I Liked My Life Page 8

  The next morning Eve wonders whether it was all in her head. On a whim I belt out the words I sang whenever she questioned my love: Ain’t no mountain high enough … ain’t no valley low enough … ain’t no river wide enough … to keep me from getting to you. When the chorus ends, her concentrated face breaks into a smile. She squeezes her knees to her chest one last time, saying good-bye.

  Brady wrote Happy Birthday! on the bathroom mirror with lipstick, the way I always had. Eve giggles at the effort, and also, I think, at seeing the display in a man’s handwriting. It does look funny. Yesterday I repeated the words lipstick mirror about three thousand times so he’d remember the tradition. His Come-to-Jesus-Moment after Eve’s accident hasn’t been the miracle transformation I’d imagined. He’s still too raw, too angry, and—since there’s no reason to sugarcoat anymore—too innately selfish. He wants to put Eve first, but not as much as he wants whatever the hell it is he wants. His inner dialogue is a wheel of excuses: next time … she won’t care … if I’d been sober I’d have handled it better.

  Eve brushes her teeth, stupefied by the idea that I’ll miss her seventeenth birthday. And eighteenth. And nineteenth. As the number ticks up, she presses the brush harder and harder against her gums, lost by the enormity of how much time she has on earth without me. Minutes pass where Eve mentally disassociates from her physical action. Stop, I command. Stop. You’re hurting yourself. She receives my plea and returns to the present, spitting toothpaste into the sink. It’s bright red, her gums exposed. Eve swishes fresh water in her stinging mouth, then heads downstairs.

  Brady has chocolate-chip pancakes going. That hasn’t been Eve’s favorite since she was nine and ate too many despite my warning, but she keeps that to herself. I’m nervous for them. I watch the scene play out as I imagine a writer finishes a chapter, hopeful the conclusion complements the rising action, but unsure it will.

  “Happy birthday,” Brady says, as apprehensive as I am.

  “I don’t know about that, but thanks.” She smirks. “I got your note. Was that color Kissalicious pink or Heart Stopper red?”

  “It was called The One on Sale at CVS.”

  Rory was at the pharmacy when Brady bought it. I didn’t want them to meet in that moment—Rory was frenzied, picking up nausea medication for her poor mother, and Brady wanted to get in and out without anyone noticing the lipstick he was embarrassed to be buying—but I was overruled by fate. Brady grabbed a basket on his way in, planning to hide the lipstick under a bag of chips. When he got to the cosmetics section, he realized he was being foolish and, rudely, abandoned the basket in the middle of the aisle. Along came Rory, rushing toward the exit, prescription in hand. When she tripped on his booby trap, Brady rushed to help. “I can’t believe someone left that there,” he said boldly.

  Rory waved off the hand he offered. “Oh, I’m fine. But I am beginning to wonder at what age I’ll learn to watch where I’m going.” She picked up her purse before meeting Brady’s eyes.

  Smile, I instructed Brady. He did, so she did. “You’re all right?”

  “I am.”

  “Too bad,” he said with a grin. “No grounds for a lawsuit.”

  Rory laughed. “Which is a shame since my brother’s an attorney and I could use the money.”

  As she turned to leave, Rory registered the lipstick in his hand. “Have a nice night,” she said, walking away.

  “It’s for my daughter,” he called to her back.

  She turned to wink. “Whatever you say.”

  I couldn’t have orchestrated it better. They have a natural chemistry. With Eve’s tutoring starting next week, the timing is perfect.

  “Hungry?” Brady asks, bringing me back to the moment.

  “I’ll eat if you will,” Eve says.

  “Is that a critique?”

  “No,” she replies carefully, “but it’s a birthday wish.”

  I help Brady take in the meaning of her words—your daughter is worried about you. He wonders when their roles reversed. “I’ve been eating, you know,” he says. “Just not at dinner.”

  “Yeah, I figured, since you’re still here and all, but I’d like to see it firsthand.”

  I’ve been encouraging Brady to show Eve his sense of humor, trying to lighten their interactions (as much for me as them), and I can tell he’s about to go for it. “You know what I absolutely love?”

