I Liked My Life(52)

“My mother’s death was different from yours.” Rory looks to see if she offended Eve with the knowledge of my death, but Eve’s expression doesn’t change. She assumes everyone knows.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Eve says. “I wasn’t trying to get your attention or anything. I-I was trying to worry about someone else, you know? But then that fight. What that woman said.” Her voice turns to a mumble. “I treated my mom like garbage too.”

“Eve, you’re a teenager,” Rory reasons. “Brian is a man.”

“That’s just an excuse.”

Inside Rory melts at being needed in this maternal way. “No, it’s not,” she assures. “The day I turned thirteen my mom said, ‘I don’t expect you to love me again until you’re twenty.’ And I didn’t, or at least I didn’t show it.”

“Well, you weren’t as bad as me because your mom stuck around.”

Rory centers herself in Eve’s vision. “Life is more complicated than that. Think of how many secrets you’ve kept from your parents. Think of all the things you haven’t told them in only seventeen years. Now imagine everything you must not have known about your mother.”

“Because I didn’t ask.”

“No. No. Because she didn’t want to tell you. You don’t always get to know what happened, or why things happened a certain way, but it always, always, goes deeper than any one thing. Every experience someone has contributes to their perspective, to their ability to handle their next experience.” Eve looks up. I can’t say she believes Rory, but she doesn’t not believe her either. “I remember housing this tremendous guilt when my dad died because we’d never truly gotten to know each other. We had forty years of conversations consisting solely of weather and local sports. When his best friend gave a eulogy, he described my dad as an old-fashioned romantic who loved to waltz and earned a full scholarship to college playing the saxophone. And I thought, what? I never knew that. How did I not know that?”

“It was his past.”

Rory nods in agreement. “Exactly. I went out the next day and signed up for ballroom-dance lessons. I needed something symbolic to feel closer to him.”

Eve smiles, encouraged by the idea she can still get to know me. Rory will make a fine standin.

Eve

Mom had this way of making me and my friends feel important. Once when I was seven a girl in the neighborhood got caught French-kissing. All the older kids were talking about it, but none of my friends knew what it meant. Without much discussion we agreed to ask my mom. I wasn’t nervous or embarrassed. Mom always preached that there’s no harm asking and there’s no point sitting around curious.

I marched in the kitchen and asked how the French kiss. She looked confused. I thought she didn’t know the answer, but then my question registered. “Are you asking what it means to French-kiss?”

“Un-huh,” I said, uncertain of the difference.

She casually stopped setting the table and took a seat. “It’s a more romantic kind of kissing, for when you’re seriously dating or married, where your tongues touch. It’s not just for French people, though. I know that’s a weird name for it.”

“Do you and Dad French-kiss?”

“Yep.” The neighborhood girls couldn’t believe it. My mom was our trusted advisor.

At camp, that’s what I’ve become for Kathleen. Since borrowing my mom’s line that there’s no point being curious, Kathleen hasn’t stopped asking questions. She practices braille by reading a weekly paper covering world news she’s not old enough to understand, so there’s no shortage of topics. She’ll ask: “But how did AIDS start, I mean for the first person?” and “Why don’t we use the actual votes to decide who is president?” and “Why do people care so much that Mexicans want to live here?” And on and on.

My answers are pathetic: “Maybe they’re worried there’s not enough space.”

Her responses are smart: “But when there’s not enough space, won’t they stop wanting to come?” I usually have to admit I have no idea. It doesn’t seem to bother her I’m clueless.

I pull into the parking lot and see Kathleen in the car with her mom, waiting. It’s become routine for her to meet me early to help pick the daily project. I guide Kathleen to the sidewalk, waving at her mother as she drives away. A drop of rain hits my head. Then another. Then it’s pouring. We run to a little shed off the lunch area as my cell rings. “Hi, Robin.”

“Oh. Yes. Hi. I’m still surprised when people know it’s me,” the camp director says in her singsong voice. “It’s 2015, and darn-it-all, I’m still not used to cell phones.” It’s work not to laugh. Robin is sweet, but she’s the biggest dork I’ve ever met. I should set her up with Dr. Jahns. “Any-hoo … we’re postponing an hour due to inclement weather.”

“Okay,” I say, seeing no reason to tell her I’m already here. I offer to take Kathleen home, but she asks if I mind staying. “The rain doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you.” It’s not like there’s somewhere else I need to be.

“I love rain,” she says. “It’s easy to picture.”

She speaks so simply. I never wonder broadly the way Kathleen does. I read a headline and take it as fact. Kathleen reads a headline and it’s the start of something. I have a hard time defending things I like with any detail. Everything in my life found me. Kathleen understands herself intimately. She’s certainly not going to pick friends based on some foolish formula that includes where people buy their clothes. I think I’m learning more from her than she from me.