The Mothers(46)

“I can’t believe you’re back!” Aubrey said. “I missed you so much.”

“Me too.” Nadia laughed, feeling silly for hugging in the middle of the yard but unwilling to let go first.

Aubrey looped an arm through hers and guided her around the party, past women from Upper Room who seemed as shocked to see her again as if she’d floated out to space. Well, look who it is, they said. Others pulled her into hugs and said, more pointedly, well, look who finally decided to come back home. In their eyes, she was a prodigal daughter, worse than that even, because she hadn’t returned home penniless and humbled. A prodigal daughter, you could pity. But she’d abandoned her home and returned better off, with stories of her fascinating college courses, her impressive internships, her cosmopolitan boyfriend, and her world travels. (“Paris?” Sister Willis said, when she’d shared the story. “Well, la-di-da.”) Was she pretentious now? Or had leaving caused an irreparable tear between her and the other women at Upper Room? Or maybe that fissure had always been there and leaving had allowed her to see it. Halfway through the conversation, Mrs. Sheppard wandered over to the circle. She wore a pink skirt suit and heels that sank into the grass as she walked.

“Welcome back, honey,” she said, patting Nadia’s shoulder.

Nadia wanted to tell Mrs. Sheppard about all that she’d done in the past four years. Her residence on the dean’s list, her internships, her trips abroad. She’d gone away and made something of herself and she wanted Mrs. Sheppard to know. But just as quickly as she’d said hello, the first lady was gone, bustling around the yard, chatting with the other guests. She didn’t care about anything Nadia had accomplished. Any interest she might have held in her had faded years ago, as soon as Nadia ceased working for her. So Nadia swallowed her stories. She allowed Aubrey to drag her to another group of women, and when the tour ended, she made her way to a table where Monique and Kasey were seated. She hugged both of them, grateful for their familiarity.

“Enjoying the spectacle?” Monique said.

“Don’t do that,” Kasey said.

“What? Is it not? I mean, waiters? Who is she trying to impress, really?”

But who did Mrs. Sheppard need to impress? No, Mrs. Sheppard had thrown Aubrey this bridal shower out of love. Nadia imagined Mrs. Sheppard and Aubrey poring over wedding catalogues together, Mrs. Sheppard at the dress fitting, watching Aubrey twirl in the mirror, how the first lady might have teared up a little at the vision, how proud she felt that her son had found a good girl—the right girl. How happy she must be, now that she had finally won the daughter she’d always wanted. At lunch, Nadia picked at her food before scraping the remains into the trash can. She felt claustrophobic in the sweeping backyard and went inside to the bathroom upstairs, where she sat on the fuzzy toilet seat cover and texted Shadi. Miss you, stinky. He should be getting off work soon, and she wished she were back in Ann Arbor, lounging on his beat love seat or drinking coffee at a sidewalk table on Main Street, watching people pass by. She didn’t belong here anymore, not the way Aubrey did.

She had started back downstairs when she spotted Luke’s bedroom. From the hallway, it looked different, and as she eased closer, she saw that it had been converted into a guest room. No longer Luke’s room, the walls covered in football posters, a twin bed pushed against the window. She remembered sneaking into that room, how she’d always felt strange undressing in his childhood bedroom, tossing her bra atop a desk papered with red and blue footballs, slipping out of her jeans near a shelf that held Pop Warner trophies, kissing him while Jerry Rice, plastered above his bed, watched.

“I don’t live here anymore.”

Behind her, Luke Sheppard appeared in the doorway. He looked cleaned up, his stubbly cheeks shaven, and he even wore his glasses, a rectangular pair he’d bought from the drugstore. “I only wear them when I need to look smart,” he’d told her once, carefully folding them into his breast pocket. She hadn’t understood. Didn’t he always want to look smart?

“I moved out,” he said. “Got a place by the river.”

“I don’t care,” she said, embarrassed that he knew she did. “I have a boyfriend.”

“I know. The African guy.”

“He’s American,” she said. “His parents are from Sudan.”

He shrugged. She hated how casual he seemed, how freely he commented on her life when they hadn’t spoken in years. Anything he knew, he’d learned from Aubrey, and she felt betrayed, imagining the two of them in bed together, chatting about her. He stepped inside the room, leaning on a wooden cane, and she looked away as he hobbled past her, plopping on a bed that squeaked under his weight.

“You wanna know something?” he said.

“What?”

“I used to steal shit from church,” he said. “When I was little.”

“Liar.”

“Dead ass.”

“Like what, then?”

“Anything. Just to see if I could.”

To prove it, he reached under the bed and pulled out a maroon prayer book with a cracked leather cover. He’d stolen it from Mother Betty’s piano bench in the sixth grade. Sister Willis had sentenced him to thirty minutes of prayer in the sanctuary for talking in class, and he’d explored the church instead, lying on his belly to peek under pews, toeing at the fringes in the carpet, stomping around the altar. The piano bench had fascinated him—a seat that stored things? There must be something important and secretive inside, like the fake books where movie villains stored guns. Instead of the weapon arsenal he’d hoped for, there were only loose sheets of music, ballpoint pens, and the prayer book.