I Liked My Life Read online

  “I don’t tell you often that I know how lucky I am,” he said during our walk.

  “No, you don’t, but I don’t need to hear it that often.”

  Why did I always acquiesce like that? Perhaps if I didn’t enable his inattention he would’ve learned how to nurture. I allowed him to be distant, to disappoint, and it worked because I was there to make up for it. Now Eve is stuck with those qualities in her only parent.

  Brady struggles through his tears to remember how we picked our wedding song all those years ago. New York City, I whisper. It slips to his consciousness. The weekend after our engagement Brady took me there to celebrate. We stayed at the Park Plaza, even though we could barely afford to park the car. All our money still went to student loans. I asked over and over how we’d pay for the weekend. “I’ll take care of it,” Brady assured. “I’m going to take such good care of you.” It turned out I’d be the one taking care of everyone, but we didn’t know it at the time. That night we went to a bar called The Rat Pack and danced to “The Best Is Yet to Come.” I’d never felt more certain.

  Before retiring to her room, Eve checks on Brady. His audible sobs stop her from knocking. Picturing him broken down, only yards away, hits her hard. Eve is not enough for Brady, which of course she knew, but resents confronting so plainly. She listens over a half hour, wondering whether to knock. Let him be, I pass down to her softly, and she does.

  This can’t be undone.

  Eve

  Today is my grand finale at Wellesley High School. I didn’t think of it as a big deal until Paige stopped in on her run this morning to see how I was feeling. She seemed surprised to find me unfazed. I want to feel sentimental—I do—but my emotions peaced out with my mother. Now I’m just water and bones.

  The hall is packed with kids emptying out lockers. Lindsey and I shared since mine was in a clutch spot by the stairs and vending machines, but she cleared her stuff out days ago, probably to avoid us doing it at the same time. This won’t take long. I rip down the pictures we hung like wallpaper on the back wall and shove the spare makeup bag in my backpack, embarrassed I used to refer to an unexpected pimple as a 911. Everything else goes from my locker to the trash.

  The inside of the metal door is covered with penciled graffiti where Lindsey and I passed gossip between classes. I’m supposed to erase it so I don’t start next year with detention, but they can’t exactly track me down in New Hampshire. I heard Jake say you have a fine ass, I wrote, starting the exchange in September. OMG—he’s such a drooler, Lindsey replied. And on it goes, until the day before Good Friday. No hot gossip after that unless I was the butt of it. I notice a new message across the bottom of the door: I so hope you find a way to be okay. That’s it. A simple wish from my old best friend. It doesn’t bring a single tear. I’ve become a freaking zombie.

  I consider how different this day would be if my mother were alive. Everyone’s headed to Noel’s because his parents totally don’t give a shit what happens there. I’d be passing twenty bucks to Katy whose big brother is hooking everyone up with beer for a small profit, and John would be working on cover stories so we could both spend the night. Instead, I’ll walk out alone and go home to an empty house. My father won’t realize today was the last day of school until I don’t go back tomorrow.

  I turned in a poem for my creative-writing final. Picking it up stands between me and the end of junior year. The assignment was to write a short story, but Mrs. Ludwick gave me an A for these four lines.

  SILENCE SAID

  I have no idea where to start

  How to repair a broken heart?

  Where a laugh means more than the mere amused

  It means a tear has been refused.

  The grade was probably because she felt sorry for me, but still. At the top of the page, she included a handwritten note: You seem to have something to say. You should try writing without the constraint of rhyming. I hold the paper up, pretending the message is longer than it is to avoid eye contact with everyone. The cover-up is probably unnecessary; there isn’t exactly a line of people looking to chat it up. Everyone’s sympathy ran out when my mourning came at the cost of the soccer team’s starting lineup next fall: John’s DUI got him benched the first five games.

