“Let me show you something,” Barry says.
Cece follows him to the far corner of the basement, under the air ducts and past the boiler and boxes filled with Christmas ornaments, where she’s confronted by an enormous wooden armoire with glass doors. Inside, shelves lined with all her high school swimming trophies. On the top shelves, her Patriot League plaques from her time at Bucknell. Below, her high school awards in the shape of New York state, and toward the bottom, where the shelves grow crowded and cluttered, countless ribbons, crystal cups, and engraved plates from her youngest years of competition. He’s even saved the cheesy participation trophies from when she first started competing, the ones with little gold men on top, crouched, ready to dive. They hadn’t had any with women figurines, but Barry hadn’t cared. And there, in a simple black frame, her certificate from the YMCA for completing her first swim class. Cece remembers—hands gripping the foam board, legs kicking up froth, Barry at her side, up to his stomach, wet hair painted against his chest, hands at her sides. Looking back, she doesn’t know where her father ended and she began. It had always been swimming. There’d been no conversation about enjoyment or fulfillment, but had she needed one? Was the passioninnate or cultivated? She’d never know. And wasn’t that Barry’s fault? He was the adult, the parent. The anger comes quickly, like a flash flood, and Cece’s about to remind her father of all the pain and suffering she’s endured because of swimming, because of him, but then she sees his face, full of admiration and gratitude, and she understands that this is perhaps all her father has—a case full of his daughter’s trophies in his basement—and she can only bring herself to hug him and tell him it looks great. If he wants to run sandpaper over those memories until they are smooth, so be it. What will Cece gain from setting him straight, pointing out every misremembered moment? Only fleeting satisfaction, she suspects.
“I’m proud of you, Claire,” Barry says, adjusting a few crooked trophies. “I know we had our differences about the surgery, but you were always a fighter. You can do anything you put your mind to.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I need you to watch Bernard for a little longer, if that’s all right. Your mother was supposed to be here…”
Cece feels a familiar twinge—anticipation—crouched on the starting block, bathing suit cutting into her hips, waiting for the gun, waiting to dive and sink or swim. “Are you guys getting a divorce?”
Barry shakes his head in a defeated kind of way. “No…God, no…nothing like that. Your mom just wants some space,” he says, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt. “She’s getting her own place for a bit, and I can’t watch Bernard on my own, with work and all.”
Even though Cece’s suspected something was wrong, she can’t believe what she’s hearing. Her parents, on the verge of divorce. Hadn’t they made it through the hard part? Careers, kids, paying for college—now is when they’re supposed to spend more time together, enjoy each other’s company. Maybe that’s the problem. Cece wonders if her father actually believes what he’s saying, or if he’s trying to soften the blow. Surely, he must have seen the signs. “Did Mom tell you why she’s unhappy?”
“This isn’t on you, Claire. We’ll figure it out. We’ve had troubles before, and we’ve always come out through it.”
“How are you gonna take care of yourself, Dad? Mom does everything around here.”
Barry reaches for Cece, his long arms wrapping her in a tight embrace. “This isn’t your problem to fix.”
“Does Wynonna know?”
He lets her go. “No. Absolutely not. She can’t hear about this. She’s not like you.”
“Like how?”
“You’ve got strength, kid. You always have. I don’t know what’s going on with you right now with work and the extracurriculars, but I know you’ll figure it out. You’ve always had a strong sense of purpose.”
“What if that’s the problem? What if what I want doesn’t make sense? What if my purpose isn’t my purpose at all, but some stupid experiment?”
“Remember what I used to tell you before each swim?”
Cece rolls her eyes. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. You were a walking cliché back then, Dad.”
Barry chuckles. “What did I say right before your second shoulder surgery, when you told me you were scared?”
The raw antiseptic smell of the operation room, the pinging monitors…she remembers. “If you aren’t scared, you’re not trying.”
“Exactly. And what happened? You came back stronger, better than ever.”
“When was the last time you were scared with Mom?”
