I Liked My Life(43)

“Look at you,” she says, offering a mock round of applause. I unbend my shoulders to attention, happy the tennis court is almost clear. Her surprise is fair enough. Our fifty-thousand-dollar investment became an expensive lawn ornament once Eve started playing year-round at the country club.

“No time like the present,” I say, more chipper than I feel. “You in?” I’ll be pissed if she says no, but manage to hide my emotions more effectively than I did on her birthday.

“It’s funny,” she says. “I woke up craving a game too. Let me change.”

Huh. That was easy.

Besides announcing the score, we don’t speak the entire match. Eve fights hard; I fight hard. No freebies. It’s a physical display of our current relationship: back and forth, control shifting almost every play. The final set runs eleven rallies before either of us earns a two-point lead.

“That was great,” she says after winning match point.

“For the victor,” I jest, looking at my watch. It’s only noon. Even when I’m having some semblance of fun, time no longer flies. I hope I’m not one of those sorry bastards who live to a hundred. “Do you want to go to the festival in Natick after we clean up?”

“Oh boy, really?” she replies, dramatically clasping her hands together like an excited toddler. “Can I ride the Ferris wheel?” It’s the same facetious reaction I had when Dr. White suggested I make plans alone, but relating doesn’t assuage the sting of rejection. She can tell I’m wounded. “Let’s just hang out,” she counters. “Make burgers. Watch the fireworks from the back deck.”

I look up, grateful. “Burgers might be tough.” I point to the destroyed grill and charred patio. Once I find a new assistant, her first task will be hiring a contractor to take care of it.

“You’re SO funny,” Eve gibes. “We can cook things on the stove, you know.”

“I don’t think we have a choice, Julia Child.”

“Who’s Julia Child?” she asks, heading for the house before I have a chance to answer.

In the shower I brainstorm things for Eve and me to talk about. Our conversations are an effort. I enjoy time with my daughter, mostly, but I spend it petrified of screwing up. Fear consumes energy, so even when we’re getting along, being with her is work.

An unsolicited thought crosses my mind: Maybe I should offer Eve a drink with dinner. Maddy would. She didn’t believe na?veté was a good parenting quality. She’d argue Eve leaves for boarding school in two months, where I’ll have no jurisdiction. There will be booze and worse at her disposal. Kids act the way they’re treated, forbidden fruit and all that. Playing what I find to be a compelling devil’s advocate, Eve got wasted at preprom and could’ve died. She’s already proven herself reckless in this arena. No need to revisit it.

So you think she’s never going to drink again? Maddy’s voice shoots back in my consciousness.

No, but I also don’t think I need to encourage it, I rebuke.

She needs to know you trust her.

If you wanted to be a part of these decisions you should’ve stuck around, I snap, ending the imaginary debate.

Full-blown make-believe conversations like this have been happening a lot lately. I appreciate that I’m not really some third-eye, spiritual intuitive talking to dead people. I’m a desperate, grief-stricken man telling myself what I want to hear, and since I know Maddy’s two cents on everything, it isn’t hard to re-create.

When we reconvene on the patio, I give in to Maddy’s wish, as usual. Even in death she has a hold on me. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Coke, please,” Eve requests, giving me the perfect out.

“You can have a beer or glass of wine, if you want.”

She eyes me suspiciously. “Really?”

“Yes, really. This isn’t an after-school special.” She laughs, but doesn’t change her answer. “We’re staying here tonight,” I press. “You’re leaving for boarding school soon. If you don’t know how to handle yourself, we’re in trouble either way.”

What the hell? How did I go from not wanting to offer to begging her to have one?

Eve bites her bottom lip. “Sure, I’ll have a glass of chardonnay, please, with two ice cubes.” I find the request comical, but withhold comment.

When I return with our glasses, Eve sees I put two ice cubes in mine too and smiles. “A hostess makes everyone feel comfortable,” we recite in unison, bringing Maddy into the moment. If she’d died any other way it’d be a fond memory. We take a few sips in silence. The sun dips lower. I exhale what feels like more than a breath. I don’t know if it’s the wine or what, but without the usual anxiety, I ask Eve about “camp” starting next week and how math is going. She tells me math isn’t so bad—she loves her tutor—and she’s excited to work with kids. Then she reciprocates, asking about work: Have I found a replacement for Paula? Will I travel more after she leaves for school? Never once do we discuss logistics, finances, permissions, or punishments. She laughs at my jokes and I laugh at hers. We listen to each other. She’s choosing to be with me instead of anyone else, and unlike the other times in my life when that was true, this time I appreciate it.

When the first firework erupts in the sky it brings a flash of serenity. Moving forward seems feasible. Not simple, not immediate, but possible. We’ll be okay. I’ve said that to Eve a hundred times since Maddy’s death, but this is the first time I believe it.