I Liked My Life(28)

This year I was promoted to birthday coordinator. My only goal going in was to not walk out of the room when grief punched and—even with the bar that low—I’ve been craving a drink since breakfast. The energy it takes to focus on Eve’s needs drains me. How Maddy made a life out of it is baffling.

I hadn’t registered how rarely Eve is on the phone these days until birthday calls rolled in and she ignored them. Most of the messages broadcast from the answering machine were painful to overhear. Lindsey sounded timid, like she was leaving a message for someone terminally ill who may or may not have survived the night. It struck me that Eve mourns the loss of her mother while Lindsey mourns the loss of her best friend.

Some guy called to say John asked him to wish her a happy birthday since he couldn’t from rehab, then added how lucky Eve is that John still cares. Prick.

Kara Anderson’s message was bizarre. “Happy birthday, Eve,” she mumbled in a way that sounded so involuntary I envisioned someone with a gun to her head. The phone shuffled around as if she tried to hang up but the line never disconnected. In the background there was a weird whimpering that continued until I got to the machine and cut the recording.

Kara has always been a troubled kid. Last year she and Lindsey spent the night after the homecoming dance. Maddy and I had tied one on while the girls were gone, so I woke up at two in the morning needing a glass of water. I dragged myself to the kitchen in gym shorts and there was Kara, sitting on a bar stool in a see-through white tank top and underpants, eating ice cream out of the container. The second I processed what I was looking at I turned to leave, and she said, “I don’t bite, Mr. Starling,” then laughed as I trotted back to my room. I should’ve told Maddy, but I was out of sorts enough to question my recollection the following morning.

I’d call Todd and Christie to make sure everything was okay over there, but as the guy with a wife who committed suicide and a daughter who just got in a drunk-driving accident, I’m not in a solid position to offer up familial guidance.

Eve erased every message. When I asked why she didn’t want to talk to her friends she said, “Trust me. They’d be forced conversations. Everyone’s glad I didn’t pick up.”

I’d like to say my daughter’s perceptiveness is a new part of her, something she found in her grief, but Maddy’s journal documents otherwise. The entry last night recounted a time after Eve got her driving permit when she said to Maddy, “It must be funny to be driven around by the person you usually chauffeur.” They fought over the comment. Maddy was upset at being labeled a chauffeur; Eve claimed she was only joking and Maddy needed to “chill.” When they were less than a mile from the house, Maddy made Eve pull over and walk home. Eve got back ten minutes later, and said, “I get why you’re mad and I’m sorry. You weren’t being a chauffeur all those years, you were being my mother.”

Damn right, I thought as I read it. But now I’m struck by how often I took Maddy for granted. It frustrated me when she claimed to be too busy to get something done. One time I questioned what she was so busy doing. “Mostly putting together the pieces you leave behind,” she replied. I thought it was a snarky retort until the pieces were left to me. It’s not a dust pile but a landfill, and I’m not accounting for her volunteer work in that assessment. On a regular basis, I came home an hour later than expected, usually without the courtesy of a phone call, anticipating Maddy would be in a good mood with dinner ready. She was; it was. Often the school or library would call at night after someone had bailed, asking Maddy to commit time or resources the next day. I preached she needed to set boundaries and say no. Once I even suggested the reason she got summoned was because she’d been identified as a sucker. “Not a sucker,” Maddy corrected, chin up. “A giver.” In the end she always agreed to help, which I inanely took to mean she had spare time. God, I was a jackass.

I return with takeout and a troubled conscience, determined to get through dinner without ticking Eve off or losing my cool, but anxious to retreat to my bedroom with a generous bourbon and brood.

Eve senses my mood has soured, so we eat in silence. She got the gift of intuitiveness from her mother—Maddy could always tell when there was more to a story. I once went on a business trip to Las Vegas when Eve was three. There was a guy, Jason Donahue, who I’d been working for since graduation. He was my boss, but he was also my friend; Maddy and I knew him and his wife, Stacy, well.

“How was Vegas?” Maddy asked casually at dinner. I must’ve changed my posture, or something out of the ordinary, because after responding it was business as usual, Maddy went radio silent. When dinner was done she marched Eve to bed, without offering a kiss good night from me. I listened as she gave Eve a longer bath than usual and let her pick five books instead of the customary three, dragging out her time away. When she finally returned, I asked why she was mad.

“What the hell happened in Vegas?” she responded, hands on hips, certain. Maddy was not a paranoid wife, and I was not a careless husband. How had she sensed there was a story at all?

“Nothing,” I answered. “Jesus. What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re lying. Your poker face isn’t any better than Eve’s.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then it won’t be difficult to tell me the damn story.”