Everything I Never Told You(45)

Nath, watching his sister’s eyes blink and redden, felt a twinge of pity cut through his anger. He had read the letter from Harvard eleven times now and had finally convinced himself it was real: they had actually accepted him. In nine months, he would be gone, and that knowledge took the sting out of all that had happened. So what if his parents cared more about Lydia’s failure than his success? He was leaving. And when he got to college—Lydia would have to stay behind. The thought, finally put into words, was bittersweet. As his father passed him a present wrapped in red foil, Nath flashed Lydia a tentative smile, which she pretended not to see. After three comfortless days, she was not ready to forgive him yet, but the gesture warmed her, like a gulp of tea on a cold winter day.

If she had not looked up at the ceiling just then, Lydia might have forgiven her brother after all. But something caught her eye—a Rorschach of white above their heads—and a tiny memory ballooned in her mind. They had been quite small. Her mother had taken Hannah to a doctor’s appointment and she and Nath, home alone, had spotted a huge spider crawling just above the window frame. Nath had climbed the sofa and crushed it with their father’s shoe, leaving a black smudge and half a footprint on the ceiling. “Say you did it,” he’d begged, but Lydia had a better idea. She fetched the bottle of Liquid Paper from beside their father’s typewriter and painted over each spot, one by one. Their parents never noticed the dots of white against the cream of the ceiling, and for months afterward, she and Nath would glance up and share a smile.

Now, looking carefully, Lydia could still see the faint tread of their father’s shoe, the bigger splotch where the spider had been. They had been a team. They had stuck together, even in this small, silly thing. She had never expected a time when that would not be true. Morning light splashed across the wall, making shadows and spots of glare. She squinted, trying to distinguish white from off-white.

“Lydia?” Everyone else had been busy, unwrapping gifts: across the room, Nath fed a roll of film into a new camera; a ruby pendant on a gold chain gleamed against her mother’s robe. In front of her, her father held out a package, small and compact and sharp-edged, like a jewel box. “From me. I picked it out myself.” He beamed. Usually James left the Christmas shopping to Marilyn, allowing her to sign each tag Love, Mom and Dad. But he had picked this gift out himself, and he could not wait to bestow it.

A present he picked out himself, Lydia thought, must be something special. At once she forgave her father for not interceding. Beneath this wrapping was something delicate and precious. She imagined a gold necklace like some girls at school wore and never took off, little gold crosses they’d received at their confirmations, or tiny charms that nestled between their collarbones. A necklace from her father would be like that. It would make up for the books from her mother, for all of the past three days. It would be a little reminder that said I love you. You’re perfect just as you are.

She slid her finger under the wrapping paper, and a squat gold and black book fell into her lap. How to Win Friends and Influence People. A bright band of yellow slashed the cover in two. Fundamental Techniques in Handling People. Six Ways of Making People Like You. At the top, in deep red letters: The More You Get Out of This Book, the More You’ll Get Out of Life! James beamed.

“I thought you could use this,” he said. “It’s supposed to—well, help you win friends. Be popular.” His fingers grazed the title on the cover.

Lydia felt her heart in her chest like a pellet of ice, sliding down out of reach. “I have friends, Daddy,” she said, though she knew this was a lie.

Her father’s smile flickered. “Of course you do. I just thought—you know, you’re getting older, and in high school now—people skills are so important. It’ll teach you how to get along with everyone.” His eyes darted from her face to the book. “It’s been around since the thirties. Supposed to be the best on the subject.”

Lydia swallowed, hard.

“It’s great,” she said. “Thanks, Daddy.”

There was no hope for the other presents in her lap, but Lydia opened them anyway. A fluffy Orlon scarf from Nath. A Simon and Garfunkel album from Hannah. Books from her mother, as usual: Women Pioneers in Science. Basic Physiology. “Some things I thought you might be interested in,” Marilyn said, “since you did so well in biology.” She sipped her tea with a slurp that grated all the way down Lydia’s spine. When nothing was left beneath the tree but balled-up wrapping paper and shreds of ribbon, Lydia stacked her gifts carefully, the book from her father on top. A shadow fell over it: her father, standing behind her.

“Don’t you like the book?”

“Sure I like it.”

“I just thought it would be helpful,” he said. “Though you probably know everything about that already.” He pinched her cheek. “How to win friends. I wish—” He stopped, swallowing the words back down: I wish I’d had it when I was your age. Perhaps, he thought, everything would have been different; if he’d known how to handle people, how to make them like him, perhaps he’d have fit in at Lloyd, he’d have charmed Marilyn’s mother, they’d have hired him at Harvard. He’d have gotten more out of life. “I thought you’d like it,” he finished lamely.

Though her father had never mentioned his schooldays, though she had never heard the story of her parents’ marriage or their move to Middlewood, Lydia felt the ache of it all, deep and piercing as a foghorn. More than anything, her father fretted over her being well liked. Over her fitting in. She opened the book in her lap to the first section. Principle 1. Don’t criticize, condemn, or complain.