Everything We Didn't Say(65)
“What are you doing?” he calls. No “Good morning.” No “Happy birthday.”
I swallow hard and force a smile. “Thought I’d grab the picnic quilt, but I changed my mind.” It’s the honest-to-God truth, but my palms sweat as I say it.
Law grunts, then gives me a strained, crooked smile and takes a few awkward steps toward me. “Happy birthday, June,” he says, and gives me a gruff hug.
He’s not much of a hugger, and I’m so stunned by his embrace that my arms are pinned to my sides and I can’t reciprocate. It doesn’t much matter. The hug is over in an instant, and Law seems embarrassed that he attempted it at all. “Is your mother making breakfast?” he asks, breezing past the almost-paternal moment.
“Crepes,” I tell him unnecessarily. “They should be ready by now.”
I follow him into the house, heart heavy with knowledge that feels like an anchor. I know things that I shouldn’t know and don’t understand, and the pieces of this particular puzzle do not—cannot—form into a happy whole. At least, not one that I can imagine.
But it’s my birthday, and I have no choice but to shove my suspicions aside and play the part of a happy, newly minted nineteen-year-old. Jonathan has emerged from his room, and when I walk into the kitchen he pecks me on the cheek and hands me a small, carefully wrapped package. “Later,” he whispers, so I tuck it into the deep pocket of my dress.
“Everything’s ready!” Mom says in a singsong voice. We find our spots at the table, and Mom sets my plate before me with a flourish, just like she’s done since I was little. It used to thrill me, the three fat rolls of fresh crepes dotted with ruby-red strawberries from the Murphys’ field and dusted with confectioners’ sugar. As per tradition, she’s put a single striped candle in the middle crepe on my plate. When she lights it with a match, the three of them sing “Happy Birthday” badly. Only Mom can manage to stay on key.
I don’t make a wish when I blow out the candle. I have no idea what to wish for. I’m supposed to talk and laugh, to eat, but my stomach is churning and I have the beginning of a headache. Still, I cut a bite with my knife, spear a strawberry, and force myself to smile. The chocolate hazelnut cream sticks in my mouth and threatens to gag me, but I murmur my thanks and make eye contact with each person in my family. Everyone looks wary to me. Suspicious.
As if we’re all choking back secrets.
* * *
Late in the afternoon, a storm rolls in. For hours before the bank of dark clouds becomes visible and the thunder starts to rumble on the horizon, I can feel the electricity snapping in the air. It pulls everything tight, winding the atmosphere until it seems as if we’ve all been drawn and are about to be quartered. When fat drops finally begin to fall and a gust of wind blows the scent of cool water and hot asphalt across the farm, it’s such a relief that I head to the porch to watch the lightning crackle against the seething boil of charred sky.
I opened presents after church. A thick sweatshirt with the University of Iowa logo proudly embroidered across the chest from Mom, and an emergency car kit filled with disaster essentials from Law. Practical and thoughtful, exactly what I’ve come to expect from my parents. Jonathan doesn’t say anything about the little package he gave me, so I slip it out of my pocket while I’m sitting alone on the porch and open it in the watery gray light of the storm.
It’s a small, leather-bound journal with a thin braided tie. The pages are thick hand-cut paper, and the whole thing is not much bigger than a deck of oversized cards. It’s the perfect size for slipping into pockets, purses, small spaces. I love it instantly, but I can’t help wondering what prompted Jonathan to give it to me now. The journal seems like the perfect place to pen all the frustrations I have with him. All the questions. It’s almost like an invitation.
I begin to crumple up the wrapping paper, but stuck amid the glossy wrap is a small square of lined notebook paper. I hadn’t noticed it before. Picking it out, I squint at the single line written on it.
For all the things you can’ t say. Love, J
It’s a form of apology. Jonathan knows he’s killing me with his silences and secrecy. He knows that everything has changed between us this summer. But instead of reaching out to me and confiding in me, he’s given me a pathetic substitute. As if writing down my feelings is going to make everything better.
A part of me would like to throw the book out into the rain, where it’ll be ruined by the thunderstorm. But even though I’m annoyed, I know it’s too pretty for that, so I wad up the paper and slip the journal back into my pocket.
I can’t help feeling melancholy. The storm certainly doesn’t help, though the relentless sheets of water seem to have passed, and now the rain is falling soft and steady, the sound a music all its own.
When a car turns down our driveway, I look up in surprise. Sundays are quiet in Jericho. People don’t mow their lawns or disc their fields or pop by unannounced. But it only takes me a second to realize that it’s Sullivan’s truck, and somehow, although he’s the last person I expected to see, his presence makes perfect sense. My gratitude is swift, the desire to see him overwhelming any sense of misgiving or twinge of conscience. I’ll be gone in just over six weeks. Ashley can have him then. And Jonathan has abandoned me—in more ways than one. He left hours ago. He can’t expect me to spend the remainder of my birthday alone.