I Liked My Life(61)

Brady responds more subtly to Eve’s rebellion. “There certainly have been a lot of changes in our lives lately.” He pauses to sip his wine. “I understand that’s true for you too, Rory. I was sorry to hear about your recent loss.” Rory offers a closed-mouth smile and quiet thank you. “Eve said it was a beautiful service.”

“I hope so. My mother certainly deserved one. It was sweet of Eve to attend.”

The conversation is too personal for a first-time dinner guest, so Brady defuses it by asking Rory what grade she teaches. He has an extraordinary talent for controlling conversations. He explained to me once that people mistakenly presume the person talking is in control. “It’s the one asking the questions, Maddy. That’s who’s running the show.”

The discussion rolls back to normal with Brady at the reins. He learns a little about Rory—she loves to read, swim, and eat Indian food—and a lot about his daughter. Continuing in her spirited frame of mind, Eve is uncharacteristically forthcoming. She tells them both about camp, how good it felt to be needed and how the experience changed her career aspirations. She talks about breaking up with John, which is news to Brady, declaring that they “no longer see the world from the same point of view.” She then shares her excitement for school in the fall, claiming it “cannot come soon enough.”

Rory registers Brady’s hurt and graciously asks whether Eve plans to come home on the weekends. “Probably, to check up on my dad,” she says. “I mean, I only got him to start eating dinner again like a month ago.”

Brady is visibly injured by Eve’s admission to the mere acquaintance sitting across from him. He’s unable to rebound a fourth time. He stands. “Well, it’s been a great night, ladies, but it’s late.”

Rory stands too. “I’m so glad we did this,” she says, extending a hand. Their touch is soft, comfortable. “Thank you for having me.” There’s something playful about her, like she’s too cute to be a grown-up.

“Thanks for coming.” They lock eyes briefly before he turns to Eve. “Good night,” he says, not hiding his agitation.

“Night,” she replies, unabashed by her behavior. They both like Rory, but they didn’t seem to like each other in her presence.

Rory stays to help with kitchen cleanup.

“Sorry about my dad,” Eve says. “He bails a lot lately.”

I nudge Rory to defend him. It doesn’t take much; she respects Brady. “Your father did nothing wrong,” she says, setting down the dishrag. She almost stops there, but I push her further. “The thing is, Eve, it’s easy to see that it’s wrong to be judgmental when you’re the one being judged, but harder when you’re sitting with the jury. Everyone grieves differently. Some want to be left alone, some want to be insanely busy, some gain weight, some lose weight, and some don’t change their eating habits at all. It’s not fair to critique people’s reaction. I lost a lot by taking too long to learn that.”

Eve can’t catch the words before they’re out. “You mean after your daughter died?”

Rory is surprised—it was a long time ago on a different coast—but doesn’t ask how Eve knows. “Yeah,” she admits. “After Emma, I assumed my husband blamed me for what happened, but he didn’t blame me. I blamed me. And I pushed him away. He just missed her, same as me, same as everyone, but I turned it into a personal attack. I’ve seen mourning bring people closer, but only when they both accept that on any given day the loss feels different.”

Eve’s posture relaxes. The teenage arrogance on display all night attenuates. “I guess I shouldn’t have said that, about my dad’s eating and stuff.”

“If you wish you hadn’t said it, you should tell him that,” Rory says, turning to the door. Eve lights up at Rory’s words, knowing it’s the exact response I’d have offered. Ever since Paige handed her that Butterfinger, Eve is on the lookout for my messengers.

“Do you still miss Emma?” She wants so badly for Rory to say no, that time really has healed the wound. From Rory, Eve might believe it.

Rory knows what Eve is fishing for—she remembers asking more tenured grievers the same question—but she won’t set a false expectation. “Every single day,” she whispers. “It’s there, and it hurts, but it does become … I don’t know … familiar.” Rory slings her bag over her shoulder and extends her arms in a timid hug. “Thanks for tonight. You and your dad are wonderful people.”

Eve

Today would’ve been my mother’s birthday. The word bittersweet comes to mind. There’s a part of me, the part Dr. Jahns refers to as exceptional, which can’t help but love August second. It’s the day she arrived; the day her life was celebrated every year; a day she looked forward to, at least when she was younger. But there’s another part of me that resents the day and its forgotten importance to most people. For those who do remember, her birthday now marks the end of her life instead of the beginning. She died at forty-five. Every year I’ll think of it that way: She would’ve been forty-six or forty-seven or forty-eight today. Her birthday left with her.

What really makes me feel like shit is how little we celebrated the years she was here. Sick as it is, this is the most attention I’ve ever given her birthday. Last year we went out to dinner. I gave her a card I filled out on the way there, literally behind her back, as if she didn’t know what I was doing. We ate at Dad’s favorite steakhouse where Mom always ordered whatever fish was the special. How did we miss that that meant she didn’t care for anything on the menu? For a present I bought her one of those prepackaged spa baskets from the grocery store. She never used it, as I should’ve known she wouldn’t, since she didn’t like products with heavy fragrance. She never wore perfume, used only unscented deodorant, and bought fragrance-free laundry detergent. Yet damn-near-genius Eve Starling got her a basket full of peach extreme soaps, bubble bath, and lotion. My mom didn’t even take baths. I only ever saw her use the tub to soak our dirty white laundry in bleach. The basket is still wrapped in cellophane, shoved in the back of her bathroom cabinet. How did she hide her disappointment?