I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything else right then. She would have too. Her work, hanging in a room with Rothko and Jackson Pollock and Georgia O’Keeffe. Mrs. Pearce had bought the painting from my dad two days after the funeral. At the time I’d wondered if she’d done it sooner if it might have made any difference. If maybe my mom could have held on somehow, stayed to finish it, kept going if she’d known it would end up here . . .
I made myself look away, trying to stop this train of thought. There was absolutely no point to it. This had been five years ago, and I’d long since gotten over it. There was no need to drag this stuff up again. But even so, I let myself lean slightly into Toby. She gave my shoulders another squeeze, and I was beyond grateful for a friend who knew exactly what I meant even when I wasn’t saying anything.
• • •
After I left the museum I headed to the library. I sat on the floor with dog books stacked all around me—I figured since my learning curve was pretty high, I needed to find out what I could. Just because this hadn’t been the summer job I’d expected, I rationalized, didn’t mean that I couldn’t do it well. And as I left the stacks, I found myself heading away from the checkout and over to the biography section. I walked down the row until I got to the Ws and stopped in front of my dad’s autobiography. I hadn’t done this in a while, and I had a feeling I was only here because I’d seen my mother’s painting. That it had led me to the only place I could go for answers to impossible questions.
There was a copy of the autobiography on the bookshelf in my dad’s study, of course, and there was a copy in his apartment in D.C. But somehow, reading it at home, actually sitting down with his hardback, would have been admitting what I was doing, and so I’d read the whole thing here, in short bursts, standing in the stacks or sitting on the ground, leaning back against the rows of books. It had been written when my mom was still healthy and things were still good—the intent was for it to coincide with the national election that fall, but by the time it came out, everything had changed.
I flipped through it, stopping briefly at the pictures in the middle—my dad in elementary school, his hair combed flat, his front teeth missing; at high school graduation; my parents in their twenties, arms slung around each other, my mom wearing a shirt that said DON’T MESS WITH KANSAS EITHER, her hair long and wild—until I got to the page I was looking for. The paragraph was at the bottom of the page, and I read the words over, even though by now I had them memorized.
I’m very close to my daughter, Andie, and I’m proud of that. One thing I’ve realized is that just because you have children, you don’t necessarily automatically have a relationship with them. You have to work at it, make them a priority, and take the time to get to know them. I love my daughter, and there’s nothing that’s more important to me than my family.
I stared down at the words, fighting a heaviness in my chest. When I’d first read this, four years ago, it had made me angry, but now it was more like I didn’t recognize what the words meant, even though they were about me. The book could have easily been shelved in fiction, for all that it resembled our lives now. But I still found myself returning here and reading this paragraph over again, feeling a little bit like an anthropologist looking at a lost civilization, once really something, but now in ruins and mostly forgotten.
I stood in line to check out my dog books behind an older man reading a thick paperback. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, then, out of curiosity, tried to get a look at what he was reading. He caught my eye, and I took a small step back, embarrassed that I’d been so obviously looking over his shoulder. The man turned his book so I could see the cover—from the font and the image, I could tell it was a fantasy book. “You ever read this?” he asked.
“No,” I said immediately, since I couldn’t actually remember the last time I’d read a novel. Probably something for school this last year, when I’d had to. But even so, out of politeness, I leaned forward, like I needed to check this. The Drawing of the Two was written in raised type across the front, and the cover showed two swords clashing, a crown raised above them. By C. B. McCallister, was printed on the bottom, in letters almost as big as the title. “Sure haven’t,” I said, my tone polite but hopefully not one that was encouraging further conversation.
The guy shook his head and huffed. “Don’t start,” he said irascibly. “This writer hasn’t even finished the series. Left us all hanging for years.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding, my favorite polite but noncommittal answer. Even as I spoke, though, I realized this was starting to sound familiar. The title was ringing a bell, and I was pretty sure I’d caught half of the movie version on a plane a while back. The movie had been okay, there had been a follow-up, and it was supposed to be a series . . . but the author hadn’t written the rest of the books. Since I hadn’t loved the movie, this hadn’t mattered to me all that much, but it seemed like this guy was more invested than I was. “That’s too bad.”
The guy nodded. “Goddamn kid,” he muttered as he stepped up to the checkout line.
I tried not to smile. The writer was probably in his forties or fifties, but maybe everyone younger than you becomes a kid when you get older. Either way, reading a fantasy series had never been high on my list of things to do, so I figured I was in the clear as the line moved forward and I brought my books up to the checkout.
Half an hour later I unlocked the front door and pushed my way into the house backward, my arms piled high with my library books and a pizza box from Captain Pizza balanced on top of them. As I’d left the library, Palmer had texted, asking if I wanted to go to her house for dinner, and I’d considered it. During the school year I ate down the street at the Aldens’ at least once a week. But as I stood there in the fading sunshine, I was suddenly feeling, all at once, the events of the day and the blisters that were starting to form from walking dogs in four-inch heels. And I realized that nothing sounded quite so good as picking up dinner, finally changing out of this dress, and vegging out in front of some really bad TV.
I dumped the books on the table in the foyer and headed into the kitchen with my pizza box, then stopped short in the doorway. The fridge was open, and I stared at it for a moment, trying to understand what was happening. Then the door swung closed, and there, standing behind it, was my father, looking irritated. “Oh,” he said when he saw me, sounding as thrown as I felt. “Andie. Hi. Sorry—you surprised me.”
“Same here,” I said, giving him a quick smile as I set the pizza box on the island in the center of the kitchen. There were stools that pulled up to it, and this was where I ate most nights, when I wasn’t eating in front of the TV.
I hadn’t seen my father at all yesterday—I’d been out trying to find something to do with my summer, and he’d been locked in his study, there when I left in the morning and when I came back at night.
He was frowning now, as he looked at me, like he was just now putting together that something was off. “Didn’t you . . . ? When do you leave for your program?”
I could feel irritation starting to bubble up, but I pushed it away. My dad had forgotten I was even going to this program, so I really shouldn’t be annoyed that he’d forgotten the start date, even though he seemed perfectly able to remember all kinds of obscure details about his biggest donors. “Well, it was supposed to be yesterday,” I said. “But, um . . . I’m actually not going.”
“Not going?” my dad repeated, staring at me. “What do you mean?”
I took a breath before telling him, planning out what I was going to say. I’d start with the phone call, then what happened with Dr. Rizzoli, and at least I’d be able to follow it up with the good news about my job.