  The seniors are all hugging, shaking their heads at how fast it went. The juniors, my classmates, are running around in a tizzy announcing that the Class of 2016 has officially taken over. “Get ready to be hazed,” Jake taunts, knocking the baseball cap off a kid I don’t know. Kara shrieks the words as if over and over about some freshman who made a pass at her. She’s clearly started drinking already, which is bold even for Kara. They all sound like assholes. When the big metal door shuts behind me, I’m numb.

  I once saw an Ellen DeGeneres where kids cut themselves with knives. There were pictures and video clips, but I still didn’t buy it. I figured if they were really cutting themselves it was to get on Ellen and not, as they claimed, for the pleasure of feeling something, anything. Now I’m not as sure. I walk to the car, letting my backpack dangle from my elbow and smash uncomfortably into my legs with each step. It hurts, but it’s better than nothing. Mom sometimes carried pots off the stove with her bare hands. She claimed her skin was callused from years of cooking, but maybe the burn made her feel alive. I can practically hear her denying it, begging me to take better care of myself. It’s a new low: I’m so desperate for affection I’m inventing conversations with a dead person. I pinch my arm to distract me. Indifference is scarier than pain. It makes you think there’s no point being here.

  * * *

  I stupidly left my writing final on the kitchen counter and when I come down for dinner, Dad has it in his hand. “Wow, Eve. This is poignant.”

  I refuse to turn it into a whole big talk, so I say nothing.

  He squints his eyes like he’s afraid of the words that want to come out of his mouth. “I’ve been thinking you … well, you and I, should go to therapy.” I stare at him. “Not together or anything. On our own.”

  I laugh. He doesn’t. “Does the poem worry you?”

  “Not at all. The poem is fine. Beautiful. It’s the note from your teacher. She’s right. You probably have a lot to say. I know I do. But who am I going to say it to? You’re the only one who can relate, and I don’t want to be a burden.” He shakes his head to show that’s not what he meant. “Not that you’d be a burden to me. You can talk to me anytime. I-I hope you know that.” He’s flustered. “God, my sales pitch stinks, but will you go? To counseling?” He extends his arms in a whaddayasay gesture.

  “Whatever.”

  “Whatever as in you’ll go?” he confirms, unable to hide his shock.

  “Sure.”

  I play it cool, but the truth is, it sounds like a damn good idea. I’m not completely losing it, but my masochist moment this afternoon was pretty close. And a couple nights ago I woke up obsessing over an old picture of my mom and Gram cooking. I needed to find it. Right then. It felt enormously important. I got up and emptied an entire bin of prints from the guest-room closet, flipping through each one, as if this random photo held the secret to their deaths, as if this random photo would bring them both back to life. Eventually sunlight filtered through the window, snapping me out of it. Hours had passed. I was ankle deep in photos, sweaty and tired, but mostly confused. I couldn’t remember why I wanted to see the stupid thing in the first place. When I calmed down, I remembered the picture was in a frame at Aunt Meg’s. I don’t know how I’d forgotten (or how I suddenly remembered). The whole thing was flat-out psycho.

  Dad was expecting a fight. He stands there, holding the counter as if he might need it for protection. When he processes that he won, that I’ll go to counseling, he pulls out a copy of an email from his briefcase.

  “Here’s a list of all the local therapists covered by our insurance.”

  This went from casual idea to concrete plan mighty fast. “God, Dad. How long have you been, like, scheming for this?” He confesses it�
��s been a few weeks. I arch my eyebrows. “And … you never said anything … why?”

  “I booked my appointment already, but I’ve been waiting for the right time to ask you.” He stops there but then pushes on. “Admit it, Eve, you’re temperamental. I never know how you’ll react to stuff.”

  It’s true, and he called me out the way my mother would have, so I pick up my cell and book an appointment with the first female shrink on the list. I love shocking my dad. It’s one of my few remaining kicks.

  That night, to prepare for therapy, I write in my new journal for the first time. I only get out fifteen words:

  June 15, 2015

  There are so many things I dare not say I have quietly stopped being me.

  I stare at the sentence for a long time, questioning what it is I want to say. Who was I, really, before my mom died? I was a self-absorbed, materialistic, conceited, naïve child. So maybe what I want to say is simply that I’m sorry. Only the person I want to say it to is gone.

