I Liked My Life(3)

Tears well in Rory’s eyes but don’t spill over. “It’s no problem, Greta.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. I wish everyone I cared for was as lucky as your mother.”

Rory cringes at the inaccuracy of that statement. “I’ll be home in a bit.”

It’s borderline superhuman to me that Rory didn’t share the news of her fender bender with Greta. Her self-control reminds me of an old deodorant ad from the nineties that featured a woman maintaining total confidence in any situation. The ad ended with a jingle that went, “She stays cool, soft, and dry.” I never related to that ad. I would’ve retold every detail of THE ACCIDENT. It may have even made the Christmas letter. For Rory, it wasn’t worth a mention. This quiet calm is exactly what Brady needs to counter the resurgence of his temper.

I know from often-exaggerated tales at Fourth of July barbecues that Brady was a hothead growing up. His college nickname was The Fireman from some drunken night when he yanked the fire alarm to evacuate a fraternity pledge who’d made a move on his girlfriend, then punched the guy as he exited the building. For as many times as I heard the story, I could never picture Brady in it. Sure, he could be a jackass, but he was my jackass and his temper was never a source of concern. Until now.

Rory walks around to gauge the damage. Her fender is dented but the A7 is unscathed, exposing the fifty-thousand-dollar price difference between the two cars. Still, she leaves a note: Guilty of an accidental tap … Don’t see any marks, but here is my name and number in case. It’s the perfect response. The Fireman is no match for this level of serenity.

Rory hops back in the car and again digs through her bag. She grabs a red leather book with a Buddha imprint on the cover. It takes me a moment to realize it’s a genuine, tab-for-each-letter, impossible-to-change-when-someone-moves, pages-falling-out-of-the-binding address book. A lost art. I can hear Brady ribbing her already: 1984 called and wants its address book back. Perhaps Rory will come up with a good retort. Over the years I came to think of Brady’s iPhone as physically attached to his hand.

Rory finds the number she needs and musters up a good mood voice while it rings. “Hi, Nancy, it’s Rory. I’m terribly sorry to cancel last minute, but can we reschedule tutoring for tomorrow?”

With her calendar now out, a separate leather-bound book, she scrawls an arrow toward the following day, gets off the phone, and immediately dials another number. This one she knows without consulting the Buddha. Before the voice on the other end has an opportunity to greet her, Rory starts in.

“Where the hell were you?” Her teacher’s voice has turned aggressive and hollow, almost daring.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“If you were sorry we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Again.”

“I’m expected to all but sleep here.”

Rory holds the phone away from her ear and talks loudly into the receiver. “She is your mother. This cancer will kill her. Soon. Did they skip the definition of hospice in law school?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” he says, though he sounds like a child.

Rory slams her hand against the steering wheel of her still-parked car. “Damn it, Brian, THIS ISN’T ABOUT YOU. We’re talking about forty-five minutes, once a week.”

“That I don’t have. I wish you’d stop treating me like a pile of shit for it.”

“God. This is my fault, now?”

He clears his throat, which seems to strengthen his resolve. “We can’t all be Rory Murray, Salt of the Fucking Earth.”

“Fine,” Rory says, defeated. “Focus on you. That’s what you’re good at.”

This is my chance to get deeper into her thoughts. I zero in with willful concentration, intense to the point of exhaustion, and suddenly I feel it. A sensation. A flash. An understanding. Rory is alone and scared. She does not know what to do.

Brady and Eve can relate. And if I can read people’s minds then certainly I can influence their actions. This woman is my chance to make things right. My family deserves more than I left behind.

Eve

Today is Mother’s Day.

My first thought is stupid: my mom isn’t here, so the holiday doesn’t exist. But the rest of the world doesn’t celebrate my mom, they celebrate their moms, and their moms didn’t recently jump off a building.

My father claims he’ll be stuck in a hotel conference room negotiating a deal of “strategic importance” with a bunch of people I’ll never know. I guess it’s possible. He says when it gets to the end of a merger you work straight through till it’s done, but the timing is suspect. Today is going to suck. A meeting that goes from freaking eight in the morning to eight at night on a Sunday is something even Mom would’ve considered a little too convenient.

I’m swirling cereal around the bowl when Dad walks in, suited up for his big meeting. If he’s lying to get out of the tennis tournament he at least feels bad enough to wear a costume that matches his cover story. I wonder how he’ll handle this moment. Baby me? Ignore the significance of the day altogether? Without Mom telling him what to do, he’s a dud at parenting.

“Say you’re sick,” he offers. His eyes shift around the room, working hard not to land on me.

“Huh?”

“Skip the tournament. Everyone will understand.”