The Mothers(47)

“That’s my mother’s,” she stammered.

She hadn’t seen the book in years. Her mother used to keep it on her nightstand, but one day, it’d gone missing. She’d searched for it all over the house for weeks.

“I know,” Luke said.

“She thought she lost it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why the fuck didn’t you give it back?”

“I felt bad.”

“So you just kept it?”

“I forgot all about it,” he said. “I found it when I was moving. I had to get it to you.”

He handed the book to her. She sat next to him, flipping through the silvery, thin pages. Hymn names floated past her eyes and when she leaned closer, the book smelled like dust and leather and, faintly, her mother’s perfume. She felt her eyes water, and Luke’s hand, warm on her back.

—

THE WEEKEND BEFORE THE WEDDING, a reply from Aubrey’s mother finally arrived, written on the back of the invitation she’d sent: We can’t make it. But congratulations! She stood in front of the mailbox, reading the message once, twice, then three times, before she slid the card back into the envelope and threw it in the trash can. When she stepped inside, her sister was sitting on the couch, watching the news. Aubrey slipped off her shoes and climbed on the couch beside her, laying her head in Monique’s lap.

“She’s not coming,” she said.

“Okay.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.” She chewed her lip, watching as a blonde reporter interviewed a firefighter in front of a smoldering house. “Is it so stupid that I wanted her at my wedding?”

“No,” her sister said. “Who wants to say they hate their mother?”

She closed her eyes, feeling her sister brush her hair back from her forehead. The summer before her senior year of high school, Aubrey had visited her sister in Oceanside for the first time. At the airport, Mo had met her at the baggage claim, waving wildly as if Aubrey wouldn’t recognize her otherwise. She looked the same—petite, her hair cut short the way their mother hated—but she’d beamed as she pulled Aubrey in close and said, “Look at you. You’re all grown up now.” Behind Mo, a white woman stood with her hands in her pockets. Late twenties, dirty-blonde hair that looked wet, a smile that looked too much like a smirk. She wore a gray tank top and baggy jeans cuffed at the ankles and she stepped forward, jutting out her hand.

“Great to finally meet you,” she’d said. “Hope your flight was good.”

Aubrey said that it was, thank you, and they’d all stood there awkwardly until Mo said, shouldn’t they be going now? She grabbed the rolling suitcase and Kasey lifted the duffel bag off Aubrey’s shoulder. She pretended to struggle under the weight.

“Oof,” she told Mo. “She is your sister.”

She seemed like the type who tried to be funny when she felt uncomfortable, and Aubrey vaguely felt like she should laugh, just to relieve everyone. On the drive to their house, they asked her harmless questions about school and her friends, and she offered soft, monosyllabic answers. From the backseat, she could see them exchanging worried glances and at a stoplight, she heard Mo say quietly, “She’s just sleepy.” Like when they were younger and she’d always speak to their mother on Aubrey’s behalf, as if she weren’t actually there.

She wasn’t, not really. All week, she’d wandered around her sister’s house like a ghost. She felt like she’d left her body behind in her bedroom, under Paul’s hands, his breath hot against her neck, and she was floating around outside of it, always feeling its pull. Her last day in town, her sister had taken her to the beach, where they’d fallen behind a tour group. A bespectacled old man with a fanny pack strapped around his waist told the small crowd about the glory of the Oceanside pier, the longest wooden pier on the West Coast, which had been rebuilt six different times. A storm destroyed the first pier over two hundred years ago, and during low tide, you could still see the remnant woodpiles under the water. The second and third piers were damaged by storms, and when the fourth pier opened in the 1920s, the town threw a three-day-long celebration. Twenty years later, it was leveled by another rainstorm.

“This pier,” he had said, stomping his foot, “this very pier was dedicated in 1987. A few blinks ago! And in your lifetimes, there’ll be another pier and maybe even another. The storms will come and we’ll keep on building.”

Later, once they’d reached the end of the pier, she’d asked her sister if she could live with her. She’d squeezed Mo’s hand and whispered, please don’t make me go back. But during that slow walk behind the tour group, she’d stared down at the wood beneath her feet, exhausted just imagining the city continually rebuilding a pier that would eventually fall into the ocean. There was nothing special about the pier aside from its length, no boardwalk or Ferris wheel, just a tackle shop marking the midway point and at the end, a diner. The pier was nothing but a long piece of wood that kept crumbling until it was rebuilt, and years later, she wondered if that was the point, if sometimes the glory was in rebuilding the broken thing, not the result but the process of trying.

The day after her mother’s reply had arrived, Aubrey met Nadia at the beach. She lay in the sand, propping herself up by her elbows, while beside her on the blanket, Nadia rolled over onto her back. She wore a tiny black bikini that made every man stare, but she seemed indifferent to the attention, as if she were so accustomed to captivating strangers that it hardly registered. Of course she was used to it, just look at her. Since high school, she had grown leaner, her clothes simpler and her makeup less dramatic in a way that only seemed to highlight how naturally beautiful she was. Aubrey felt so pudgy beside her, she couldn’t even bring herself to take off the baggy T-shirt and shorts she’d worn over her swimsuit. Had she always felt like the ugly friend? Or was this new? Was she just feeling insecure because of what she’d accidentally witnessed at her bridal shower? She’d tried to tell herself it was nothing, but she still couldn’t get the image of Nadia and Luke talking in bed out of her mind. Not in bed, really, but on his bed, as casual and intimate as if they were old pals. She’d left her guests in the yard to search for him, and when she saw the two of them in his room, she froze in the hallway, as if she were the one interrupting their party. She’d felt terrified every time she’d grown closer to Luke—the first time he held her hand, or kissed her, or invited her to cuddle in his bed. But Nadia looked comfortable. This closeness wasn’t new to them. They shared some sort of past together, and the fact that neither had mentioned it hurt the most. An unspeakable past was the worst kind.