“Oh, honey,” she says through a sigh. “I thought you might have, when your mom couldn’t reach you.”
Whenever I’ve been swimming, it takes hours before my body realizes I’m no longer in the pool, and inside my head it feels like I’m swaying like a buoy. I focus on the feeling when I let my eyes slip, and seem to absentmindedly rub one arm with the opposite hand.
“I’m sorry you’re going through all of this,” Brianne says, and lays her hand over mine at last. “And I’m also really glad you’re here. We all are. We want you to know you’re welcome as long as you like. Which is why we wanted to get you a little something, too.”
I don’t mention the shopping spree they gave me yesterday, because in their minds that was probably part of Cherish’s gift. Instead, I lift the bundle again and turn it over and over, looking for the seams. Brianne Whitman is a marvel with all things décor and craft, and I can’t find anyplace to start delicately unwrapping the gift, so I just tear. Maybe that makes me seem anxious to see it, and she smiles like she’s happy at the sight of me making one long, continuous spiral of the paper.
Inside, it’s exactly what the shape implied. A book. I’m not exactly thrilled, but I don’t have to perform excitement for Mrs. Whitman; a much more measured thoughtfulness will please her, so I inspect it.
The book is old. If the clear sleeve protecting it wasn’t evidence enough, the condition makes it pretty clear. There’s no dust jacket, the title and border and illustration are printed directly on the hardcover, and there are flecks of color missing from all three. The background is blue and tan, with an old-fashioned scene depicted in red and white. It’s colonial or European, involving a horse, and a soldier and two boys in old-fashioned clothes. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in the picture, and I’ve never heard the title before.
“The Whipping Boy,” I read aloud.
I play enamored now, the way I trace my finger across the front like I want to feel the cover’s texture through the protective layer. Because this is not a spur-of-the-moment gift, found and given because of an exhausting weekend. This book would have taken some searching, if they just wanted something old and obscure; if the Whitmans wanted this exact title, who knows how much longer.
This gift is specific, and intentional, and chosen with me in mind. Why else would Brianne be hovering so close as I take it in?
I have absolutely no use for this book I’ve never heard of—but that’s beside the point.
The waves I still feel inside me after tonight’s swim swell. The content of the package doesn’t matter. It’s the fact that, once again, Cherish’s parents have gone out of their way to make me feel special. To make me feel a part. The way Brianne was clearly trying to when she said I complete the family, even though, at first, I suspected it was an attack.
What could be more Whitman than a gift that is both extravagant and completely pointless? What could be more satisfying than a present that doesn’t fill a need? Whose only purpose is to make the recipient feel exceptional for owning it?
If I were Cherish, I would take the book out of the sleeve, turn the no-doubt delicate pages, searching for some reason why. Why this particular present? If a book, why this book?
The Whipping Boy sounds terribly old and boring, hardly intriguing for a teenager with almost limitless entertainment options at her fingertips. Cherish would ruin the moment trying desperately to find some reason to appreciate it. That her mother is some sort of fine art and antiquities specialist would factor into her assessment, but only enough to reduce the present to some sort of selfish projection of Brianne’s interests onto the recipient.
I know that the gift is reason enough, regardless of what it is. If it’s more an extension of Brianne Whitman’s expertise, even better. It means she is giving me herself.
The book is an emblem, the way my house has been. A tangible representation of Brianne’s affection for me; it doesn’t have to be anything else.
“It’s marvelous,” I say, because I’ve heard Brianne describe antiques that way. I let my eyes continue searching the unspectacular illustration because she never spends fewer than two full minutes studying a single detail on a new find.
“I’m so glad,” she tells me, and I can hear the exhilaration in her voice. She scoots closer to me. “It’s not for reading, of course, it’s far too delicate for that. Everyone should have something very old, just to cherish. Although . . .” And she reaches for the book, which I give her so that she can carefully open the sleeve and take a deep breath. She offers me the open end, and I do the same. “There’s no harm in enjoying the aroma.”
I smile at the way it smells warm and almost roasted, and the way Mrs. Whitman keeps leaning closer and closer so that now our shoulders and our legs are touching.
She beams.
“It’s entrancing, isn’t it? If I never read a book again, I’d still fill my house with them, just for that smell.”
She’s still smiling at me, and for a moment her gaze is unwavering. There’s a kind of insistence in the way she’s looking at me, and even though I can’t completely translate it, I’m careful to match it. I want her to know I’m not thrown off, the way I was after her party toast.
“It’s so lovely. Thank you, Mrs. Whitman.”
“Of course, honey.” She puts one arm around me and lets our heads rest together so that when a shiver courses through her, I feel it. Her shudder leaks from her body into mine, and even if I’ll never look at the book again, I’m intoxicated.
Maybe she can be home, too. Cherish is the one I’ve chosen, but there’s no reason I couldn’t have Brianne as well. Parents who already love one child they didn’t bear, and who always see her in the best possible light. A mother who refuses to hear the child she adores disparaged. Never asking for evidence or example because she never meaningfully considered my mother’s complaint.
I will choose the Whitmans, too.
When Cherish’s shower quiets, Brianne sits up with a start, breaking our contact.
I didn’t expect that.
Maybe Brianne is worried about how Cherish will respond—but there’s also the chance that this moment has been dear to her. Enough to keep it secret.
“This is just for you, remember,” she tells me, and, to my delight, she takes the book out of my hands and closes it in the drawer of the nightstand beside me. Then, as though to downplay the act, she waves and makes a frivolous gesture. “Cherish has gotten more than her share of presents this year, that’s all.” But she pauses for one last steady gaze before she says, “It’s only fair to keep something for yourself. All right?”
Once Brianne Whitman looks away to collect the spiral of wrapping paper, and while she stands up and smooths her dress, I smile. A deep breath escapes, like the ones I intentionally took while Cherish was underwater.