  Brady

  I fired Paula. It’s not what I put on the paperwork, but she knew too much and dug too deep. She had come to think of us as confidants. We talked casually before Maddy died, but asking how my weekend went is a little different from asking if I’m eating enough. Then today she started in on Eve. When I said she was hanging in there, Paula had the nerve to reply, “I lost my mother too. I’d be happy to talk to her if you think it’d help.”

  Eve would destroy her. “How old were you when your mother died?” I baited.

  “Thirty-nine.”

  “What did she die of?”

  “Cancer.”

  I scratched my chin. “I’m no professional, Paula, but I’m going to take a swing here and say that losing your mother to disease when you’re a grown adult with children of your own is, just maybe, a little different from losing your mother a month before you turn seventeen to suicide.” It was the first time I’d said the word out loud and I despised Paula for putting me in the position. We can’t work together anymore. I’m the asshole, but it’s easier to change my assistant than my personality.

  I tell Eve at dinner, sans all details.

  “Is it hard to fire someone?” she asks. A thoughtful question.

  “Yes,” especially when they don’t deserve it. I take a sip of wine to ease my guilt. “She has a family too, you know?”

  Eve smirks. “Can I make a joke that you promise to take as a joke?”

  “Shoot,” I say, nervous I won’t be able to deliver.

  “Who’s going to wipe your ass now?”

  I don’t miss a beat. “I’ll probably get a temporary ass-wiper until I can find someone to take over full-time.” We laugh, but the sound is so foreign it prompts a moment of silence. Eve spins a fork around in her pasta, but doesn’t take a bite.

  “Can I read some more of Mom’s journal?” she asks. I expected this request, and earmarked one a couple days ago that I thought could serve as a foundation for Eve and me to have, as Maddy would say, a serious talk. I bring it back to the table, already open to the page.

  June 25, 2013

  Eve got sent home from her boyfriend Aaron’s house because they were caught kissing. Aaron’s mom escorted Eve to the door like a common criminal, reporting the aforementioned kissing like it was a close second to murder. Poor Eve’s face was red as a fire truck. I’d never met the woman before, so I thanked her for giving Eve a ride home and reached to close the door.

  She put her hand out to stop me and said, “If you don’t mind, I want to know how you plan to handle this. I think it’d be best if she and Aaron had the same punishment, so we can send a consistent message.”

  I nudged Eve inside and took a deep breath, trying to decide how to respond to this lunatic. I first confirmed they were only kissing.

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t say ‘only’ kissing,” she replied. “That does lead places, you know.”

  I laughed. “I think as mothers we can certainly agree there.” She didn’t find that funny, so I said, “Look, Eve isn’t getting in trouble for kissing your son. I’m sorry if she broke one of your house rules, but she hasn’t broken one of ours.”

  The woman stormed off, leaving the distinct impression she’d be praying for my soul this evening. I sat on the floor in the foyer and laughed until Eve found the courage to come in. It seemed like a good time for installment two of “the talk.” Brady is away, so I took her out for Japanese. During our last talk, when she was eleven, we covered the scientific stuff. This time, at fifteen, I gave her details, including the dreaded birth-control lecture. She asked questions like, “How do you know when you’re in love?” and I asked questions like, “Are any of your friends having sex?” We probably should’ve ordered in—we got odd looks from the table next to us—but it was a great night. She let me peek into her world, giving me confidence in her ability to control her own destiny. Eve is not a girl who’s going to sleep with someone out of pressure. Curiosity maybe, but not pressure. As we drove home she said, “You really are good at the whole mother thing.” A kudo of the highest order …

  I wait until Eve reads the entire thing before speaking. When she looks up I say, “I know I’m not her, but if stuff comes up, questions or whatever, I hope you know I’m prepared to be here for you. I’ll leave all judgments at the door. And if you can’t talk to me, you can always talk to Aunt Meghan or Paige. The most important thing is that you get answers when you need them.” It was my most eloquent speech yet.