  He says it in a childish voice that piques Eve’s interest. “What?”

  “Those cracked honey-mustard pretzels. They cut my mouth like shards of glass and give me cold sores, but even in my grief I can’t help myself. I’d have disappeared if it weren’t for those damn things.”

  It’s such a genuine exchange, which is all Eve wants. She rewards him with a smile. “Whatever works, right?”

  “Right.”

  There’s a knock at the door. “It’s probably one of your adoring fans,” Eve says. “I’ll get it.”

  “If you’re right, I’m not here.”

  I find it hilarious how royally they’ve both misinterpreted the neighbors’ intentions. Susan Dundel aside, the women who stop by are doing so out of concern, for Eve more than Brady. They aren’t stalking him. It’s an organized schedule of twice-weekly check-ins. And they’re not all divorced; Brady’s innate cynicism has combined with his huge ego to determine that they have an ulterior motive and it must be him. Mary is a happily married therapist who was aggressive because she wanted to see Eve in her home environment to ensure everything was kosher. She wasn’t batting her eyelashes at Brady—she was scanning the foyer. The conversations are awkward because no one knows what the hell to say. It’s not like I died in a car accident.

  Eve opens the door to Paige holding a laundry basket filled with gifts. I teed up the delivery, but the timing is off. Brady will be irritated.

  “Oh good, you’re not crying yet,” Paige says.

  Eve looks at the size of the offering and whistles. “Think you got a little carried away there?”

  Paige flaps her hand. “Yes. Usually I’m desperately scouring Pinterest for a suggestion, but for some reason ideas kept surfacing. What can I say? I became a woman possessed. And why not? You’ve been through hell; this stuff won’t make anything worse.”

  “Way to aim low.”

  “I find I’m rarely disappointed.” She follows Eve to the kitchen.

  Brady tenses. He plotted out the morning, and Paige isn’t in the script. She’s the ultimate reminder of what he lost.

  “Is your better half at church?” he asks. That’s how the guys refer to their standing Sunday golf game.

  Paige nods. “He said to tell you they’re holding your place in the foursome until you officially tell them to screw off.”

  “You should go sometime, Dad,” Eve urges.

  “Nah,” Brady says.

  He’s been branded and he knows it. Men aren’t as obvious with their judgment, but it’s there. Inwardly the guys at the club use my death to puff up what great family men they are. Their wives spend their money all-smiles—they can’t figure out how Brady botched such an easy equation. Even Paige, who was my trusted advisor and had a front-row seat to my life, doubts Brady’s innocence. We shared every marital grievance, but Paige now assumes I held back. She wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for Eve.

  “Should I open them?” Eve asks, looking at the gifts.

  “No,” Paige says in a serious tone. “They’re for your eighteenth birthday.” They both giggle. Brady puts tinfoil over the pancakes, sensing this will take a while.

  The first few gifts are to get Eve into yoga—videos, a mat, Athleta clothes. My primary intention is to offer an outlet for her anger, but I also want to establish a commonality between Eve and Rory.

  Eve thanks Paige without enthusiasm. “Try it,” Paige presses under divine inspiration. “It’s not like your schedule is booked solid.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out.”

  Paige’s eyebrows rise. “Well … am I wrong? Do
you have time to give it a try?”

  “No, you’re right, I do. But I can’t promise I’ll like it.”

  “Fair enough,” Paige agrees. “Next present.”

  Their exchange leaves Brady jealous. If he called Eve out like that there’d be backlash. What gives Paige the right? he wonders. Is it just maternal confidence?

  Eve unwraps a paperback copy of The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield. I’m convinced it’s the right book to further open Eve’s mind to the possibility that the energy she senses, the vibrations I send, are real. The more she believes, the easier it will be to get through.

  The final present was not at my behest. Paige bought Eve four-hundred-dollar Frye boots. Eve does a double take at the branded box. “This is a pity present.”

  “Completely,” Paige admits. “I love ya, kiddo. Since your mom isn’t here to spoil you, I figured I’d step in.”

