“I’m going to head over with Syd this afternoon,” I say and my mom nods. She knows Sydney well. My former student has pretty much been a part of this family since she graced my classroom four years prior. Her ongoing battle with anorexia lit a fire under my ass that grew so hot it still burns holes in my underwear, but I have yet to find a way to harness the flames other than taking course after course about adolescent mental health and visiting the twelfth floor of CHOP each week with Syd.
“You didn’t need to come all the way home, hun. I had some food left in the fridge,” my mom says.
“You have eggs, Mom. And you eat them twice a day. Besides, I needed to get out of the city. Kev and Mer wanted to get brunch and there’s this guy that Kev?—”
“A guy!” She actually drops the bag of apples she’s putting away.
“Slow your roll. He’s a dick. And a doctor. Doctor Dick.”
Her shoulders instantly deflate. I consider telling her the entire messy tale that’s been swelling inside like a water balloon on the end of a fire hose—delineating the embarrassing Friday bathroom scene from two weeks ago and all of the so-far-successful attempts to avoid said embarrass-er in between. I’d leave out the fact that the dick in question is insanely hot. Obviously. That detail is irrelevant. But when I open my mouth to speak my stomach gurgles once and lets out a long, dramatic groan. My mother shakes her head and releases an exasperated breath.
“So busy taking care of me that you forgot breakfast?” she asks.
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
My mother sighs and gestures to a chair as she stares at my boot. “Sit. You’re not supposed to be on that thing all day.”
I do as I’m told despite the fact that I hadn’t moved off of Meredith’s couch for hours the day before. Mer’s couch is my soulmate. And maybe I’d part with my soulmate to go for a little stroll, prevent the atrophy in my bad leg, but it is too damn hot in the city, the modern glass buildings downtown reflecting the heat between them like the walls of a microwave and the brick facades of the townhomes that run through South Philly baking to a deep shade of brown like clay left in an oven too long. Couple this excruciating heatwave with my discomfort with being on my own in the city, and you have a Devon-sized ass indent on the cushion of Meredith’s leather couch.
Tara can’t understand what my “issue”—her word not mine—is with the city. We share the same blood, the same adventurous early childhood. We’ve faced the same pain. But where she thrives in NYC and craves the energy of the crowds and the thrill of the new, I prefer the safety and comfort of the known. Like mymother. Just not as bad.Yet, Tara would add when I defensively insist that I am nowhere near as bad as mom.
I watch my mom’s capable hands as she piles the fresh cut lettuce from her garden onto the rolls I bought. An image of her from our years before the accident flashes on my lids, like a dream you want to remember but can’t flesh out. My mother seemed unstoppable then. We traveled constantly, following Dad to conferences across the world, people-watching in cafés along the Seine and crunching soft snow beneath our skis in the Tetons. Did those things really happen? It’s impossible to align that fearless and strong woman of the past with this slightly soft, homebody version before me. Or to imagine a little me in her wake.
“How’s your sister?” she asks, eyeing me as she spreads the Dijon.
Still a pain in the ass, I want to answer. Butstill kicking assis a more accurate response. Tara’s worked her way up from intern to lead designer in one of the fast-growing brands in fashion. She might be a thorn in my side sometimes, but she’s all rose to the rest of the world.
“She’s fine. Leaves for Milan tomorrow,” I remind her.
She wrinkles her nose at the mention of Milan as if the city is a piece of balled up toilet paper stuck on her shoe. She doesn’t necessarily like the idea of Tara’s travels—or her life choices in general—even if she planted the seed of wanderlust that has grown like a weed inside my sister. But Mom never comes out and directly says anything. Just a passive-aggressive comment here and a pointed facial expression there. It’s one reason why Tara rarely visits.
“So, you two have made up then?” my mother asks, already knowing that Tara and I have never fought for longer than a day and that was when she cut up my favorite blanket to make asundress that was actually cute as hell. I couldn’t tell Tara that, either.
“Yeah. We’re fine. I can’t really blame her for Chicago,” I explain, and my mom lifts her brows as if to say, why the hell not? She approaches the table with our lunch, and I wait until she sits to ask the same question that I ask every day.
“Want to make reservations for tonight? Get out for a little bit?” I know the answer. But if I don’t at least ask, I feel like some sort of dirty accomplice.
She shakes her head, her frown lines deepening as she swallows an oversized bite. “And waste all these good groceries you just brought?” She takes another bite of her sandwich and chews slowly, studying me as I pick at the cheese on my own. “You sleeping here tonight?”
I nod, knowing I should just stay at Mer’s. I mean, her apartment is only three miles away from the Children’s Hospital of Pennsylvania. But the guys are going over tonight to watch the new Tarantino movie. And while I love Quentin as much if not more than the next dark and twisted soul, I know that “the guys” now means KevinandJeff, and risking another night with Doctor Dick is low on my to-do list.
“I’ll make us some homemade pizzas,” my mother says. And I have to admit homemade pizzas sound a lot better than sitting cross legged on the couch thinking about whether or not the annoying guy two cushions away is wondering if I’m still sexually unsatisfied. I feel heat rush to my face.
“Perfect,” I say around a piece of tomato.
“Girls night in.” My mom grins.
Again.
I smile right back, trying not to imagine the disappointed look and the sharp kick on the shin by an overpriced heel that Tara would be giving me if she were here. Just one more thing not to tell her. Besides, Tara isn’t here.
She’s out there—living her life.
Chapter Eight
Jeff
Lesson 9: Wherever you go, there she might be.
