“It’s OK,” I say. “I’m actually here with my mom and Leo. Just came from the memorial.”
“I should get out of your hair,” she says, though she doesn’t move, doesn’t look like she wants to get out of my hair at all. I remember this about her: that she’d frequently say the opposite of what she meant, that she was often a code in need of breaking. The opposite of Tatum in some ways. Tatum, whose emotions and vulnerabilities are always ripe and available and fully in view. It’s not that Tatum is any less complicated, just complicated in different ways, complicated in ways that allow me to read her, allow me to know her.
I size Amanda up and realize that she is wrong in her comment from just a moment ago: it’s not that I needed an actress or someone who could keep up with me “creatively”; it’s that I needed someone who let me in. Even when Tatum is needy and irritated because I’ve misplaced my priorities—work first, her second—she lets me in; she tells me; she speaks plainly, and Iseeher.
My phone vibrates again against my hip.
“I should be getting back,” I say. “My mom is with her foundation co-chairs. They’ll want to say some words. I should be there.”
She nods, drops her chin. “You always were the good guy. The nice one who got away.” She tilts forward, kisses my cheek.
“Good to see you, Amanda.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” she says, then shakes her head. “Forget it. I don’t even know what I meant by that.”
I grin, and she grins, and then she kisses me again and offers a little wave and is gone. I watch her all the way until she spins through the revolving glass door, out into the street, out under the perfect blue sky which is little more than an illusion of happiness.
My phone is still buzzing, and I reach for it on the last ring before it would shoot to voicemail. “Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” Tatum says. “Sorry about before. Your dog just ransacked the bread bin.”
I inhale and smell the scent of Amanda’s honey perfume, which is still thick in the air. It’s familiar and alluring but dissipating quickly, like if I stand there for another few seconds, I won’t be able to recollect the smell at all. But rather than linger and let it fade on me, I stride through the lobby and leave it behind.
“That dog,” I say. “He is such an asshole.”
Tatum cackles on the other end of the line. “Well, he’syourson.”
“Takes one to know one,” I say. I think of my own dad, whom I wouldn’t call an asshole, at least not today, but who was prickly in ways that I’d never now grow to understand, not with him gone.
She laughs harder.
“Guess it sucks to be on cleanup duty, right?” I say. Tatum had promised that she’d do all the work with Monster when she brought him home. Mostly, I walk him, clean up, pick up the figurative shit. I don’t mind, but I don’tnotmind that she’s getting a taste of it today.
“I don’t even want to know what’s going to come out of him later.”
“I can tell you exactly what will come out of him,” I say. “Do you want all the disgusting details, such as what happened when he ate the whole lasagna off the table or when he dug up the garbage and ate the remains of our burritos, and I had to take him out all night, every hour on the hour?”
“Ugh,” she groans. “Idon’twant any of the details.”
“Works of art,” I laugh. “Those craps were works of art.”
“Monster!” she says to him. “Why are you such a little asshole? I love you! I love you so much, but you are such an asshole!”
Leo waves to me from inside the dining room, and I’m beckoned back to my current responsibilities. Tatum can handle the dog’s digestive system for one day.
“Tell my asshole son to behave himself,” I say. “Tell him his dad will be home soon.”
22
TATUM
AUGUST 2009
The lobby of Commitments is hushed, with a waterfall fountain nearly the only noise, the receptionist and intake nurse working soundlessly behind the desk. Sunlight from the skylight on the ceiling illuminates the eggshell walls, photographs of the ocean and landscapes adorning them. Fresh flowers spill atop the side tables next to the cozy couches where only a solitary family sits, looking both gray and grave, clutching the arm of a young man who is obviously on his way in.
Dr.Wallis greets us with a firm handshake that evolves into a bear hug.
“One of my best success stories,” he says, grabbing my dad’s hand, wrapping him in his arms as well.
