“We didn’t know, but we wondered. Sometimes people need to share things in their own time.”
I sobbed harder. “Mom must be so mad. She loves Sam,” I managed to say.
My father stared at me. “Your mother loves you, Alex. You should talk to her about this.”
“I can’t. She doesn’t understand my life at all!” I cried. “She quit her job when she had me. I broke up with my boyfriend mostly because I work too much and don’t have time for him. And my stress is all . . . work-related. She wouldn’t understand at all.” I was wiping my tears away with my palms now.
“Enough, Alexandra. Enough is enough.” His voice was harsh.
I looked at him, shocked at his rare angry tone.
“Do you remember any of your nannies?” he continued.
I blew my nose and nodded, indulging him, though I had no idea where he was going.
“What about Ada? Remember her?” he prodded.
“Of course.” The memory of a large bosom and the smell of pierogis wafted over me, and I smiled despite myself.
“Do you remember why she left?”
I squinted to bring the scene into focus. There was a storm. I was in a tree with an umbrella, trying to fly. Then there was a white bone jutting out of my right leg as I lay, crumpled and crying, on the ground. I didn’t quite understand why he was reminding me of a time I’d misbehaved. “Was I a bad kid?”
He shook his head vigorously. “You were the most amazing child. Everybody loved you. All of your nannies. They loved you so much that they couldn’t take it.”
“Take what?” I suddenly felt warm, and let the blanket slip off my shoulders.
“When you had to do exactly what you wanted to do when you wanted to do it. It’s served you well. You were a champion swimmer, got into the best schools, and now you’re at the best firm. You simply . . . will your life to happen, it seems. But Ada left after you jumped out of that tree and broke your leg. Farrah left after we took her skiing with us and you took off down the black diamond without so much as a word to any of us. Cynthia left once you went on a hunger strike in an attempt to force us to get you a puppy. They all loved you so much they couldn’t stand to take care of you when you didn’t follow the rules.”
“I ate when everybody was asleep,” I mumbled. I pulled my sleeves down over my hands self-consciously and rubbed my right forearm. “What’s your point? That I scare off everybody who gets close to me?” I could hear my voice becoming shrill.
“No no no, sweetheart,” he said, and rubbed at my back again. “The point is . . . well, two things. First, you always created your own path, your own rules. I’m sure you will do the same at Klasko. And second, why would we have nannies if your mother was home, taking care of you?”
I squinted to see the glaringly obvious. “Mom worked when I was young?”
“Your mother was at Dunns & Simons in the city until you were six.”
I furrowed my brow as he continued. “She stopped being a full-time architect to be a full-time mother. It’s what she wanted, but she also worried you were too much to leave with anybody else. And she was the only one you ever really listened to. She wanted to be a better mother, and that meant not being an architect. She was absolutely a career woman. But it never meant as much to her as you do.”
My lower jaw hung loosely. The tears had stopped, replaced by a sense of anxious dread that I had somehow misjudged the people who had raised me.
“She worried about me?” I knew she had, of course. But it was oddly comforting to say out loud. It dispelled my feeling that I was a cheap, disposable surplus commodity in the world.
“She worried about you because she saw herself in you! The way mothers do. The way parents do. We worry about you all the time, even now. Whether the subways are safe. Whether you’re sleeping enough. Whether you’re eating enough.” He shoved a container of noodles at me. I laughed and sniffled. “Whether you’re happy,” he finished softly.
I rested my head on his shoulder and stared up at the water stain in the ceiling, a reminder of the leak it had sprouted when I was in eighth grade. I was having a sleepover with Sandy Cranswell when we were in a “best friends” phase, and rather than having pancakes and watching television on a lazy Sunday morning, we were carrying buckets up from the basement to catch the water and dumping them out the back door before they overflowed.
“I can’t believe I kept Mom from working. And you guys would have had a second income . . . you might have been able to retire by now,” I said, sniffling, still staring at the ceiling.
I felt him sigh. “Alexandra, we did just fine. We have more than enough. I love my work. We’re happy.” I held my father’s gaze and finally nodded. Satisfied, he exhaled. “Now I’m going back to bed. I have rounds at seven tomorrow.”
“Night, Dad.”
I watched him meticulously cover the Tupperware and place it back exactly where it had come from, the refrigerator light illuminating the Klasko & Fitch shirt he wore so proudly.
“You’re one of my two favorite people in the world,” he said as he closed the fridge door. “You should get to know my other favorite one. She likely has a better idea of what you’re going through than you think.”
He smiled as he walked back toward me, kissing the top of my head before disappearing up the stairs.
The sun was just coming up as I heard my father’s car engine start in the driveway. I peeked out of my curtains and made my way down the hall to my parents’ bedroom.
Low voices were wafting from the television into the hallway. I opened the door slowly to find the shades still tightly drawn. The beige carpeting was as soft as ever under my feet, and the light-blue chaise where I used to lie to watch my mother apply makeup looked just as inviting as it had back then.
My mother, who was propped up on her pillows in bed, reached for the remote and clicked off the TV. “Good morning, Bunny! Did the TV wake you?”
I shook my head. “No. I was up.”
She patted the mattress, and a deep sense of comfort washed over me as I hopped into the bed and settled into my father’s still-warm imprint.
“I broke up with Sam.” My lips quivered as I rested my head on my father’s pillow and turned toward my mother. “Well, he broke up with me.”
She nodded. “Are you okay?”
“Dad told you?”
“Are you okay?” she asked me again.
“I wanted to tell you . . .” My voice was unsteady.
My mother reached out and touched my cheek with her palm. “Sometimes we don’t say things out loud because we don’t want them to be true.” She contemplated my face. “You will be okay.”
“I’m so sad,” I admitted, mostly to myself, and blotted the stream of tears spilling from my eyes.
“Breakups are sad.” Her obvious words were oddly comforting.
“Are you mad that I couldn’t make it work? I know how much you love Sam.”
My mother stared at me for a long moment. “I love you, Bunny. And whoever makes you happy, but only because he makes you happy and only for as long as he makes you happy.”
“You wanted me to marry Sam. You said it was just cold feet.”