Andrew is standing to one side of the foyer. He is wearing a tie and a sport coat. Seeing him there, so solid and dependable, unafraid of all my shit, tugs at my heart. My jeans and off-brand T-shirt make me feel even worse.
“Lizzie!” Emma is practically dancing in her favorite outfit, a sparkly pink skirt perfect for twirling and a black T-shirt that proclaims “Self-Rescuing Princess.”
In this setting, my mother is imperious, quite the grande dame. Her hair shines silver in the dim restaurant. She steps in front of my father and offers Andrew her hand. “Nancy Renscoe-Hallett. Doctor.”
“Andrew McPhee. And this is Emma.” His face is neutral and his tone pleasant, even as she’s piled on the formal titles.
My mother glances down at Emma, who has stopped dancing and is frankly staring. “Five years old?”
“Not yet.” Andrew smiles, obviously trying to translate this clinical observation into an emotional connection. “She turned four last month. Lizz—Zoe threw her a rainbow-themed birthday. We’ll never get rid of all the glitter.”
My mother smiles correctly, and her blue eyes are as cold as a fjord. I bristle. Emma is beautiful, perfect. She doesn’t deserve to be examined.
My father might never introduce himself, but Andrew takes the initiative. “And you must be Zoe’s father.” He takes my dad’s hand for a brisk shake. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Yes.” My father’s mind is clearly working, but all he says is “Also Dr. Hallett. Walter.”
Emma’s voice cuts through the soft murmur of the restaurant. “Who is Zoe?”
I wince. This night will be excruciating.
The hostess shows us to a table, and then there’s an awkward dance. The hostess pulls out a chair for my mother, who sinks gracefully into it; then she pulls out the one next to it and looks at me. I can’t help myself, I step back. I can’t sit next to my mother. I just can’t.
I bump into Andrew, who puts his hands on my shoulders, their weight giving me strength to say, “I better sit by Emma. Could we get a booster seat?”
And that’s the excuse needed to make our final arrangement—my parents on one side of the table, Andrew and me with Emma between us on the other.
We’re still unfolding napkins when Andrew asks, “Any more word about Ava?”
My father literally rolls his eyes. “Nothing new. The police are having trouble finding any evidence that she was taken.”
Andrew frowns. “Is there a chance she’s at a retreat or something? Off the grid, writing?”
“That’s certainly possible.” My mother smiles up at my father. “We know what it’s like to get wrapped up in work and lose track of time. But I can understand why other people might be worried.”
People who aren’t deep thinkers or high achievers. People who aren’t special. People like me.
Dinner is all fits and starts. Andrew is used to business meals. In the oil industry, he deals with the gregarious landmen and also the introverted engineers. But I can tell he’s never met mind benders like my parents. They speak their own language, they are not interested in social niceties, and they have no obvious affection for me. I am so grateful to be sitting next to Emma.
My mother’s gaze is on us as I help Emma color the pictures on the children’s menu, cut her spaghetti into bites, and give her my garlic bread. Taking care of my daughter gives me such comfort, comfort that Emma doesn’t even know I need. I brush her hair away from her cheek and she shakes me off, busy with her crayon. I’m probably annoying her, but she’s the only thing that’s going to save me.
Andrew has been gamely interrogating my father. “What do you do, sir?”
“I am a clinical neuroanalyst.”
“And the two of you work together?”
My father nods briskly and takes a bite of his pasta.
“Do you enjoy working together?”
Now both of my parents look surprised, as though the thought had never occurred to them.
My mother speaks first. “I suppose we do.”
Lowering his fork, my father adds, “It makes things so much easier when you have a partner who understands things.”
That’s as good an opening as he’s going to get. Panic fills me as Andrew puts his hand on mine and says, “I completely agree.”
No, I want to tell Andrew, but I choke back the words. Don’t show them you have feelings. They’ll think you’re an easy target.
My father raises his eyebrows, and my mother looks away with a little smirk.
I wince and he lets go, withdrawing.
I’m not like my mother and father. I want your love. I recapture his hand. “We had a lovely wedding.”
And it was.
Just Andrew and Emma and me. I wore a white summer sundress and gold strappy sandals and so did Emma. I had painted our toenails so they sparkled silver, and we spun and twirled to make our skirts flare. Andrew wore a suit, but he had a boutonniere of white clover blossoms and a fading sunburn across his nose from the day trip to Galveston where he’d proposed. Less than a week later we were married at a walk-up wedding chapel in downtown Houston. I twined my fingers with Andrew’s, certain I had found my real family at last. I know it’s a cliché co-opted by every Hallmark anniversary card and date-night romcom, but that was the happiest day of my life.
Maybe Andrew isn’t appalled by who my parents are, because he gives my hand a squeeze, leans in, and kisses my temple.
Emma has been concentrating on her cut-up buttered linguine, chasing each diced pasta piece one by one around her plate. Now she looks up. “I threw the flowers.”
“The flower girl.” My mother nods slowly. “And Zoe is your new mama?”
Now Emma looks uncertain. “Who’s Zoe?”
“Right there.” My mother points at me.
The look on Emma’s face breaks my heart. She is lost and I am turning into a stranger in front of her.
I want to throw myself between her and my mother. Instead I put my arm around her, pulling her close into my side to whisper, “My mother calls me Zoe, but you call me Lizzie.” She ducks her head against me.
“Ah.” My mother nods as if she is just remembering. “Lizzie. So Lizzie is your mother now.” Bitch. She turns her attention to Andrew. “How did she find you?”
“We met each other online. A dating site.” Andrew emphasizes the “we,” and I feel renewed hope. Maybe just this once, my mother won’t make everything worse. Maybe this will make Andrew forgive me, even if I don’t deserve it. He is too smart to volunteer information, but he is also too polite to end the conversation.
Mom is undeterred. “What happened with your wife? Emma’s mother, I mean.”
“Preeclampsia.”
My mother nods thoughtfully, then glances at my father. He stops the mechanical rise and fall of his fork. “That must have left you very vulnerable. How long after her passing did Zoe meet you?”
My chest constricts, and rage starts bubbling inside me.
“Two years,” Andrew tells him. Actually, a year and a half, but I have my lips pressed tightly together. Andrew can do all the talking. Anything I say will definitely be used against me.
My parents look at each other. “Textbook,” my mother says.