  Eve tears up while they embrace. Brady shuffles behind the counter to remind them of his existence, but Paige shoots him a look that screams, Back off. Brady shrinks, admonished. After his friend Bobby left, Brady did a masterful job pushing back the nagging possibility that he’d played a role in my unhappiness, but Paige’s contempt resurfaces his doubt.

  It’s time for her to go. I poke Eve. “I’ll walk you out,” she says.

  When Eve returns to Brady, they stare at each other, looking for a way back to their earlier momentum. Eve starts to say something, but abandons the thought mid-sentence. “Spit it out,” he says lightly.

  “Mom shared the story of her labor last night.”

  Respond carefully, I coach. “I hear her laugh sometimes,” he divulges. “It’s in my head, obviously, but still.” He wipes away a tear, but not before Eve sees it.

  “You never told me that.”

  “I thought it sounded crazy.”

  “It does.”

  Brady snorts, “Yeah. Yours too.”

  Eve pours two glasses of orange juice while Brady puts the pancakes in the microwave. “Do you think it’s ’cause we want to hear her so badly? I mean, it’s not real, I know that, but then, what is it?” She places a hand on her collarbone. It’s a gesture of hers I know well—she’s scared of the answer.

  “I don’t know,” Brady admits, “but hearing her makes me happy, which so little does right now, so I’m trying not to overthink it.”

  “You? Overthink something? Never.”

  Laugh at yourself, I instruct Brady. And, with mammoth effort, he does.

  Eve

  My hands are still sticky with syrup when he hands me a blank version of my mother’s journal. I thought he’d have Paula buy a bunch of random shit and try to pretend this birthday is normal, but he gives the one gift, unwrapped, as if to prove he had no help. I don’t know how he tracked down something Mom bought over two years ago, or how he thought to get it in the first place, but it’s the perfect present. He wrote a note on the inside cover.

  Eve,

  I know this birthday will be unforgettable in the most negative sense. It’s unfair that grief doesn’t take time off. I’m a poor substitute, but I promise we’ll make it—you and me. Our grief will mature. Although in despair, I cherish your life today, as I do every day.

  There was a saying your mom used to quote by Adrienne Rich: “If we could learn to learn from pain even as it grasps us…” I hope this journal helps you do that.

  Happy birthday,

  Dad

  The note is proof that out of freaking nowhere, it’s no longer me versus him; it’s us versus them, where them is everyone who didn’t lose Her. We’re a team. A totally dysfunctional team, but still.

  “Remember the Clean Plate Club?” I ask.

  “Remember it? I invented it.” He looks down and sees my food is gone. “Nice work.”

  I eye the three-quarters of a pancake still on his plate. “I think we should reinstate the Clean Plate Club.”

  He folds his arms. “I disagree.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t like playing games I won’t win. Any other questions, Chatty McGee?”

  He’s right. I’m not usually this talkative, but I don’t want breakfast to end. The second it does, his laptop will come out, his office door will close, and I’ll be left alone with my ghost of a mother. “Yeah, actually…” I draw out the words while I think of a question. “Why did you guys name me Eve?”

  He wiggles his jaw to find the memory. “Umm, your mother picked it. It means ‘life giving’ and she loved the idea of that. But Eve had been a favorite of hers even before we looked through those crazy name books. A friend of Gram’s was named Eve. Mom talked about her quite a lot when we were first dating.”

  “Who was she?”

  “She was the one who turned your mom into such a bookworm. Highly intelligent. Men proposed right and left, but Eve balked at the whole idea of it. If memory serves, she was one of the first women to get a law degree from Boston College.”

  “Did I meet her?”

  “No,” he says, “and neither did I. She died while Mom was in college, before we met. Lung cancer, I think. She was a big smoker.”

  I grin. “I was named after a dead woman you never met who smoked a lot?”

  He frowns. “It’s all in the details you pick. Mom would say you were named after the most inspiring, independent woman she knew. That’s what she wanted for you, you know? She believed everyone had the right to create their own life, so she was inherently wary of people who told her how to live.”

  “What if I choose to be a belly dancer?”

  I mean it as a joke, but Dad keeps it serious. “Whenever we were around parents who had black-and-white goals for their children, your mother felt sorry for the whole family—the parents because they’d be perpetually disappointed, and the kids because they’d always feel nothing was good enough. She believed there was nothing worse a parent could pass on to a child than guilt.”