Barry makes his way up the basement stairs, varicose veins popping in his right calf, hand gripping the banister all the way up. In the kitchen, he calls Bernard’s name and shakes a bag of treats. Upstairs, nails scrabble on hardwood. “Like I said, fixing your parents’ problems isn’t your job.” He rests a hand on her shoulder and gives it a squeeze, his eyes watery and big. “But point taken.”
12
The email comes through while Cece’s picking up Bernard’s unsettlingly warm poop at a rest stop on I-95. She can’t begrudge him too much; she’d forgotten to take him for a walk before they’d left—her father in the rearview mirror, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, waving goodbye, a look of bemused worry on his wrinkled face.
Dear Cece,
I’ve lived long enough to learn when to take time to cool off before getting into some heated, pointless argument. This morning was one of those moments. Imagine my disappointment and embarrassment when I called Tina to hear about how my accomplished, brilliant daughter knocked her interview out of the park, only to hear that she’d done quite the opposite. Blaming your previous company for letting you go? Challenging your potential supervisor on the mission of the company? You could have simply said you didn’t want the job. At least then I wouldn’t have wasted my time.
I can’t pretend to know what’s gotten into you, Cece, but if you’re dead set on self-destructing, I’d appreciate it if you kept me out of your blast range. Not all of us want to go down like theTitanic. Is this really what you’ve decided to do with the privilege and opportunity afforded to you? I cannot understand this change, Cece. Everyone loses their job at one point or another, everyone has relationship trouble, but you don’t blow it all up. I can only hope that you’ve reconciled with Jonathan. He is a good man, Cece. He is dependable and yes, he is rich, and that matters. There, I’ve said it. Sure, money doesn’t buy happiness, but it buys so much else: space, time, safety, and consistency. You might not think much of these things; you’re still young. But trust me. There is nothing worse, nothing dingier, than getting old and worrying about money. I don’t know why I’ve never said it so plainly to you before, perhaps because it sounds crude, but it only sounds crude to those who are unwilling to admit its truth.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there this morning when your father told you. I imagine it came as quite a shock, or maybe not. You’ve always been more perceptive than Wynonna. The truth is, Cece, your father and I have been drifting apart for quite some time. Marriage is a funny thing. Sometimes I think it was easier when you girls were young, and we were busier than bees. Sure, we fought more. God, the screaming matches we would have, but in the end, cooler heads would always prevail because we had you two, and we knew there were necessary sacrifices that had to be made. And I’m glad I made those sacrifices, but now that you and your sister are out of the house, there’s less to distract us from ourselves. The vacation was a last-ditch effortto try and save things, but it feels to me like this has run its course, and I refuse to be still and atrophy just because that’s what good wives are supposed to do. Your father and I spend very little time together as is. I’ve never been busier at work, perhaps by choice, and he’s grown only more like himself. He’s a creature of habit. Just getting him out of the house feels like a feat. People don’t change as they get older; they just get more like themselves—at least that’s what my mother used to say. None of this takes into account the matter of your father’s business, which moves closer and closer to insolvency with each passing day. I can safely say that the company hasn’t turned a profit in three years. We’re only above water because I’ve redoubled my efforts and have found my own steady stream of income. But I am tired. Tired of his delusions, tired of pulling more than my weight. I don’t want to grow older and more resentful than I already am, which is why I need to leave. Staying will only harm the both of us. I’ve found a good community of women in my exercise classes. I’m telling you, I feel like I’m forty again. I wake up energized and hungry. You can understand, Cece, can’t you? I’m not asking for your forgiveness; I’m just asking you to understand. I imagine this is a lot for you to process. Call me if you want. I haven’t told Wynonna yet, please don’t say anything, I want to tell her myself. In fact, I’ll give her a call now. The last thing I want is your father breaking the news to her. And just in case you’re wondering, I’m still mad at you about blowing off that interview.
I love you, Cece. So does your father. I hope you’ll eventually understand why I’m doing this.
