And then, right after homecoming, Rachel had a falling-out with Eloïse. She never told me what it was all about, but she changed. She stopped turning in assignments, became sullen and withdrawn, hiding in her room under her covers every day after school.
I felt I was losing my daughter to something dark. I didn’t sleep at night. That’s when I got the prescription for Ambien. Parents told me ominous stories about girls who got off track in high school and became suicidal, or drug addicts.
It culminated in her refusing to go to school the last few weeks of the semester. We took her to see a therapist. Rachel begged us to let her finish high school in a smaller environment, to leave the chaos of her large public school. The therapist she was seeing agreed a smaller, more nurturing school could help.
We were lucky. We were able to make the switch to a small private school over the winter break.
There, Rachel blossomed. She made new friends who were like her, more interested in spending the weekends hiking Scott’s Run than shopping at Tysons Corner or drinking. She threw herself into the small classes and got all As. She redoubled her tennis efforts and entered senior year more focused than ever.
Could this bracelet be a remnant of those misspent early fall months? I wouldn’t put stealing past Eloïse Allard. She was a spoiled, willful girl and Jo and Daniel took a very hands-off approach to discipline.
“I don’t know what I believe,” I say. “But I can’t ignore that it was in Rachel’s possession.”
Kenya rolls her eyes, the image of nonchalance. “I can think of a hundred other scenarios, starting with it’s not the same exact bracelet. How do you even know it’s the same one? I mean, is it engraved?”
“No, but it is unique. It’s gold, with a little heart.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions. Rachel could have found it. Someone could have given it to her. She could have bought it at one of those thrift stores she always goes to.”
“That’s true.” I nod. Rachel was always coming home with paper bags filled with clothes from various secondhand shops. “You’re right. Okay, I feel better.”
“What did the email say?”
“She just wants her bracelet back.”
“Fine. Let me handle it. I’ll tell her to send me the paperwork.”
I start to rise. “I’ll get the bracelet.”
Kenya waves at me. “Don’t bother. Wait ’til I see the papers.If it looks legit, I’ll get her the bracelet. I don’t want you to give this another thought, all right? Just wipe this out of your mind. You have enough to worry about, enough on your plate. And honestly, you should be resting. Hey! I have an idea—you go sit down in that chair in the living room, and I will make myself busy in here.”
“I have a whole system—”
“And you will be right here to answer any questions I have from the comfort of that chair in your darkened living room.” She pauses and narrows her eyes. “You know that you are supposed to rest in the dark after a concussion, right? Like not pitch-black, but just darkened.”
Dutifully, I take a seat. Sometimes it is just easier to give in to Kenya than fight her.Poor Noah, I think as I settle in the chair. This is what it must have been like for him his whole life. Kenya kept him busy with school tutors and test preppers, while Shawn oversaw private athletic coaches. Must have cost a small fortune. But their investment paid off, because Noah is going to Wharton in the fall. I wonder how kids like him turn out when their parents aren’t there to cheer them on before every test, to remind them to turn in their homework, and to run interference with their teachers. At some point they have to succeed or fail on their own terms.
We have been lucky with Zach, who was born with an inner drive. I hoped for the same from Rachel but by the fall of her senior year, I had to make peace that her poor grades from fall junior year meant that she wasn’t going to get in to a top twenty college.
But I won’t lie. I was thrilled when she got a letter of interest from Georgetown recruiting her for the tennis team, indicating that if she kept her grades up, she’d be admitted.
The letter was like a magic spell that dissipated any of the bad feelings remaining from the year before. It was amazing what the external validation of being chosen by Georgetown had done for her. For me. For our family.
“Let’s start with this.” Kenya opens a plastic box of small figurines. She holds up a ceramic cat sitting on a blue pillow, about eight inches tall. “Have you photographed this yet?”
“Yes, but I haven’t priced it. It might be Staffordshire. If it is, it’s worth something.”
She looks at the bottom. “Hmm. No markings.” She takes out her phone and types something into it. “Let’s assume it is. Seventy-five?”
“Seventy-five?” I gasp. “You’re kidding. I was thinking twenty.”
“People won’t believe it’s real Staffordshire if we price it too low.”
“But we don’t know if it’s Staffordshire.”
“Fine. Fifty. Where do you keep track of prices?”
Before I can answer, the front door opens, and Miguel walks in, his tie hanging loose around his unbuttoned shirt.
