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I take a gulp of my coffee. Who cares if it scalds my mouth? I’ve got bigger problems than a burnt tongue. “I appreciate that.” It’s the only response I can think of.
“Your brothers would enjoy seeing you more frequently,” she says, sounding more like Alexa or Siri than a real person.
“I’d enjoy seeing them, too.”
Please, please, please let her stop talking.
The silent plea goes unanswered.
“I resent you,” she says. “Even now, when you are grown, your father prioritizes you. He never leaves work early to have dinner with me or the boys.” Her tone hasn’t changed since she started talking.
“Libby,” my father says sharply. “You promised you’d be kind.”
Libby glares at him. “I’d rather be honest.”
My heart starts beating rapidly. Discord between my father and his wife is unheard of. For all her faults, she’s dedicated to him.
The look that passes between them right now seems almost hostile.
In a flash, I’m ten years old again and peeking through the open door of my parents’ bedroom. My mother is standing in front of the window. Her fists are clenched at her sides and her chest is heaving. Her expression is frozen, stuck between the moment when everything is fine and everything is destroyed.
As I watch, understanding blooms and hostility descends. I can’t hear the words—or, if I could hear them, I don’t remember. A moment later, my father turns and walks away. He doesn’t see me as he moves the opposite way down the hall. I watch him go, not understanding that he’ll never be back, at least not for her.
I step into the doorway, ready to do something, anything to wipe that look from my mother’s face. She sees me staring, and instead of offering an explanation, she walks across the room and firmly shuts the door in my face. It practically presses against my nose. It isn’t the last time she shuts me out, but it’s the first, and the blow is almost physical.
Now I know it was a defense mechanism for her, but as a child, it felt like both my parents were deserting me.
Seeing my mother’s expression, however briefly, flick across Libby’s face sets me further off balance. I don’t want to be the cause of strife. Even though I don’t like my stepmother, my father does—at least, he did. He liked her enough to leave my mother, sister, and me to start a second family. In a crazy way, his commitment to her made the rejection easier for me to accept.
“You are always welcome to join us for Wednesday dinner,” I say to Libby. “It has never been my intention to exclude you.” I don’t apologize for the past, because he is my father, and he had an obligation to take care of me when I was a child.
She sniffs and looks at the table.
“We’re planning a trip to New York to visit Kelsey. You should come,” my father says. His eyes dare either of us to disagree. The significance of this trip is not lost on me, but going with them is a daunting prospect.
“I just got back from New York.” I take another fortifying swig of coffee. “But I’ll try to come.”
Silence descends and it isn’t the comfortable kind. I try to think of something, anything, to divert us from the awkwardness, but at this point, what can I say?
When our food comes, we inhale it like a pack of starving animals, shoveling it into our mouths quickly to keep the possibility of words at bay.
“My mother is moving,” I say when my plate is clean. I wasn’t going to tell him, and I have no idea why I say it now except that I’m stressed and I need to say something.
My father freezes, his hand suspended in midair.
“That’s good news,” he finally replies.
Then he reaches out and picks up a piece of bacon as if nothing is amiss.
I look at the table. He will never feel guilty about leaving and I can usually handle it, but right now all I want to do is bury my head in my arms and cry.
Instead of doing that, I pretend everything is fine.
When we finish eating, I give my father a very brief hug and walk the short distance to my apartment where I unpack and clean the already spotless space.
TWENTY
SLATER
