I Liked My Life(27)

This info gets me thinking. Mom’s childhood could be the source of her depression. She told Dad she wasn’t abused, but who knows? Clearly her goal was to put up a front, a beautiful family portrait that never really existed.

“Is that what Gram died of?” I ask. “Alcoholism?”

My father coughs—a strange, forced cough designed to distract. Something about it clues me in. Before he can string together some bullshit story I say, “Oh. My. God. She killed herself, didn’t she?”

He puts up a hand to slow me down. “Hold on,” he says calmly. “We don’t know that. She had early-stage Alzheimer’s, so she wasn’t of right mind.”

“Holy shit.”

His eyebrows rise. “Language.”

I ignore him. “How’d she do it?”

“A nurse left anxiety medication in her room by accident and Gram overdosed. They found an empty jug of wine, which didn’t surprise anyone, and no note. I still think there’s a chance she got drunk and forgot she’d taken her meds.”

I roll my eyes. “She just kept forgetting? Over and over?”

“You sound like your mother.” He looks exasperated, as if it’s nine years ago and I really am her and this is still up for debate. “It wouldn’t take much. She was in poor health. Dialysis and all that.”

I don’t buy it. I don’t remember anyone ever saying Gram had Alzheimer’s. If she got drunk and housed pills it was on purpose, which means we have a family history of suicide. Maybe there are more hands on Mom’s corpse than I thought.

Dad takes a big sip of his orange juice and points his glass toward me. “So now you know.”

“Any other skeletons you can pull out for my big day?”

“Cool it,” he says. “It wasn’t my story to tell.”

*

Halfway through the day I shut off my cell, but people just call the house phone instead. Everyone has the number since I was the last of my friends to get a phone. “You’re not getting one until I need you to have it,” Mom said every time I asked. That turned out to be freshman year when I started getting rides from older kids on the tennis team and Mom worried I’d need to get in touch with her. She called me all the time. I never called her once.

Today, I only answer for Aunt Meg. It’s not worth ignoring her call. It’s a once-a-week thing, and if I don’t pick up she hounds me until I do. Before Mom died our relationship was weak: I saw her on holidays and birthdays where I spent most the time hanging out with my cousin Lucy. But she and Mom were obsessed with the whole sisterhood thing. They talked every morning during Aunt Meg’s hour-long commute. Mom must’ve blabbed her face off about me, and that’s why Aunt Meg thinks we’re so much closer than we actually are.

I dread our talks. She knew Mom better than anyone. I’m a little jealous of that, but mostly I’m pissed she missed whatever walked my mom off that building. She’s also a mother, with a daughter my age, and both of them are alive. That obviously shouldn’t bug me, but it does anyway.

Aunt Meg knows I’m not into our little chats, but instead of taking the freaking hint it’s made her superaggressive. She’s full of stupid suggestions, as if she’s going to replace my mother with a ten-minute weekly pep talk, as if I don’t need a mother at all. Giving advice to someone in mourning is like offering pretzels to someone dehydrated. It doesn’t help.

“Happy birthday, beautiful,” she sings when I answer, chipper as a former teen model turned successful business executive because that’s exactly what she is. “What are you doing to celebrate?”

“Not much,” I say, flipping through channels on TV.

“I know it must be hard, honey, but your mom would want you to celebrate. It’d kill her to think of you moping around on your birthday.”

“She already took care of that.” I do not feel bad for being bitchy. Aunt Meg set herself up by saying something so stupid.

“I’m not suggesting I know what you should do, but—”

I half-listen, deciding whether to hang up or call her out. I don’t know which I’ll pick until the words come out: “Yes, you are, Aunt Meg. I-I don’t mean to be rude, but … you totally are. You want to fix this for me, but you can’t.”

“Oh, Eve, sweetie, I know,” she coos in a baby-talk voice.

“Shut up! Please. You have no idea—”

“She was my sister, Eve. I lost her too.”

“Yes. You lost your sister. I don’t know how that feels. I lost my mother, the person who did everything for me. You don’t know how that feels.”

I must be speaking louder than I realize because my father appears in the family room to see what’s going on. He stands at the door, motioning me to surrender. “Look, whatever,” I say. “I shouldn’t have even answered. Thanks for the gift card. I’ll call later or something.”

I assume I’m in for a lecture, but Dad just walks away. There might have even been a smile on his face. I think my fight with Aunt Meg signaled that he handled the day well. He’s so freaking competitive. I guess you never grow out of wanting approval.

Brady

I’m on my way to pick up takeout Chinese at Eve’s request, which the two of us will eat alone. The day Eve turned sixteen she was on the phone with her friends every second she wasn’t physically with them. I delivered my birthday wish while she put one hand over the receiver, telling whoever was on the other end to hold on a sec.