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“It’s just the way it is.” But there’s a stronger question in Billi’s words this time, a slight dawning. I nearly smile at the small victory, but I keep it hidden. Baby steps stop working the moment you make someone take a giant leap forward.
“Maybe the way it is isn’t necessarily the way it should stay,” I say, talking to both of us now. I ordered an ancestry test last night and put a rush on the shipping so I can take the test faster. Better to have the questions answered than give them time to multiply. The test is supposed to be delivered to the hotel by tomorrow night.
“Maybe not,” she says more to herself than me. We spend the next twenty minutes perusing article after article, coming up with nothing new.
And then Billi has an idea.
7
Billi
“Dad home?” I casually ask my mother, giving her a kiss on the cheek. She’s standing at the stove, wearing an apron that says, “Burn Baby Burn,” and stirring something that looks like a cross between cream gravy and paste. Her hair is styled as usual in its helmet-bob and hangs just below her chin. If June Cleaver had a twin sister with red hair, that twin’s name would be Lolli Ellis. The whole town wonders how such a contented homemaker wound up with a rebellious daughter like me, but the whole town can suck it. “What are you making? Looks…interesting.”
She picks up a damp towel and swats me on the thigh. “I know what your ‘interesting’ implies. It’s a sourdough starter. I promised Mrs. Butler I would bring her some today and nearly forgot.”
“Oooh, make me some bread while you’re at it. Your sourdough is the best.” I slide onto a bar stool to watch her. My mom’s everything is the best.
“Yes, it is, but if you want some, you need to stay here and knead it for me like a good daughter. Hurts my hands nowadays.”
I feel a pang of guilt for bringing it up. My mother was in a car wreck at age fourteen. Broke all the bones in her left hand when she braced herself against the windshield, a break that required three pins and a three-month-long immobilization in a cast to heal. Seemed good as new until the last couple of years when the clock caught up and reminded her, “Oh yeah, you’re getting older. Time for everything to start hurting now.” Arthritis takes no prisoners.
“We need to get you one of those stand-up mixers, Mom. The kind with the dough attachment that does the kneading for you. That would help a lot.”
She waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Completely unnecessary when I can do it myself.”
“Says the woman who just asked her daughter to do it for her.”
“Don’t throw my own words back at me.” She runs a wet sponge across the counter to wipe away spilled flour. “Why do you need your father? He’s not set to be home for another hour or so.”
“I wanted to know if I could borrow his access key.”
“Access key to where?”
“County records.” It’s been nearly fifteen minutes since I closed the car door and told Finn I’d “be right back.” I really hope he doesn’t come looking for me. Twenty questions about who he is, whether he’s single, married, or widowed, and how much money he makes are not what I need right now. So far, the plan to pop in my parents’ house and sweet talk my dad out of his key is not going according to schedule. I’ve used it before, claiming an unpaid bill by a particularly shady guest I needed to find when in fact we were trying to locate Susie’s other dead-beat baby daddy so she could sue him for child support. It worked, so there was no reason to believe it wouldn’t work again. Now, I’m not so sure.
“Last time you used his key, he found out your explanation wasn’t entirely truthful, young lady. I doubt he would give you a second chance this time.” I’m twenty-eight and hardly young, but suddenly I feel like a child who got caught joyriding after curfew. But come on, if you’re gonna birth a kid, you should pay for it.
“It was true…mainly. There was a guy who needed to pay a bill…” And now I sound like a child desperate to make the story stick. Even I hear the truth as it stretches thin. “Can’t I borrow the key for a minute anyway? I promise to hurry and bring it back before anyone knows it’s missing.”
“The county records building is already closed.”
“Hence me needing the key. I’ll be faster after hours.”
She gives me the kind of mom-look every kid gets when they’re skating at the edge of parental patience. I smile as sweetly as I can. Even though this is typically the kind of stunt that could get my dad fired, we both know he won’t be. And I know that I’m hard to resist when I pull out the “Mommy’s little girl” face. Usually works on my dad, too.
Bingo. “Go see if it’s on the table in our room. If it’s there, use it and bring it back before he gets home.” When you’re young, no one tells you the secrets to a happy marriage involve white lies and sabotage.
A happyhome,really.
“Okay, I will!”
I dash to my parents’ bedroom as my mom says, “Who isn’t paying their bill this time?”
Turns out the secret to a happy mother-daughter relationship involves the same things. I come up with a white lie of my own and blurt out a name no one has ever heard of.
What you don’t know can’t hurt you is a saying for a reason.
“You sure wewon’t get caught?” Finn says, not for the first time, from behind me as I jiggle the key into the lock. I toss him a look over my shoulder.
