I Liked My Life(81)

My sister lets out an uneasy laugh. “I’m thinking of quitting work, Brady.”

“Why?”

“Same reason you started running, it sounds like.”

Brady sighs. “You have nothing to feel guilty about, Meg.”

“I don’t know about that. I was never a giver like Maddy. I always took up more oxygen than her, and I feel horribly in the wrong about that now.”

“No. No. You’ve always been someone who makes things happen. Maddy admired that about you.”

Meg sniffles. “So, you vote for not quitting?”

“No, Maddy and I vote for not quitting. It’s dangerous to fight who you are, right?” It’s the first time Brady is positive that the voice he hears is truly mine. My power is fading, but his mounting openness makes up for it.

“Oh, Brady, bless you. I still need my big sister’s advice, you know?”

Thank you, I pass down to Brady. Meg would make everyone miserable as a stay-at-home mom, herself included. Having an alcoholic mother from such a tender age left her craving structure. She needs an outlet for her competitive nature to avoid competing with Dan or, worse, Lucy. She’s capable of immense love, but only when she feels needed and secure. Work is her anchor. Family is her safety net.

At least my sister is settled before my view dissipates completely. It’s ironic though: the person I haven’t been helping is the first to find her way.

Eve

Rory joins me for the self-defense course my father mandated. Our first assignment is to share why we registered. I say, “My father made me,” and Rory says, “Her father made her.” Everyone cracks up, especially the instructor, Eddie, who blatantly eyes Rory’s left hand for a wedding ring.

Once we start doing drills it’s clear Rory is a pro. She expertly completes every exercise, comfortably handling the oversized safety pads and showing me side moves. At lunch, Eddie uses his observation skills—the number-one tool in self-defense—as an opening.

“Where did you train?” he asks, sitting at the picnic table as if we asked him to join us.

“I started when I was a kid and got my black belt in college.” She takes a huge bite of her turkey sandwich. A little mayo squirts out the other side onto her cheek. Eddie ignores it. I pass Rory a napkin.

“Which discipline?”

“Kung fu. Shaolin.”

“What?” I say. “Why the hell did you agree to do a beginner class with me?”

She ignores my language as usual. “Everyone can use a refresher, and I agree with your father that you should do this before you leave.”

“You’re her mother?”

“No,” Rory says. “We’re friends.” I smile. That’s how I’ve come to think of us too.

“That makes more sense. You’re way too young to be her mother.” I try to make eye contact with Rory about how obvious he’s being, but she seems into him. Their expressions go a little gaga. “Any chance we could have dinner one night this week?” he asks.

Rory agrees. “At least I know I’ll be safe,” she jokes when he’s gone. “That’s more than I can say for most dates I’ve been on.”

My dad pops to mind. He and Rory are about the same age. She’s so genuine. And funny. Of course, he’d probably be an ass at some point and then things would be weird between Rory and me. I dismiss the thought. Better to stay out of it.

When we get home, Rory and my dad have a little celebration to mark my completion of precalculus. I’m curious whose idea it was. Rory made a chocolate cake and Dad got fancy takeout from the city. We stand in a circle, glasses raised. “Stubborn, but smart,” my father toasts, clinking his glass to ours.

“Wonder where I get that from,” I reply. We’re so similar, my dad and me. I’m starting to realize that our problem was never not liking each other, it was that we are each other. And ours is a personality that needs watering down by a third party.

We chat for ten minutes or so, reliving events from the summer. When my tattoo becomes the topic of conversation I excuse myself to the restroom. I don’t intend to eavesdrop, but they’re talking about me when I come back, so I stop short of the doorframe. My father is trying to “square up” for the Sunday Rory stayed over and today’s self-defense class. “I don’t want any money for that,” Rory says, refilling her glass, “but thanks for offering.”

I catch a glimpse of my dad reaching his glass out for more too. “That’s crazy,” he says as he pours. “You’ve done so much for us this summer.”

“I appreciate that, but it wasn’t work. I’m not a saint. I took your money for tutoring because calculus was rough, and trust me, if I felt I was owed for more I wouldn’t be shy. But I haven’t been babysitting Eve. She’s been there for me too. I wouldn’t feel right being paid for my time.” Knowing I wasn’t intended to hear the compliment makes it that much more meaningful.

The truth is, if Dad were paying Rory he’d owe for more than today and his trip to D.C. I don’t think he realizes how much we’ve been together this past month. The day we went to Exeter, we were gone eight hours. She got my class schedule and a campus map and walked me to each building. When the doors were unlocked, we went all the way to the classroom. Most had desks arranged as open horseshoes, some with as few as ten chairs. I freaked at how small the class sizes were, but Rory calmed me down, saying the only students who need to worry about small classes are the ones who don’t do their work. Then she talked a janitor into letting us see my dorm so we could figure out how much space I had to work with. This week we went shopping. I wouldn’t have known to get cinder blocks to raise my bed for storage space or sandals to wear in the shower. Warts were never a concern at my house.