  “I heard you crying Sunday night,” Eve replies, so that I’m the vulnerable one. She refuses to let me parent.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “It was a tough one.”

  “No,” she says. “Don’t be sorry. I’m trying to say that the same goes for you. If you ever want to talk, or whatever, I’m here. I didn’t want to, like, interrupt you. Your door was closed, so I figured you wanted to be alone. But if you ever want company, I’m up for a good cry anytime.”

  Huh. “Thanks.” I force a smile, wanting to keep the goodwill flowing. “So, are you and John still dating?”

  She pouts. “Do we seriously have to get into this right now?”

  My gut commands me to stand my ground. It’s been instructing me a lot lately, and it’s usually right. “It’s a simple question.”

  “We never technically broke up, if that’s what you mean,” she says, “but once he’s back from rehab I’m sure he’ll get right on that.”

  I begged to have this conversation and now I don’t have a fucking clue where to take it. “You don’t know that,” I offer.

  “Ah, yeah Dad, I do. We hadn’t been speaking much before prom and his dad like banished me after the accident.”

  I look at Eve. Her expression is firmly that of someone who doesn’t give a shit. I know the look from firing people who are excited to collect unemployment. Eve used to explode when we made her get off the phone with John late at night, now they haven’t spoken in three weeks and she couldn’t care less. Maddy would find that disconcerting, but what would she do about it?

  “Well, maybe that’s best with you going to Exeter. No shortage of boys there.” What’s wrong with me? Why am I advising my daughter to stake out another boyfriend when I won’t be there to vet him?

  Eve snorts. “You’re a geek, Dad.”

  I decide that’s an apropos ending to this disastrous bonding moment. Before she leaves I move in for a hug, determined to break our physical barrier, but she steps out of reach and says good night.

  I stay up late thinking about all the things I told Maddy, and all the things I held back. Where was my opinionated gut back then? I offered lots of I love yous and thank yous, but those words are overused. Lying in the bed we shared, lights out, I say it aloud, as though she’s here with me, as though it isn’t too late.

  “If you can hear me now, and I swear you can, I loved how you quoted your favorite writers to describe how you felt about something. I loved your thick, loud laugh, and how over time you wore less and less makeup inste
ad of more. I loved how you treated everyone like they were equally important. I loved how you occasionally cursed like a truck driver, and I loved that you never apologized for it. I loved how you made me feel like I was the smartest, funniest, most generous man in the world, even though I’m learning I wasn’t.”

  It’s my second speech of the night, only this time I get the response I was hoping for. Echoing through my head I hear Maddy whisper, I love you too. Present tense. And I allow myself to pretend that’s true, as though she’s here with me and it isn’t too late.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Madeline

  You’d think dead people, with the ultimate consequence exhausted, would be free from traditional worry, but Rory is on her way to the house and I’m a wreck. If Rory and Eve don’t hit it off there will be no point adding Brady to the mix.

  At my request, Brady called last night to confirm the tutoring session. Expecting it to be a simple back-and-forth, he worked on an outbound email while the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. Is this”—he paused to look at the list with her name circled—“Ms. Rory Murray?”

  “I’m sorry to be rude,” she said in a near-whisper, “but would you please take me off your list? My mother is unwell … I can’t risk disturbing her.”

  Brady almost took the easy out and disconnected, but I reminded his subconscious he’s a grown damn man with a reason for calling. “I’ll be brief. I just want to—”

  Rory was aghast at his audacity, still under the assumption he was selling vacuums or life insurance. “Look, I have no money to buy whatever it is—”

  “Oh. No. No. Tomorrow you tutor my daughter, Eve Starling, in calculus? I’m calling to confirm and get an address to remit payment.”

  Rory laughed. “Remit payment?”

  Realizing he was the butt of the joke, Brady stopped multi-tasking. “Sorry. Long day. I just want to make sure we’re square.”

  She giggled. “Square?”