The Mothers(45)

“It’s funny,” he said, pulling onto the 5. “You drink coffee now.”

He smiled a little, nodding at her cup. She’d never drunk coffee before college. She’d tried a sip of her mother’s once but nearly spit it out. She’d expected it to be sweet, like hot chocolate, but it tasted bitter and gross. Now she couldn’t even drink hot chocolate anymore—she’d bought a box of it last winter to lift her spirits but it was so sweet, she threw it out. Airport Starbucks was barely coffee, and she already missed the French press at Shadi’s apartment, even though the first time he showed her how to use it, she’d rolled her eyes and said she wanted a cup of coffee, not a science experiment. But she didn’t tell her father this. She didn’t need him to know how many mornings she woke up at Shadi’s.

“Your friend,” her father said, “he’s flying in later?”

“On Friday,” she said. “I hope that’s okay.”

At the Detroit Metro Airport, Shadi had kissed her good-bye. “I know you hate going home,” he’d said, rubbing the back of her neck where her hair met her skin. “You’re a good friend.” She’d kissed him again because she wasn’t a good friend, not even close. A good friend would not have to muster joy for her best friend’s wedding, a good friend felt it naturally. She felt anxious about this whole trip and she couldn’t decide if Shadi flying in to stay with her and her father made her feel better or worse.

“And your term?” her father said. “It went well?”

“It was fine,” she said.

“And you’ll get your diploma and everything?”

“They’re sending it here.”

“Okay. That’s good.”

“You’re not mad about that, right?”

He shrugged. “I would’ve liked to see you graduate,” he said. “But you gotta do what you think is best.”

She leaned against the warm windowpane as they passed the Del Mar lagoon. Shadi had called her selfish, but her father wouldn’t even admit that he was upset, and somehow, that was even more frustrating.

When they pulled up to the house, she followed her father, who insisted on carrying her suitcase, to the front door. She stepped inside after him and suddenly stopped. The house felt different, smelled different even, as if it were a living organism whose basic chemistry had changed. Could a house change its smell in a few years? Or had she just forgotten what it was like to be home? She glanced around the living room and realized what had actually changed. Her father had taken down the photographs. Not all of the photographs—she inched forward and spotted one of her on the coffee table, her high school graduation picture on the mantel. Just the photographs of her mother. Light rectangles marked the walls where she had been.

“How could he do that?” she asked Shadi later. “She’s my mother.”

She had never cried in front of him and crying into the phone felt as embarrassing as if he’d been watching. She crouched on the carpet by her bed, dabbing her eyes with her tank top.

“Maybe it hurts him to look at her,” Shadi said.

“It’s like she was never here. Like he never loved her.”

“I think he still loves her. That’s why it hurts so much.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Still. You didn’t call to hear all this shit.”

“It’s your life,” he said, “I want to hear it.”

She closed her eyes, trying to remember the photos that had hung on the walls. She had passed these pictures every day, but now she only remembered them vaguely—her parents on their wedding day, her mother in a garden, her family at Knott’s Berry Farm. How had she not memorized them? Or maybe she had once but she was beginning to forget. Did the house smell different because her mother’s scent was gone? Or had she just forgotten how her mother smelled?

—

THE SHEPPARDS LIVED in a sleepy, sedate neighborhood, one home in a row of identical houses with wavy roofs and canopies of arching palm trees. On the front porch, a brown welcome mat read God Bless This Home—a prayer or an order, anybody’s guess. In the front entrance, tan walls were covered in paintings (two women playing lawn croquet, a funeral procession painting they had seen on The Cosby Show). A mahogany piano that looked too pristine to be played rested against the staircase, and on top of it were carefully arranged family portraits. Pastor and Mrs. Sheppard smiling in front of a chapel on their wedding day, the proud parents posing with their newborn son, and toward the end of the piano, teenage Luke in a cap and gown, glowering at the camera, too cocky to smile.

The afternoon of the wedding shower, Nadia followed voices into the backyard, where round tables, covered in deep red tablecloths, clustered on the Sheppards’ lawn. The catering crew, a passel of black teenagers in starched white shirts and aprons, ushered around the yard, pouring ice water and lemonade into glass goblets. She spotted Aubrey across the lawn, under a leafy tree surrounded by a circle of women. She wore a white dress swirled with gold that flowed to her knees, her curly black hair hanging to her shoulders, and she was laughing, her hand covering her mouth. It was striking, how perfectly she belonged here.

Aubrey beamed when she saw Nadia pick her way across the grass. She skipped over to her, throwing her arms around her neck, and their bodies collided, knees knocking.