I Liked My Life(53)

The rain simmers to a drizzle, so we walk arm in arm to the playground. I smile. Knowing Kathleen can’t see me, that there’s no audience at all, makes the expression more genuine.

“Can I ask you something, Eve?”

This is how she starts every conversation. “Anything at all,” I reply, how my mom always did.

“What do I look like?”

I stop. I don’t know won’t fly this time. “No one’s told you?”

“No, people usually say pretty or beautiful, but no one has ever given any detail.”

“There are worse things to be called.”

She nods. “Yeah, but I want to know exactly. I want to be able to picture myself.”

I set her on a swing, thinking about how best to respond. Kathleen is gorgeous, but how can I make her know it? “Well,” I start, biting my nails with one hand and pushing her with the other, “you have flawless skin, especially for your age. I’ve heard people compare soft, clear skin like yours to milk. Every feature on your face is perfectly symmetrical, like you were drawn by an artist. Your chin is round, and when you smile it lifts up with your mouth in a way I’ve never seen on anyone else. But your best feature is your eyes.”

“Huh. That’s ironic.” It seems like such a big word for a twelve-year-old.

“Yeah, I guess it is. They’re blue and big and you have these incredible long eyelashes that curl up toward the sky. I put on mascara every day trying to get the look you have naturally with those eyelashes.”

She latches an elbow around the side of the swing and touches her beautiful, useless eyes. “Keep going.”

“Your cheekbones are high, and you have a beauty mark low on your right cheek like a famous model. You can probably feel it.” She moves a fingertip down to the spot. “Your lips are tiny and defined. Your hair is perfectly straight and jet-black.”

“The only color I know.” Her eyes tear.

“I’m sorry,” I soothe. “Please don’t be upset.”

“No. It’s the opposite. I’m excited. You’ve given me a secret mirror.”

Kathleen hears the cars arriving before I do. She wipes her eyes and, as I lead her up the hill, hugs me close. The kind of hug that makes you know you’re necessary. “I’ll always remember you,” she whispers.

Being needed instead of needing is a new experience. I like it. A chill runs through me without the temperature changing. I swear it’s my mom. This sounds crazy, but the sensation has her personality tied to it.

*

I go straight from camp to Dr. Jahns. I’m actually looking forward to his opinion on what to do about John, although I try not to show it.

As soon as I sit he digs in, knowing I’m not a fan of small talk. “So how was the movie?”

From his perspective, John is a dream come true. Who better than a high-school sweetheart to wash away a young girl’s grief?

“Fine,” I say. “I had to sort of dumb myself down to laugh at the right times, but it was good to get out.”

“What do you mean ‘dumb yourself down’?” He loves questions that include direct quotes. It drives me crazy.

“I don’t know, it’s hard to see the humor in anything.”

He rubs the scruff on his chin. “I know all about human suffering, but I can’t imagine a world without humor. It’s one of the most important tools we have.”

I arch my eyebrows. “If you’re right, I’m screwed. Nothing is funny to me anymore.”

It’s the first time I hear his laugh. He sounds feminine—I can see why he avoids it. “That’s your grief talking. Someday you’ll remember this conversation and know I’m right.”

“I’m glad you’re so confident today, because I have an ethical question for you.” He straightens his posture, anticipating a breakthrough. “I don’t love John,” I say. “There’s no version of my life where we stay together past August. So is it bad to, like, string him along for company until I don’t need him anymore?” Paige thinks it’s criminal, but she’s biased since John plays soccer with her boys.

Dr. Jahns returns to a slouch. “It’s selfish, but it’s okay to be selfish sometimes, and, when you leave, I get the impression John will be fine.”

Oh goody. Permission granted. I don’t miss John, but I’m starting to miss sex.

Brady

I read the journal entry again before my run. It kept me up last night. I don’t know what the hell to do with it.

July 23, 2013

Brady’s mother has been gone two years and I only just got around to sifting through her boxes. There’s no excuse—she certainly wasn’t a pack rat. Aside from the clothes, furniture, and books we gave to charity, movers fit her keepsakes into three cardboard boxes. After the funeral I tucked them on a shelf in the garage, overlooking their contents completely. But I was drawn to them today as I put out the trash. Next thing I knew I was elbow-deep in love letters from a man named Phillip Goldfarb, all dated before Bethany would’ve met Brady’s dad. Love letters … stashed away by the least sentimental woman on the planet.

Phil was a soldier who had two children Bethany cared for. There was no mention of a wife or mother, but it was plain that Phil thought of Bethany as more than the kids’ caretaker. He described her as “doting,” “stunning,” and “imaginative.”