I Liked My Life(66)

Holy shit. TMI. I could do without the twice a week visual for sure. I assumed a book club run by moms would stay pretty on task, but this makes it sound like books were a total afterthought. Where would they find time to analyze the author’s intent between kinky comparisons on how much everyone on the block fucks? And I totally can’t believe my saintly mother was in on the rumor that Kara’s parents are swingers. The guys at school say it when they’re going on about what a MILF Mrs. Anderson is, but I seriously thought it was wishful thinking. If it’s true, I feel sorry for Kara. Having parents swapping lovers around town might actually be more shocking than a mother who commits suicide out of sheer boredom.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dad asks, slamming down his briefcase.

I look to either side as if the question might be directed at someone else, then put the journal on my lap like it isn’t too late to hide it. “Wh-why are you home?”

“You have no rights,” he says, yanking the journal from me and pressing it to his chest.

“She was my mother.”

“There are things in here … you-you have no business … I cannot even—go to your room.”

His total failure to pick a sentence makes me nervous and somehow what comes out is laughter. “This is funny to you?” he shouts. “Get upstairs now, Eve.”

The delusion burns me. “Ahh, no, Dad, it’s not funny that I don’t have a mother, and it’s not funny that this journal is, like, literally, the only way I have to get to know her.”

“Don’t pull that crap with me. This is a violation of your mother’s privacy. Her death does not give you the right to invade our bedroom and take something that isn’t yours.”

“Our bedroom?” I push. “Still? Really?”

He throws the journal against the kitchen wall. We both cringe as it hits the floor, a few pages detaching. Dad runs to it like a hurt child while I slip upstairs. He cares more about the damn journal than his own daughter.

I push through the door in a rage, and it’s like I’m seeing my room for the first time. I’m repulsed by how childish it looks. Posters cover every inch of wall, mostly cutouts from magazines I spent hours gluing into collages; a colossal waste of time. Models, bands, Hollywood gossip headlines—maybe my father treats me like crap because I care about crap. I rip it all down as if it’s my room’s fault I got caught. When I get to the first store-bought poster, I pause. Mom would take these down carefully so she could donate them. She gave everything to charity. A couple years ago she dropped off my old skis at the Salvation Army. I ragged on her for it, questioning how skis would help people in need when they couldn’t afford a ticket to get on the slopes. She goes, “You never know, Eve. On the news last week I heard about a homeless man who fended off attackers with a tennis racket. I’ll bet he was glad he had it.”

I take a last look at the three posters before tearing them in shreds. I can’t spend my whole life copying my mother. Her plan obviously wasn’t so hot in the end.

Eventually Dad knocks, then opens the door without waiting for a response. Why bother pretending to care about my privacy? How is barging into my room different from me barging into his? I almost point out the hypocrisy, but instead whisper, “I’m sorry.” I don’t know where the apology came from, but as soon as it’s out there I wish I’d stuck to that line from the start.

“You should be.” His eyes are distant. He doesn’t acknowledge the state of emergency my room is in. I could have blood spewing from my wrists and all he’d care about is her journal. My life is a competition with a ghost. I’ll never win.

“So, do you forgive me?” I ask.

I can’t remember the last time he was up here. I think it was freshman year when he set up the desk I got for Christmas. He eyes the framed pictures on my bookshelf. They’re mostly friends, but there’s a few of Mom and me. None of my dad. Shitty time for him to notice.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Eve.”

“So, what then?”

“So nothing,” he says, shaking his head at the impossibility of me ever making this right.

I collect trash from the floor, unsure what to say. He watches me, fists clenched. What the hell? What kind of parent says they won’t forgive their kid?

“I’m heated,” he finally says. “Even more than the journal, I’m disappointed in the things you said.” He turns his back, but not before I see tears in his eyes. “I thought we were done with all that-that … blame. I’m considering canceling the trip to Paris. I haven’t decided yet, but that’s the way I’m leaning.”

Oh my God. He’s serious. It’s the only thing he can take away that I care about. Car, cell phone, clothes, laptop, even the TV—it’s all meaningless to me and he knows it. I bet he never even planned to go. He probably created the trip to have something to hang over my head.

“Please don’t,” I say, hating the desperation in my voice.

“After your performance downstairs … I don’t see the point in spending all that money and missing work for a trip I’m no longer excited about.”

“It’s three weeks away. Don’t you think we will be past this?”

He walks to the door. “I don’t know. Look, I’m not canceling anything tonight. Let’s see how next week goes.”