I took her hand from across my desk. “I might.”
“Why are you so nice to me? Even after you heard me say that awful stuff about you in the bathroom? I still feel terrible about that.”
I shrugged. “People say and do awful stuff all the time. I figured you were just doing it to fit in with those girls.”
“I was. But that’s no excuse.” She bit at a hangnail.
“I guess,” I said. “But don’t beat yourself up. This place is one big excuse for people to behave badly.”
An hour later, when I was sufficiently certain she had calmed down, and she had refused multiple offers to sleep over at my place or have me on her couch, I settled for calling her a car. We traded numbers, and she assured me she would be okay and that she would call me if she wasn’t. On my way home, I checked on her twice via text, and she called me to say good night. Though I felt racked with anxiety that I’d made a mistake in letting her go home alone, I could only watch the clock until, around four in the morning, exhaustion overtook me.
I woke on Friday to silence, allowing it to seep in for a moment before lunging toward my nightstand to see if Nancy had written me. She had. As I opened her message of thanks plus a promise that she’d stop by my office that day, I finally indulged in my tears, knowing they were coming from so many tender and painful places inside me.
I so badly didn’t want to need my family right then—but I did. I dialed their landline from my “Favorites” list and attempted a lighthearted “Hi!” when my dad picked up.
“Hi, sweet pea! What’s cookin’?” he boomed into my ear, oblivious to my emotional state.
“I was thinking of coming home tonight for the weekend. Just to get out of the city. Work has been really crazy. I need a break. If you and mom don’t have plans . . .” I trailed off, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand.
“What a great idea! Your mother and I have no plans. I’ll scoop you and Sam from the train whenever you give me the word. And guess what—our internet is fixed!”
“Sam can’t come,” I said quickly. “I’ll call you as soon as I know which train I’m on.”
I pushed a roasted carrot around my plate before pushing my fork prongs into it but making no movement to lift it to my lips. I felt both my parents watching me, expecting me to explain my dark mood and sunken cheeks, but I wasn’t ready.
“How’s the hospital?” I asked my father instead.
“Good! Good good. Busy,” he said, shaking his head as if disagreeing with himself. My mother looked at him worriedly and turned to me with an empathetic frown. “Your father had a really sick patient today,” she explained.
My dad put his elbows on the table. “My patients are all really sick. Otherwise they wouldn’t need an oncologist,” he said, as though reminding himself as much. I watched his eyes scan the table and linger at the bread basket before he opted for more salad.
“Sorry, Dad,” I said. He shrugged and forced a smile. I attempted to recalibrate my own problems, but they somehow weighed just as heavily on me. I turned back to my food.
“How was your day, honey?” he asked my mother.
“Great!” she said brightly. “We finally raised enough money for the new children’s wing at the library. I think it’ll have a bunch of optional classes to offer as well. And we’re going to have a whole room devoted to Legos and computers with virtual city software. So important for kids to be able to build things.”
My father looked at me. “And who better to oversee that room than your mother?” he asked proudly.
“Why? Because you have an architecture license?” I said to her. One she never used. However dysfunctional, abusive, misogynistic, and unbalanced my short tenure in corporate America had been so far, I still disagreed with my mother’s path, giving up her career to be a housewife.
My mother stared at me.
“Because she is an architect! Still certified,” my father interjected.
“I don’t need the license to do this. I just love the idea of children building something tangible.” She placed a forkful of salmon in her mouth and chewed calmly, though I knew I was trying her patience.
“The salmon is especially good tonight, Mom,” I said, and gestured to the platter. She smiled softly at me, accepting my apology.
At eleven o’clock, an hour after my parents had gone up to bed, I was halfway through Terms of Endearment on cable and two-thirds of the way through a box of Kleenex. I lay on the same couch on which I’d had my first kiss, and on which the recipient of that kiss had later broken up with me, proving to me that the fist-sized muscle in my chest could actually break. The cushion beneath the tan leather was still molded perfectly to my form, and the faux fur throw was just heavy enough to weigh me down comfortingly. When I heard a noise in the kitchen, I pressed pause and wrapped myself in the blanket to check it out. Only the refrigerator light illuminated my father’s frame as he stood contemplating the contents of the Tupperware containers stacked on the lowest shelf while shoving a croissant in his mouth.
“Gotcha,” I said with a laugh.
He jumped back as he covered the K&F symbol over his heart with his hand, croissant still shoved in his mouth. “You scared me!”
“Hungry?” I gave him a sideways smile.
He rolled his eyes. “I try to eat just a little out of every container so your mother can’t tell that anything is missing. But I forgot I could blame the missing food on you this weekend,” he said. “Sit with me for a second, sweet pea.”
Still draped in tan fur, I took a seat at the kitchen table as my father stacked four containers of Tupperware in his hands and made his way over to me.
“Your mom is the best cook,” he said, putting a slice of cold turkey on his plate and squeezing out a dollop of ketchup next to it. “You know, when I first married her, she couldn’t boil water.”
I nodded, allowing the familiar story to ease my mind.
“The first meal she cooked for me was lamb roast,” he went on. “I swear I chewed my first bite for ten minutes, and it was still just sitting there in my mouth.”
I giggled, and he leaned in closer to me, studying my face.
“Are you crying?” he asked, squinting into the dim light. I wiped at my cheeks.
“Terms of Endearment,” I explained, nodding toward the den.
“Ah, you love the tear-jerkers. You’re just like your mother.”
“I’m not,” I whispered.
“You are,” he said, not arguing so much as correcting me. A wave of sadness snuck in under my blanket. My father watched me patiently for a minute before reaching out and taking my hand in his, and I burst into tears.
The words tumbled out of my lips before I could stop them. “Sam and I broke up. He moved out. And work is a mess right now. It’s too much.”
“Oh, sweet pea. Your mother and I thought that might be the case. I’m so sorry.” He scooted his chair next to mine and put an arm over my shoulder. I threw my arms around him, and he rubbed my back over the blanket as I allowed myself the comfort of his embrace.
“You and Mom knew?” I asked, pulling back. “Why didn’t you say anything?”