I Liked My Life(72)

“Huh. Yeah.”

The end depends upon the beginning.

Maybe it’s as simple as that. Maybe Mom jumped because of her shitty childhood. It’s obvious, even to me, that she had nothing to do with instigating Gram’s drinking problem. Seriously, she was like ten years old. How could her little remarks provoke a jug of wine a day? But imagine the damage from believing you’d caused something so horrible from such a young age; imagine the burden of thinking you ruined your mother’s life. The thought stops me—I guess it’s not a far leap in my case. So my mom carried the same guilt I now carry. Playing it out, I can see how her mind turned on her, how reflecting pulled her into weeds that weren’t really there. I need to break that cycle. The end depends upon the beginning.

I like talking to Rory. She’s philosophical without being condescending. She’s softer than Paige, and more real than Aunt Meg. I feel older around her, smarter. “What else do you remember about the campus?” I ask.

Rory licks sauce off the side of her lip. She’s a messy eater. “Let’s see. I remember Brian telling me that everyone called skipping class dicking, which I thought was a riot. And everyone referred to the cafeteria as the fishbowl. But I guess that makes sense when you’re in it.” She looks to me for confirmation.

“Wouldn’t know. I haven’t been on campus yet.”

Rory plops the pizza on her plate. “You’re kidding. Why not?”

“My dad’s boss is an alumni, so he did the interview from here. We never really had a reason to make the trip.”

“Ahhh—so you can see the place you’re going to live?”

I didn’t find it at all strange until she repeated the situation back to me. “Well, when you say it like that…”

“It’s only an hour and a half away. Don’t you want to see the campus before you arrive with everyone else?”

“I guess, but it’ll be fine. It’s not like I can change my mind at this point.”

Rory scoots her chair closer to mine. “Never box yourself in like that. You have options. If you give it a fair shot and you’re unhappy, do something about it. I guarantee you and your dad can figure out a Plan B.”

She waits for acknowledgement. “Okay,” I agree. I won’t back out, but it’s sweet she cares.

“You need to learn your way around before the first day of class. You’re taking on enough unfamiliar faces and new routines; you can’t afford to be disoriented on top of it.” Just as her lecture starts to freak me out, she smiles. “I vote tomorrow we skip math and go to Exeter.”

“Sounds good to me.” We both grab another slice.

“Are you nervous about going?”

“Tomorrow?”

She flaps her napkin at me. “No, you goof, when school starts.”

“Oh, no. I’d be more nervous if I was staying.” I see no reason to sugarcoat it. “Or not nervous, but like, depressed. I can’t move on in Wellesley. I can’t show up my senior year a completely different person and expect everyone to accept it. They all feel sorry for me. It’s this constant reminder I’m supposed to be sad.” I look up at the clouds to keep from getting weepy. “I don’t know. It’s like you said the other night: something will always be missing, but I don’t want to wear it as a badge. Yanno?”

Rory looks proud. “That’s good,” she says. “I’m glad you aren’t blindly running away. There’s no distance where you won’t miss her. A fresh start I can support.”

I find a smile. This is the first time I’ve talked about leaving and been happy afterward. Everyone else is burdened by why I’m going instead of that I’m going.

Brady

I don’t totally understand what I’m out to accomplish with this trip, and not having a set goal leaves me anxious. My gut tells me to dig deeper, but my mind wants to return on the next flight to Boston. Envisioning the first moment of our interaction doesn’t help. To hug or not to hug? Bring a gift? Coffee and doughnuts?

It’s not in a trailer park, but the house would best be described as a double-wide. When Marie answers the door, it’s obvious there will be no hug, and I feel silly handing her fresh flowers. She laughs in my face, something women seem to do a lot lately. “We going on a date I don’t know about?”

“I didn’t want to come empty-handed.”

Marie is fat and loud, exactly what I pictured from our call. Paul is thin, quiet, and positioned in a spot that blocks me from entering. I extend an arm for a handshake. He reciprocates, which I appreciate because the marine tattoos snaking up both his arms are intimidating, even on a senior citizen.

It’s possible Marie is drunk. Between her odd sense of humor, coughing fits, and half-angry, half-pleased bursts of laughter, it’s hard to know how to respond.

Paul and I sit on the couch, and Marie follows us in with a lawn chair. “I’ll sit on this,” she says. “Never anyone here but me and Paul, so the love seat’s usually enough.” I offer up my spot on the couch, and not just to be polite—I’m not at all convinced the lawn chair can support all Marie has to offer. “Huh, a gentleman. How about that? Paul never would’ve switched.”

“You’re right ’bout that,” Paul says. He mumbles such that his words are almost indecipherable.