The Best Possible Answer(50)

My mom’s put a few more photos on her dresser, ones that I haven’t seen before. They’re from my old Instagram account, photos of Sammie and me, our silly faces filling up the frames. She must have printed them out before I canceled my account. I never knew she’d done this.

I pick up one of the pictures. We took it freshman year, long before Sammie’s dad died, before my mom got sick. It’s been over two years since then. We look younger, of course—Sammie still has braces, and I’m sporting my sorry attempt at bangs—but even more, we look different because we look happy. We were happy. We were different people completely. Maybe Professor Cox was right. We didn’t really know anything about the world. Maybe we still don’t. Maybe it will only get worse, like he said.

I place the picture back on the dresser. My dad has left some of his stuff here in his wooden tray—a broken watch, a pair of sunglasses, a pile of receipts. I leaf through the receipts. There’s nothing too exciting—some from airport cafés and taxis in Singapore, all with the word work written on top, and then more from home: Starbucks, Macy’s, Target.

I start going through his drawers, looking for something. I don’t know what exactly. Pictures of them, maybe. Letters. Something, anything, to explain who they are, why they’re in his life, why he’s decided to create one in theirs.

I pull out his shirts, his pants, his socks, everything. There’s nothing here, but I empty the drawers anyway. I clean them out. I throw it all on the floor.

The last drawer is nearly empty when I hear something heavy fall out. I drop to the ground. I scramble through the fabric and find it: a set of keys with a label attached. The bastard was dumb enough to leave them here, and even dumber to label them: Geneva Terrace.

My legs start to shake, and then my heart quickly follows.

They’re the keys to the other house. He’s left them here, hidden in his clothes, and now I’ve found them—they’re in my hand.

There’s a rustling at the front door, a turn of the lock, and voices—my mom’s voice, and Mila’s—she’s crying. What the hell. It’s ten-thirty, and they’re not supposed to be back until this afternoon.

I slide the keys into my pocket and quickly stuff all of my dad’s clothes into his drawers, careful not to slam them closed. I slip out of their room and tiptoe down the hallway toward the living room, the keys burning in my pocket.

“Viviana!” Mila screams as she runs to me. “Are you back? Are you home for good?”

“No, I’m not.” I look up at my mom. “What’s going on? Why are you guys home so early?”

“I threw up!” Mila says, with a proud smile on her face. “We were on a field trip to the Field Museum and I got carsick on the bus and I threw up all over Nicholas Smith. He had to go home, too.”

“Are you okay now?”

“She’s fine,” my mom says. “But, Viviana, thank God you’re here. Could you stay home with her for a few hours? I’m missing my class.”

“Mama, I have to be at work at one.”

“Please, Viviana. I will be back in two hours. I have a meeting with my professor at eleven. I was going to cancel, but he wants to talk to me about an internship—a paid one—and it would mean the world to me if you could stay so I could go.”

“I really don’t think I should—”

Mila pulls at my arm and gives me a sharp, angry look. “Why don’t you want to stay with me? Are you mad at me, too?”

I look at my mom. “What if she throws up again?”

My mom goes into the kitchen and pulls out Gatorade, emergency saltines, and applesauce from the cabinets. “She won’t, but just in case, only feed her this.” And then before I can say anything else, my mom grabs her briefcase, kisses Mila on the forehead, and runs out the door.

*

“Why won’t you tell me?”

It’s the twentieth time she’s asked me in the last hour, and for the twentieth time, I respond by saying, “Because it’s none of your business.”

We’re curled up on the couch watching Planet Earth on Netflix, and I’m trying to get her just to watch the show, to get her to stop asking me so many questions, especially since all I can think about are these keys in my pocket.

“Is it because of Daddy?”

I ignore her question and keep my focus on the TV. “Why is it called a flying lemur if it doesn’t fly and it’s not a lemur?”

She stares at me. “It’s called a colugo. It lives in Borneo. And it’s not flying. It’s gliding.” And then: “Is it because of their almost divorce?”

“This is crazy!” I ignore her question and point to the screen. “Look at how far they travel through the air. How do they do that?”

“It’s the same as a flying squirrel. It’s not that exciting.” And then: “Is it because you’re mad that they won’t pay for your Academy camp thing?”

“But how does it do that? It moves like a Frisbee.”

“Is it because of what happened at school with your ex-boyfriend and the picture you sent him?”

I nearly fall off the couch. “What? How do you know about—”

“I live in this house, too,” she says. “The walls are thin, and I have really good hearing.”