The Best Possible Answer(38)

She doesn’t know the reality of the situation. She can’t see the real answer—that he’s a liar, a cheat, a complete and utter weasel. She thinks this was just a fight—nothing more—and she thinks he’s going to move back and we’re all going to be okay.

My head is dizzy with this terrible surprise.

I wonder how much she knows. Or doesn’t know.

They are looking at me and waiting for me to say something, to do something, to walk into my father’s arms and trust him again.

I see the choice that I have: Pretend that I don’t know the truth, embrace him, welcome him home. Or say something: ask him where he’s been for six months, ask him why he suddenly wants to be with us again, demand that he tell my mom and Mila about Paige, about his other life, the one where he loves some woman named Paige and we don’t exist.

Mila runs over to me and pulls at my arm. “Viviana,” she whines. “It’s Daddy. He’s home.”

I don’t have this choice now. Not in front of Mila. Not on her birthday.

I walk up to my father.

I wrap my left arm around his waist and I force out the word: “Hi.”

“Where’s my hug?” he asks before sweeping me up into his arms. I let him squeeze me, but I don’t return the hug. He puts me down and steps back. “You’ve gotten taller, I think.” He looks at Mila. “Both of you.”

“We haven’t seen you since January,” I say. “That’s six months.”

“Viviana, be nice,” my mom says.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m so sorry I had to be gone so much.” He doesn’t say anything about the separation. The almost divorce. I look over at my mom.

She motions for us to sit at the table, which is set with the good china, the dishes we never use, the ones they received as a wedding present. “Let’s just sit. I’ve made a stuffed chicken and noodles, and then we’ll eat some cake.”

My father takes his seat at the head of the table.

I sit down at the opposite end, far away from him.

Mila moves her chair so that it’s close to my dad. My mom brings in the food from the kitchen.

He looks at me across the table. “How’s the new job?”

“It’s fine,” I say.

“She works too much,” my mom says. “She’s supposed to be resting.”

“Mama, I’m fine.”

My dad frowns. “You made a promise to your mother—”

“I said I’m fine. Would you just let me be—”

“No!” Mila yells. “Stop it! There’s no arguing today. It’s my birthday, and I made a wish that there would be no more arguing. So stop it. All of you.” She’s on the verge of tears, but she’s not crying. Not yet.

“Okay, Mila,” my father says. “We’re sorry.” He looks at my mom and me. “We’re all sorry, right?”

“Yes.” I nod. “I’m sorry, Mila.”

“You’re right,” my mom agrees, finally taking her seat. “Let’s eat now.”

We are silent for a few minutes, except for the sounds of my mom dishing out noodles onto her plate and Mila choking back tears.

I can feel it. I am struggling against an Episode. I want to cry, too—to cry and collapse and scream. But I can’t. Not now.

I can’t eat, so I take a few sips of water.

Mila gives me a funny look, like she knows what’s happening inside my mind and she’s daring me to try to stir it all up again.

Finally, my father pulls out a stuffed lion he brought back for Mila from Singapore, and Mila is distracted and fine again. She jumps into his lap and she’s smiling and laughing and snuggling against him, her new toy in her arms.

I ask to be excused for a minute. I head into my room, where I collapse onto my bed. I breathe and breathe and breathe, slow and steady, like the doctors told me to. It works. My head settles and my bones turn solid once more.

I have to be okay tonight.

I have to.

For Mila.

She made a wish.

*

Mila doesn’t get to sleep until nearly midnight, what with our father’s return and the sugar rush from her three pieces of cake and the excitement of the fireworks. She begged my parents to take her up to the roof so she could see them better, and when I asked (politely, I thought) if I could stay downstairs by myself, my mom gave me a look of death. I acquiesced, quite unwillingly, and then all night, my father kept asking me, “Are you okay, Vivi?” And then Mila would prod me: “Why aren’t you smiling, Vivi? It’s my birthday. Yours, too, tomorrow. And Daddy’s here. Please smile, Vivi. Why aren’t you okay?”

Now the city’s quiet, and Mila’s asleep. I’m alone in my room, finally.

I shut off the lights and crawl under my covers.

I let the day rush over me.

I try to make the tears come, and to let myself cry, but I can’t scream into the pillow like I want, I can’t sob like I want, or they’ll all come running in here asking if I’m okay.

I desperately want to text Sammie.

I desperately want to run upstairs to her room.

I miss her so much.

My father knocks at my door. “Viviana? Can I come in?”

I catch my breath and hold it. The door’s locked. If I am quiet enough, he’ll think I’m asleep and leave me alone.