I decelerate as I approach the main entrance where wrought-iron gates hang on pillars that are only a carriage-width apart, a fact that caused me to scrape my car when I dropped Imogen off here almost a week ago. The driveway is long and straight, golden pea gravel bordered by lawn dotted with venerable trees. This is a private school that plays host to camps during August and the first week of September.
Imogen stands on the front steps of the house, waiting for me, holding her cello. There’s no one else in sight.
I feel my body relax but only slightly. I must keep the strengthof my feelings packed away, so as not to alarm her. I’ve been accused before of failing to care about how others feel, but I know enough to understand that, to teenagers, a fulsome display of adult emotion can be like the sound of a gunshot to a herd of deer. I don’t hug her for the same reason. Public hugs have been taboo since she was ten.
I scan her, looking for signs of harm. I can’t help myself. But there’s nothing to see. There never is. No doubt intentionally, she’s well covered up by her clothing. But she said she resisted the urge and I have to believe her.
Apart from a couple of old scars on her arms, she’s never let me see the extent of what she’s done to herself, and I’ll admit, there’s a part of me that feels relieved to be spared the sight of her beautiful young skin scarred in that way. Could any parent stand to see it? I’m not sure.
She’s only done it twice before, so far as I know. I bitterly regret that I wasn’t able to help her at the time, but I didn’t know about it until it was too late.
I can be here for her now, though, which is something I take very seriously. It means so much to me, as we’re on the cusp of our new life together. I want her to feel more loved than she ever has done. It will help us both to heal.
“Do I need to speak to anyone before we leave?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I told them.”
“They were okay with it?”
Another shrug. “Not really. They were upset. But I went to the nurse and she said I should go home. She emailed.”
Above us, hanging from the columns supporting the building’s portico, a canvas banner drifts lethargically in the breeze. “Welcome, Outstanding Young Musicians 2019!” it proclaims. From inside I can hear the faint discordant sounds of an orchestra tuning up.
What a shame Imogen won’t stay the distance, but I mustprioritize her health. That’s what a good parent does. It’s what Rob would have done, and I must play the part of both her parents now.
“Let’s go,” I say, with my best smile. I pick up the cello and march ahead to the car because it’s important she doesn’t open the boot.
I ease the cello into the back seat and take her bag from her, cramming it in beside the instrument.
As we drive away, I hit the gas and after sitting rigid for a while, she seems to relax and puts her earbuds in and I relax a little, too.
So, this was not my plan, and I’m a little shaken up by the change, but that’s life as a parent. And that’s what it’s all about going forward. A simple, loving existence, for me and for her.
Which is how I know I can deal with this.
I can improvise. Why not? And now that I’m thinking about it, it’ll be wonderful to spend time with Imogen tonight, just the two of us.
Did I mention that love is a beautiful motive?
I’m standing by that.
“What do you mean?” Emily asks. “When did Edie do this before?”
It’s hard for Emily to believe. Emily has only met Edie a few times, but she is so much more fun than Ruth or Jayne. Edie doesn’t take herself seriously. Her sense of humor is wicked, she has fantastic clothes, and there’s nothing mumsy about her. Quite the opposite: she’s hot for her age. Emily was surprised when she learned that Edie has a teenage daughter.
In fact, the first of Emily’s disappointments regarding this weekend was when Edie announced at the very outset, when they had just begun to plan when and where they would go, that she wouldn’t be coming with them.
“Edie pulled a lot of pranks when they were in school,” Jayne says. “She has a reputation for it.”
“This is really a prank? Are you sure?” Emily very much wants to believe this.
“It makes more sense than the alternative,” Jayne says. “Seriously, you can’t believe she’s actually killed one of our husbands.”
She picks up the letter. “To me, this is a cry for help.” She reads from it. “‘I didn’t come along because I know I’m not welcome. This is goodbye. I’m going away.’ Edie wants us to rally around her and beg her to stay. The murder threat is to get our attention.”
“Could the men rally even more than they already are?” Ruth asks and Jayne snorts. Paul, Toby, and Mark have rushed to Edie’s side at the drop of a hat since Rob died.
Ruth thinks that there’s some sense in what Jayne’s saying, though. Her eyes fall on the gift, still wrapped and sitting in the center of the table, shiny and exuberant. “So, what do we think’s in there, then?”
