I Was Told It Would Get Easier(25)
I ignored his comment about his wife because, you know, hos before bros, and said, “Emily’s a pretty good kid, probably because of the nanny.”
“What’s her name?”
“The nanny? Anna.”
“Well, Anna might take care of the day-to-day but you still laid the groundwork, right?”
“Yeah, I guess. And Emily’s not super challenging, she does her work, she goes out with her friends, she comes home when she says she will.” I smiled wryly. “Or she’s got a really good cover and she’s actually running a drug-smuggling ring.”
Chris said, “You never want to give up on a kid. But my daughter’s making it hard not to, and it puts more pressure on the others, too.” He looked at Will again. “He seems fine, but I thought she was, too. Right up until she wasn’t.”
7
JESSICA
Emily and I decided to go to the optional Ford’s Theatre tour, which turned out to be the least disappointing tourist experience either of us ever had. If you haven’t gone, you definitely should. The guide was amazing, the story—bearing in mind we all know how it ends—was tense and dramatic, and the gift shop was outstanding. I love a good museum gift shop; it makes it possible to both spend money and feel erudite. Sure, some people would argue that museums are for education and inspiration, not the purchasing of assassination-themed merchandise. But they would be wrong.
* * *
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Back at the hotel, Emily threw herself down on the bed and sighed. She’d bought a T-shirt that read “That is SO four score and seven years ago,” and we’d had fun together, without even a hint of teenage angst or perimenopausal agita. But now I felt the air change a little and got ready to be patient.
She pulled her backpack over and got out a little model kit my dad had sent her. These were little sheets of metal with shapes punched into them, for making buildings, cars, bugs, all kinds of things. I’ve got about three dozen of them scattered around the house, and let me tell you, stepping on a three-inch model of the Brandenburg Gate at 2:00 a.m. in bare feet is no joke. Thank god it wasn’t the Chrysler Building, or I’d still be limping.
Then, without looking up, Emily said, “I like the city a lot, but neither of those colleges really appealed to me. Not that I could even get into them.”
I walked across the room and turned on the bedside light, getting a short static shock. Why does that happen so much? I shook my hand and waited a moment before saying, “Well, honey, I’m sure you’ll get in somewhere, and you can’t have a career these days without a college degree.”
“Not necessarily.” She’d dug out the little pliers she carries everywhere and was working on the model.
“Well, yes. All I want is for you to keep your options open.”
Emily was silent. We’d had this conversation a dozen times lately. As usual, I could feel Emily wanting to say something, but not. I glanced at my watch. Was there time for a quick power nap before dinner? I realized Emily was looking at me from under her lashes.
“What is it?” I said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“Nothing,” said Emily. “I’m getting kind of burned-out at school. I’m not really the academic type.” She was focusing on her pliers again, having drawn me back in.
“I know,” I said, trying to be supportive. “You’ve always been more hands on, you like to do things.” I gestured at the model, but she didn’t see me.
Emily suddenly frowned at me. “You know, it’s really annoying when you tell me what I’m like. I know who I am, I don’t need you to narrate my internal experience.”
I took a breath. Then: “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Just that you’ve always liked building things, exploring outside, that kind of thing.”
“I know, Mother, I was there, remember? I’m actually living my life, I don’t need an explanatory voice-over to understand it.”
Another breath. She’s not being a problem, she’s having a problem, I reminded myself. “Are you hungry, honey?”
Emily sat up. “No! I’m not hungry, Mom, sometimes I can get irritated on my own, without low blood sugar, lack of sleep, or too much screen time. Sometimes there isn’t a reason, alright? I understand what I’m feeling, no explanation needed. I can manage myself, I don’t need handling like a four-year-old.”
I bit my tongue to stop myself from pointing out that this was clearly untrue, based on current evidence. I decided strategic retreat was probably called for, so I got up to take a shower.
“Where are you going?” asked Emily.
“Uh, to take a shower?”
“You’re mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you. I wanted to take a shower and you didn’t want me to ‘handle you,’ so I thought it was alright if I left the room.”
Emily glared at me. “You’re being sarcastic.”
I felt a familiar wave of exhausted sadness wash over me. It’s so hard to know which Emily is going to show up for any given conversation. She’s capable of so much happiness and calm, and then in an instant she gets enraged by anything and everything I say. Conversations would veer off the rails like cartoon chase sequences, regardless of how slowly I took the curves. However, Emily is right about one thing. I do tend to look for explanations that feel more comfortable than the obvious one: My kid is an asshole.