  I have to ask the obvious question, even if it ruins the moment. “If that’s true, why’d she do it?”

  He takes a long sip of coffee and looks out at the garden. “She must not have considered it that way.”

  I give him a moment, then ask why she never told me I had a namesake. I’m surprised when he has an answer. “She was saving it, I think. For when you needed to hear it.”

  “And that’s today?”

  “I don’t know, Eve. I’m sure I’m hosing the timing, but you asked, and let’s be honest, it’s not like I’ll remember it at the perfect moment anyway.”

  I double-check I’m talking to my dad. He never admits things like that. Maybe he’s on antidepressants.

  “What about Mom and Gram? Did they get along?” I only saw Gram once a year. She used to slip me Rolaids as candy.

  Dad chuckles. “Not so much. Gram subscribed to the guilt-ridden formula of motherhood. That’s probably why Mom was so conscious of it.”

  “Like how?”

  He takes a huge bite of his pancake and holds up an index finger. I watch the bite travel down his throat. He’s the world’s slowest eater. It drove Mom batshit.

  “Gram struggled,” he finally says. “She wasn’t comfortable in her own skin, you know?”

  I stick out my tongue. “That’s weak. I want examples.”

  “Really taking advantage of your birthday clout, huh?”

  “Oh, come on,” I push. “What could you possibly have to be hush-hush about now? I’m seventeen and they’re both dead.” He grimaces. “Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

  His head hangs. I assume I’ve lost him, that he’s about to get up and leave me with the plates to bring in, but after a minute he says, “Secrets clearly aren’t the way to go. We need to learn to learn from pain, right?” I nod. “Gram was a drunk.”

  My face contorts. “What?”

  “She sobered up once a year so Mom would let her see you.”

  This conversation is as interesting as her journal. Why didn’t I think to ask t
hese questions sooner? “So what, like, she passed out every night?”

  “Eh. It was more substantial than that. Things soured between her and your grandfather, and Gram just sort of holed up with a bottle. She wasn’t abusive or anything, but there was a lot of chaos in the house. Neglect. I think that’s why Mom needed everything perfect all the time.”

  This info gets me thinking. Mom’s childhood could be the source of her depression. She told Dad she wasn’t abused, but who knows? Clearly her goal was to put up a front, a beautiful family portrait that never really existed.

  “Is that what Gram died of?” I ask. “Alcoholism?”

  My father coughs—a strange, forced cough designed to distract. Something about it clues me in. Before he can string together some bullshit story I say, “Oh. My. God. She killed herself, didn’t she?”

  He puts up a hand to slow me down. “Hold on,” he says calmly. “We don’t know that. She had early-stage Alzheimer’s, so she wasn’t of right mind.”

  “Holy shit.”

  His eyebrows rise. “Language.”

  I ignore him. “How’d she do it?”

  “A nurse left anxiety medication in her room by accident and Gram overdosed. They found an empty jug of wine, which didn’t surprise anyone, and no note. I still think there’s a chance she got drunk and forgot she’d taken her meds.”

  I roll my eyes. “She just kept forgetting? Over and over?”

  “You sound like your mother.” He looks exasperated, as if it’s nine years ago and I really am her and this is still up for debate. “It wouldn’t take much. She was in poor health. Dialysis and all that.”

  I don’t buy it. I don’t remember anyone ever saying Gram had Alzheimer’s. If she got drunk and housed pills it was on purpose, which means we have a family history of suicide. Maybe there are more hands on Mom’s corpse than I thought.

  Dad takes a big sip of his orange juice and points his glass toward me. “So now you know.”

  “Any other skeletons you can pull out for my big day?”

  “Cool it,” he says. “It wasn’t my story to tell.”

  * * *

  Halfway through the day I shut off my cell, but people just call the house phone instead. Everyone has the number since I was the last of my friends to get a phone. “You’re not getting one until I need you to have it,” Mom said every time I asked. That turned out to be freshman year when I started getting rides from older kids on the tennis team and Mom worried I’d need to get in touch with her. She called me all the time. I never called her once.