Perfect Little World(32)



“You want something?” he asked her, when it became clear that she wasn’t going to leave the room. Her father, for as long as she could remember, was a cipher to her. His face was perpetually empty of emotion, as if everything meaningful had been burned out of him. He accepted her existence, made no effort to prevent her from anything she chose to do, but he had never once offered to help her or to support those decisions. Izzy had been his wife’s responsibility and, once she died, it was as if the link between him and his child had become untethered. He never hit her or yelled at her, but she also could not remember him ever saying that he loved her. Actually, if she had ever heard him say it to her, she would have had no idea how to respond. And, yet, she did not begrudge him any of this. His life was awful and she was quite sure that she, with her simple need, had made it more so for him.

“I’m having this baby,” Izzy said.

“I know all about that,” he said.

“Well, I’ve been talking to some people, some doctors, and they want to help me take care of the baby. They’ve offered me money and scholarship opportunities and health insurance and all kinds of things like that.”

“Good for you,” he said, and she felt like he genuinely meant it, even though his voice was flat and dead. “I never understood how in the world you was going to take care of that baby on your own. I sure don’t have any money. I’m near underwater on just about everything.”

“I’d have to go away, not far, but up near Nashville. I wouldn’t be around here anymore, probably not for a long time.”

“You need to do what’s best for you, Izzy,” he told her. “And the kid, I guess, too.” He leaned over the coffee table and then chose a slice of cheese pizza. He popped the top on another beer and they sat again in silence while he watched a war movie with the volume turned way down.

“It’s a hard decision,” she said.

“Okay then,” he told her. “You can’t say I’ve ever stood in the way of anything you wanted to do. I don’t intend to start now. Sounds like a good idea, though. Either way, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.”

This was the longest she and her father had talked in years, and she felt the strange sensation of wanting it to go on. He had partly made her, she understood this, but she had yet to figure out where the evidence was within her.

As if the force of Izzy’s own need had temporarily sharpened his focus, had burned away the alcohol in his system, her father leaned forward in his chair and stared at her for a second or two, his eyes unclear and bloodshot but most certainly focused on her.

“I have never been a good father,” he said, waving his hand as if to stop her from disagreeing, though she had remained silent. “I loved your mother, once upon a time, but we had you and she changed. And I blamed you for that. Then your mom died, and so much time had passed that I didn’t feel like it was right to step in and try to be a dad to you. That’s my fault. So, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’ve had such a rough go of it.”

As if every bit of breath had been sucked out of his body, he visibly sagged back into the thin comfort of his easy chair. Izzy had the distinct feeling that her father had been possessed in these moments, that someone else was speaking through him. It didn’t make her love him more, but it made her understand him just a little, which was maybe all that was left in her family. She looked at him, her own father, and felt her heart constrict around the thought of what could have been.

She stood up and walked back into her room, where the papers were still waiting for her. She could not figure out why she was hesitating, other than the nagging suspicion that, once she signed the papers, she would never know if she could have done it on her own. She had a strange, unspoken pride that she could handle anything; she’d felt this way since her mother, the one person who truly loved her, had died. Ever since then, she believed that if she tamped down her emotions enough and made herself resistant to all pain, she would never need anyone’s help and could be left entirely alone. To enter into this project, it felt like all of her bones would have to be broken and reset. She took a pen from her desk and, with an unsteady signature that could have been any name, she signed each and every page without reading it again, initialed where needed, and then collected the documents, shoved them into her bag, and tossed the bag under her bed. She retrieved her baby journal from the nightstand, dutifully filled out the information, and then read the question for that day. What one thing do you want to be sure your baby has that you didn’t? She was too tired, too scared to even think about this question. She was past this kind of worry or contemplation now, was already drifting into some kind of dream that would take on the correct dimensions and shape as she lived in it. She wrote, in all caps, EVERYTHING and then put the book away and fell dead asleep.


The next morning, she drove to the hotel where Dr. Grind was staying and sat in the lobby while she called him on her cell phone. He answered and she told him to meet her downstairs.

“Hello, Izzy,” he said when he walked out of the elevator, that easy smile on his face that seemed so genuine, as if the world was worthy of being loved.

“I talked it over with my dad,” she said, letting the doctor believe the project had actually been discussed in detail. “I thought about it myself. I looked at the papers. I want to do it.”

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