skills.
He was the one who taught them to ride their bikes, for example. He was the one who taught them how to catch and throw a ball—really poorly, in both Roman’s and Arden’s cases, but he did try. When they went to the beach, he helped them build elaborate sand castles, and when they decided to get a dog (RIP, Spot), he was the one who took them to the animal shelter so they could choose one. He had tried very hard to instill in them a love of pro football, his passion. While it never stuck, he was always delighted for his kids to sit on the couch to watch a game with him, and he would regularly e-mail them articles about the teams he followed, whether or not they’d expressed any interest in reading them.
When he taught Arden to drive last year, he left nothing to chance, telling her everything he knew about how to handle different road situations she might someday find herself in. Together they logged almost double the number of required practice driving hours, and when he took her to her driving test, she passed with flying colors. Even the officer administering the test commented that he’d rarely seen drivers her age who were so confident. Her dad took this as a personal compliment and printed out official-looking certificates on thick cardstock, one for Arden saying WORLD’S BEST TEEN DRIVER and one for himself saying WORLD’S BEST DRIVING COACH. They both still had them hanging over their respective desks. Once she had her license, he even helped her purchase the Heart of Gold, matching her dollar for dollar.
He was a good dad.
Thanks to the Heart of Gold, Arden spent every day last summer driving. She’d drive as far and as often as she could, usually with Lindsey in the passenger seat, since Lindsey was game to go anywhere at any time. Often they would drive forty-five minutes to a crumbling independent cinema called the Glockenspiel, which showed artsy films, some of which were in French or Italian with subtitles, or which were old and in black and white. It’s not like they were such huge cinephiles. It was simply that the Glockenspiel was far away, and seeing a movie there was something to do.
Plus, they were obsessed with the Glockenspiel’s manager.
Her name was Veronica and she had bleached blond hair with an inch of obvious brunette roots. She always wore chunky platform shoes and her arms were covered in tattoos, and she cursed up a storm when she introduced any film (“Truffaut was an effing genius and Jules et Jim is one of his shittiest films, and yet for some effed reason it’s the only one anyone effing talks about when they talk about Truffaut”). She embodied the mandate, handed down by one of their English teachers, of knowing something about everything and everything about something.
For a while, Arden wanted to grow up to be someone like Veronica. Lindsey wanted to grow up to marry someone like Veronica.
Arden came up with a plan. Every time they went to the Glockenspiel, they would ask Veronica a question. Just one. Just one question would seem perfectly natural and conversational, and maybe with time, they would befriend Veronica, or, barring that, at least they would know what she would say when asked various questions, and then they could mimic her responses in future conversations with other people.
Arden and Lindsey would spend the entire car ride to the cinema brainstorming what to ask. While they were buying their tickets, they would ask their one question. And then they would spend the entire car ride home analyzing Veronica’s answer.
When Arden asked what the best song in the world was, and Veronica answered, “Smashing Pumpkins, ‘1979,’” the two girls found that song online and listened to it over and over as they drove back to Cumberland.
When Arden asked where she and Lindsey should apply to college, Veronica answered, “Don’t bother. A college education will be irrelevant in ten years anyway. You can teach yourselves anything you really want to know.” This prompted a vicious argument between Lindsey and Arden on the ride home, because Lindsey thought that was the best advice she’d ever been given about college applications, and Arden thought that you needed a college education if you ever wanted to do anything of substance with your life, and Lindsey’s crowning piece of evidence was “Well, Veronica says you’re wrong,” and how was Arden supposed to argue with that?
When Arden asked Veronica what her dreams were for the future, Veronica answered, “Being the manager at a movie theater.” Which wasn’t exactly Arden’s or Lindsey’s dream, but after talking it through, they decided it was wisdom about appreciating what you have when you have it, rather than wishing your life away.
Arden always had to do the asking. Lindsey was too intimidated.
When Arden asked Veronica how you knew when you were in love with somebody—because this was when she was thinking of saying it to Chris, but she wasn’t quite sure whether she meant it—Veronica leaned out of the ticket booth and said, “I have a question, too. Why do you guys always ask me such weird things when you come here?” When they didn’t say anything, Veronica said, “Never mind,” and she sold them their tickets.
The film that night was Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, a classic from the sixties. It was depressing, about a long-married couple who just tore each other down and tore each other down, using everything they knew about the other to hurt them, just because they could.
After that movie, Arden and Lindsey didn’t speak at all on the car ride home. And they never went back to the Glockenspiel again, either.
Sometimes, people aren’t who you want them to be
Chris was biding his time. He had confided in Arden that he felt high school plays were—no offense—beneath him. “I’m not saying that I have nothing left to learn,” he’d explained. “You can always find something to learn from every experience, if you look for it. But let’s be honest, Mr. Lansdowne is not a top-tier director, and the people I’m playing opposite … well, enough said.” A sigh. “I’m worried that I’ve plateaued.”
Chris had big dreams, dreams that could never be realized in Cumberland. He wanted to be a Hollywood star. He resented his parents for raising him in a small town so far away from the movie industry, and for their complete lack of interest in helping him find an agent, get professional headshots, or attend audition coaching. Chris’s father’s hardware store had previously been managed by Chris’s grandfather, which meant he considered it basically written in stone that it would someday be managed by Chris.
Arden knew it was hard to make it in Hollywood. None of her other drama club friends even imagined it. Kirsten thought maybe she would audition for some musicals in college, or maybe she wouldn’t, but that was as far as her theatrical ambitions went. But Arden thought that if anyone from her town could manage a professional career as an actor, her boyfr
iend would definitely be the one. He had a deep voice, he could cry on command, he had a dimple, his arms were just the right amount of muscular, and he was tall—though she’d also read that most movie actors were surprisingly short, so maybe that wasn’t actually a point in his favor.
Chris kept an eye out for auditions and open calls held anywhere remotely nearby and, now that he had his license, too, he drove to them whenever he could. That’s why he was spending sixth period on Thursday, two weeks after that stupid letter came from Arden’s mother, running lines for a film audition that he was going to on Saturday. The film was a very, very small-budget production about coal miners, which was going to be shooting some scenes on-site in nearby West Virginia.
“Gretchen,” he said to Arden, squeezing up his eyes as he tried to remember the rest of the line. “I can’t help but think that you and I—”
“Me and you,” interrupted Arden, glancing at the audition script. “Not ‘you and I.’ Remember, the character left school when he was twelve to become a miner and support his family.”
Chris sighed and took back the script to study it further.
Sixth period on Thursdays was when Arden and Chris had theater class, which they signed up for because they could take it together, and because it was an easy A. Since they both were heavily involved in theater after school, Mr. Lansdowne already adored them. So while he made the other fifteen students in the class play games where they mirrored one another’s body movements or pretended to be animals, he let Arden and Chris do whatever they wanted. Today, this meant that Chris was brushing up on his backwoods accent, while Arden was ostensibly working on a history paper while actually finishing up her read-through of every single entry from last autumn on Tonight the Streets Are Ours. And here’s what she had learned:
