Soph eyes me warily. “You seemed like you fit to me.”
“It’s…complicated.”
Complicated, as in I’ve spent the past few days vacillating between butt-hurt anger, stinging pride, and deep regret. Complicated, as in I miss Mari so much my chest aches. Complicated, as in I’ve spent the past few nights wondering if I made an epic blunder.
My kid studies me but doesn’t say anything. Just tugs my hand so I follow her back through the “Why am I here?” room. I’m sensing a theme, but at least Soph’s not talking about Mari anymore. We move into the next exhibit filled with photos of the tunnels running under the hospital grounds like ant trails.
Soph scans the pictures with a frown. “They just put people in here without telling them why or even where they were going. And tortured them and did all kinds of horrible things. But they had a swimming pool and beauty parlor and…” She peers at the caption on a photo. “A weaving room and a woodshop?”
“All of it underground.” This place is freaking me out for real now. “Ideas for how to treat mental illness must have evolved a lot over the years.”
Soph sighs. “I wish Mari was here.”
There’s that junk punch again. I take a few deep breaths to get my bearings. “You’re not having fun with just your dad?”
“It’s not that.” She bites her lip. “Mari made things make sense, you know? Like—she knows things.”
“Yeah.” Like the fact that my wife wanted to leave me, way before I knew. Small bubbles of rage simmer inside me, but they don’t boil like they have been the past couple days. Maybe that should tell me something.
“Like—this stuff is kinda depressing, right?” Soph bites her lip. “But Mari would know all about how things changed and how therapists do better now and how they don’t lock people up or shock them anymore.”
It’s an interesting take on Mari as Little Miss Sunshine, or maybe I’m misunderstanding. “You think she’d spin things in a positive light?”
Soph frowns. “Just that she knows stuff. Things that make it all make sense. Like how maybe things had to be bad before so they can be good now.”
I’m not sure we’re still talking about the history of mental health therapy. “I suppose that’s true,” I say carefully, biting back the urge to point out that it’s not so helpful when Mari knows stuff and doesn’t tell me about it.
My kid must read something on my face because she scrunches up her forehead and looks at me like I’ve got beetles crawling out my ears. “You’re weird, Dad.”
“Not as weird as that guy.” I tap a black and white image of a man in a lab coat cupping a human brain. “Maybe we should move on.”
Soph shrugs and skips into the next room. This one’s full of images of young kids, and I have to stop and remind myself that Soph’s okay. That I’ve done an all right job protecting her, making sure she’s strong and resilient and—
“Kids as young as six?” Soph looks at me, horrified. “And they made them stay here?”
I peer at the plaque to confirm what she’s said. “Apparently so. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think that happens anymore.”
Soph shudders. “It must suck.”
“Growing up in an asylum?”
“Well, yeah, that.” She shrugs and turns to face me. “But I meant knowing stuff that might help someone or hurt someone or just mess up their life. But you can’t say anything because your job is to protect one of those people.”
I have no idea where she’s getting this. If I weren’t still pissed at Mari, I might be forced to admit my kid has a good point. “Are we still talking about Mari?”
Soph shrugs again, so I sigh and drag a hand through my hair. “How much do you know?”
She scuffs her toe over the floor. “Mom said Mari was her therapist. That she used to tell her stuff about…about us.”
I feel my hands clenching at my sides and struggle to keep my fingers relaxed, my voice calm. “Mari said your mother never mentioned you.”
When Soph winces, I realize that’s not much of a comfort. “I just—didn’t want you to think Mari knew all about you and still thought it was a good idea for your mom to leave.”
My daughter cocks her head. “But it’s not the psychologist’s job to say something’s a good idea or a bad idea, right? It’s just about helping someone figure stuff out for themselves. That’s what you said before.”
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. It’s one thing to know I have a smart kid. It’s another when she outsmarts me. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Anyway, I wasn’t talking about that.”
Opening my eyes, I peer at her. “What do you mean?”
“About Mari not telling you about Mom. That’s not what I meant when I said it sucks to protect someone when you know something that might make the other person sad. I meant you and Mom.”
Now she’s really lost me. “Come again?”
Soph folds her arms over her chest. “Mom’s not really sick, is she?”
I shove my hands in my pockets and take a deep breath. If there’s one thing I’ve promised my kid, it’s honesty. “I can’t say for sure.”
“But you don’t think she has a migraine?”
I hesitate. There’s no right answer here. “No,” I say at last. “I think your mom had other plans that maybe didn’t include us.”
I’m braced for tears. For anger. For Soph to rage and slam her fists against the wall.
“All right.” She turns and walks into the next room.
Fuck. Is this something we should talk about? I have no idea how badly her mother’s abandonment has screwed her up. I’m not sure what to say or how to react or—
“Joel says, mom leaving wasn’t about me.” Soph whirls so fast I almost run into her. “And Mari said the same thing. That a mom who’d leave her kid must have been really hurting. Do you think that’s true?”
My breath catches in my throat. I know the right answer here, but giving it means letting go of my anger.
Slowly, I unclench my fingers. I didn’t realize I’d balled them into fists, but I release the tension along with some of my fury. “Yes,” I say. “I didn’t understand at the time. I was angry and hurt and embarrassed, and if you want to know the truth, I still am.” God, I hate admitting this.
But Soph’s looking at me like she’s soaking up every word. Like these are big, important admissions she needs to hear from the one stable grownup who’s known her all her life.
So I take another deep breath. “I think your mom was hurting. I think she needed something I couldn’t give her. That the life we’d built together couldn’t give her. I might not agree with how she went about things, but I do understand what it feels like to want something badly. To not know how to handle those feelings.”
I close my eyes, stunned I’ve just admitted all this to a twelve-year-old. A mature twelve-year-old, but a kid nonetheless. Maybe she’s not grasping all the subtext of what I just said. How much it applies to my feelings for Mari.