I nodded. I needed that validation more than I could ever put into words. “You’d like her. She has pink hair and wears avocado earrings.”
“Like, actual avocados? Or things made to look like avocados?”
I waved a finger toward my ear as if she didn’t know where earrings went and said, “Beaded things that look like avocados. Beads, sequins. Embroidery, maybe? But not actual avocados, no.”
“Actual avocados would be pretty badass,” Eva mused. “I bet there’s some kind of ancient Mesoamerican custom of wearing avocado earrings as a way of knowing the exact moment they’re ripe.”
In a different time, Eva would’ve followed that thought to the Yucatan and spent two months asking the locals about old avocado lore. Then the wind would’ve turned her attention in a new direction and she’d set off to hitchhike up and down Pacific Coast Highway or learn how to drive a pontoon boat down south.
“Are you doing all right?” I asked her.
With the curiosity of ancient avocados wiped from her face, Eva nodded slowly. “As good as anyone else in this place,” she said. “But it hasn’t been too bad. Thank you for the care packages and for keeping money on my card. That’s helped.” She heaved out a sigh. “There are books here. Not the best of selections and some really outdated shit but I’ll take what I can get.” Her eyes widened, her brows crinkled. She paused and I prepared for the worst. “I’ve been talking to a counselor. She suggested I think about writing to Mom.”
I leaned closer, my chest nearly level with the table. “Say that again?”
She laughed though the sound was sad. Aching. “I know, right? The counselor says it might help me resolve some stuff if I reach out. If I just say hi and that I miss her and I hope she’s okay. That’s all.” As she spoke, her eyes filled with tears and her words broke. “Even if she never responds, I’ll know I tried.”
“I think that’s a good idea. I know it’s hard for her to write. She has a tough time holding a pen or typing but there’s probably someone at the facility who can help.”
“I might do that,” she said. “But I won’t hold my breath for a response. Because she has a hard time writing.”
We were silent for several minutes while Gennie colored. She told a story about pirates and submarines and how mermaids would always side with pirates. When the visiting hours ended, Gennie and Eva shared another long, tearful embrace. I gave my sister a squeeze and reminded her to let me know if there was anything she needed.
I carried Gennie out of the facility, her head heavy on my shoulder and her silent tears soaking my shirt. She didn’t say much on the drive back to the hotel other than to say she wanted to visit the indoor pool again and then eat chicken fingers for dinner. All things considered, this visit was a remarkable improvement over previous attempts.
And yet it was still grueling. It was still more than I ever wanted Gennie to endure.
She splashed in the pool for three straight hours and, upon judging her five thousandth handstand of the evening, I realized she was burning off emotional energy. She needed to tell pirate and mermaid stories and race from one end of the pool to the other and handstand her ass off because it was how she worked out the stress. It was the same reason she ran off the bus every afternoon and bombed down the hill to play with the dogs. She wasn’t just a hellraiser of a child. It wasn’t an attack on my orderly way of life. She simply needed to do something with everything she’d experienced that day.
Gennie swam up to the edge of the pool. “Noah, am I allowed to send Momma stuff in the mail?”
“What kind of stuff?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some of my good schoolwork or a letter if Shay would help me write it.”
“Yeah, you can send her those things,” I said. “I’m sure Shay would help you but I can help too.”
“Shay’s better at that stuff.” She dunked under the surface and then came back up. “I was a little girl when Momma went away and I didn’t really understand it,” she said sagely. “Now that I’m a big girl, I know Momma still loves me and she didn’t go away because she didn’t like being my momma.”
“You’re—you’re a big girl now,” I repeated.
“Yeah,” she replied, as if it was obvious. “And I think you need to be really nice to Shay.”
I leaned forward on the lounge chair. What did this kid know that I didn’t? And where was she getting her information? “I…thought Iwasnice to Shay.”
“Nicer,” Gennie said. “Like youloveher.”
I coughed to cover up a bitter laugh. Shay and I had exchanged a few texts this week, only the most basic check-ins from our travels and confirmation that she was well, and it was driving me fucking crazy. I couldn’t wait to get home. I wanted to make things right with us and I didn’t care what that cost me. I’d rip up this fake marriage and start over if that helped. I’d hire another therapist so the three of us could figure out how to do this right. Anything she wanted, I’d give her. Anything. “How do you suggest I do that?”
“You should do nice things, like take her on romantic dates,” Gennie replied. “I promise I won’t run away when Mrs. Castro comes to babysit this time.”
Mrs. Castro was a little too busy unpacking the horror of her last babysitting gig to consider future opportunities with this flight risk. “Dates, okay. What else?”
“She liked it a lot when we had a birthday party. Maybe we should do that again.”
“Another birthday?”
“I dunno. Maybe a party with cake. And presents! You should give her presents.”
