I Liked My Life(63)

“Now, do I feel like Dan and Lucy appreciate, or even comprehend, every thing I accomplish in a day? No, I don’t. But I probably don’t appreciate every thing they do either. And I don’t need them to understand every sacrifice; neither did your mother. We talked about it a lot, actually. Your mom told me once that she gets enough nuggets. That’s what she called them, nuggets. What she meant was, and I agree, we get these moments of validation from our family, and it’s enough. I think—”

“But it wasn’t enough. My dad shows me some of her journal, and there are whole sections where she talks about how no one noticed this or that, or no one asked her opinion. I’m telling you, she was pissed. A lot.”

I’m taking a risk saying this. Dad never shows me anything negative. I don’t even think he’s read the ones where Mom questions whether she did enough to help Gram, or the creepy one where she imagines what her life would be like if she hadn’t quit her job. But I think I’m safe because Dad and Aunt Meg haven’t spoken since the funeral. It’s like they both blame each other.

“Pfft. She was venting. Big deal. I’m sure your diary has all kinds of stuff about your mother that you didn’t mean generally, stuff you wrote in the thick of it. I found a note last year in one of Lucy’s pockets when I was doing the laundry. It said, ‘My mom is such a bitch. She won’t let me go Saturday because she gets some weird high off torturing me.’”

“Eek. What did Lucy say?”

“I didn’t talk to her about it. Your mom advised me not to. She said, ‘Come on, Meg, what do you expect Lucy to say to her friends? My mom won’t let me go because there’s no parental supervision, and she loves me too much to put me in such a high-risk situation. No. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know it’s the truth.’ And she was right. You have to take everything you read in that journal in the context of the moment she wrote it. She was writing for herself, so she could process things. She was an adult who spoke her mind. When things got pushed too far, when she felt squeezed or unappreciated, I guarantee she spoke up to your father.”

For the second time this summer, I ask the obvious question. “Then why’d she do it?”

Aunt Meg lets out a deep exhale. “God. We don’t get to know, honey. I’ve been writing out all the advice she gave me over the years, and it is becoming this mammoth list of truths. That’s what I’m going to focus on instead of why she’s gone—who I know she was.”

Aunt Meg agrees to send a copy of the list when she finishes. I wonder how many pages I could fill if I wrote everything my mother ever taught me. It would be longer than the Bible. And just as sacred.

Brady

On my run today even my sweat felt culpable. Right now I’m commemorating Maddy’s life by getting drunk, and I’m doing a stand-up job. I’m at war with her birthday. I cannot remember what I got on her forty-fifth aside from the token flowers I sent every year. I think I had Paula make an appointment for a spa day, unless Meg or Paige had gotten her that. I know for sure Maddy went to the spa. Hell, maybe she booked it herself.

The gift wasn’t the worst of it. We argued that night after dinner. Maddy thanked me again for the flowers, then casually asked what the note in the card said. It was a test I’d fail, so I led with a defense, asking why it mattered. Maddy combed her fingernails over her eyebrows, the way she did before deciding whether something was worth a fight. “It matters because I want to know if you picked up the goddamn phone to order me flowers with a nice note, or if you had Paula do it.”

Like an idiot, I didn’t back down. “What’s the difference if I made the call? I remembered; I wanted you to have flowers.”

“The difference is significant if you’re me, and you might be the boob in that cliché movie scene where the assistant reminds her boss of his wife’s birthday and he says, ‘Send the usual.’”

“That’s ridiculous, Maddy. No one had to remind me it was your birthday. Yes. Fine. I asked Paula to call the florist. So what? I was in meetings all day, trying to get everything done in time to take you and Eve out to dinner. And I was able to do it, with a little help.”

“Well, tell Paula ‘thank you’ for me—”

“For making a phone call?” I interrupted. “I would, but that’s her job. I work my ass off, and she helps me juggle everything. You have no concept of what my day-to-day is like.”

“This isn’t about the phone call,” Maddy said flatly. “Thank Paula because it was the sweetest damn note I’ve gotten from you in a long time. Maybe ever. That’s how I knew you didn’t write it, Brady. Not because you were busy today and not because I’m some bumbling homemaker who has no memory of the working world. I knew you had nothing to do with it because the note was sweet. Too sweet. Sweeter than you actually are.” She handed me the card. “When I blew out the candles tonight, I wished for my next birthday to not feel like such a goddamn chore to my immediate family. I would’ve rather been alone. Again.”

I threw my hands in the air, surrendering. “Maddy, look, I’m sorry you felt that way. I am. I thought we had fun. Jesus Christ, if I knew you wanted a card, I would’ve written a card. Why didn’t you say so?”

She looked right at me and said, “I’d rather slit my wrist than have to tell you I want a card on my birthday.”