Inevitable and Only(7)
I stood up. “Dad. What’s she talking about?”
He turned and looked at me, then Josh. “It’s true. I’m so sorry—I know this is tough to understand. When you’re older—”
“Not when they’re older, Ross, right now!” Mom finally turned her gaze to Dad. “This is going to affect them right now. This is affecting our family right now, you selfish asshole.” And to my horror, Mom burst into tears.
Dad’s face crumpled. He moved toward her, but Mom stood up and slapped him, hard, across the face. Then she turned and walked out the front door.
Dad went upstairs and didn’t come back down, so I finally ordered dinner in for me and Josh.
“I know what it means,” Josh said when I tried to explain it to him over the kung pao shrimp (nonvegetarian rebel food) that neither of us were hungry enough to eat. “I’m not a baby.”
Then he stomped up to his room, slammed the door, and turned on a Shostakovich symphony at top volume. You know, normal ten-year-old boy music. I wasn’t sure if he really did understand, but I didn’t feel like talking about it, either.
After Josh went upstairs, though, Dad came back down and sat on the couch across from me while I wordlessly pushed shrimp around with chopsticks. He didn’t even notice that it wasn’t tofu. Then he told me more details.
She was the same age as me. A few months older, in fact.
“Your mother and I were so young,” he said, still in that thin, sad voice that made him sound like someone else. “Things were rocky that first year we were married. And it was different then—when we were living at Ahimsa House. In theory, it was okay for us to—but I wasn’t honest about it with your mother, that was the problem. I mean, clearly, there was more than one problem.”
“Too much information,” I muttered.
Dad sighed. “Cadie, I’m not denying it. I screwed up. Big-time.”
I had no idea what to say to that.
Oh, and her name was Elizabeth Marie.
Elizabeth Marie?
No one in my family had a name like that. Ross Greenfield, Melissa Laredo-Levy. Colorful names. Names steeped in history, in stories. Elizabeth Marie? How much preppier can you get? Not like Acadia Rose, or Joshua Tree. Those names say, “Hi, I was conceived in a national park by free-spirited parents who lived with seventeen other people in an intentional community.” Otherwise known as a giant purple house in Takoma Park with a composting toilet out back and a telescope on the roof. Back before my mother went MIA—excuse me, became Dr. Laredo-Levy, Head of School at Fern Grove Friends School—and my father went ABD (all but dissertation) and decided to “fritter away his talent” (Mom’s words, of course) selling used books.
“I’m not asking you to understand, Cadie. My head’s still spinning, too. But can you at least forgive me?” I could feel Dad’s eyes on me, but I stared at the shrimp, at their pink question-mark curlicues.
“It was a long time ago, and I’ve changed since then,” he said, trying again. “But this changes nothing about us—about me and you. I promise that. Do you believe me?”
I couldn’t stand it—this version of Dad whose voice I didn’t recognize, who was doing and saying things that made no sense. None of this felt real. I still couldn’t make myself look at him and I couldn’t figure out if I wanted to cry or punch something. Dad was watching me, waiting for a response.
Instead, I went up to my room and slammed the door, too. It wasn’t loud enough the first time, so I opened it and slammed it again, feeling like I was even younger than Josh.
CHAPTER THREE
The next morning, Dad was gone.
There was a note on the kitchen table: Staying at the bookshop for a few days. I love you all.
I couldn’t believe he just left like that. Yes, I’d pushed him away. But I didn’t want him to let me push him away so easily.
Or maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe Mom kicked him out.
Chinese takeout boxes still littered the coffee table and the piano bench, but Mom didn’t mention him or anything that had happened the night before. I didn’t want to go to school but I couldn’t figure out what to say to her. Umm, can I stay home since our family’s falling apart? Josh was up as usual, practicing scales and arpeggios for an hour before breakfast. I ate a chocolate s’mores Pop-Tart (forbidden breakfast food), just to see if Mom would notice (she didn’t), grabbed my backpack, and slouched to the car.
Mom had thrown her briefcase and about a zillion piles of paperwork all over the passenger seat, which was weird because she was usually super organized, so I slid into the back next to Josh, feeling like a little kid. She drove even more quickly than usual, stomping on the brakes at intersections, and I cringed every time I saw a squirrel dart toward the road. I was never going to be able to get behind the wheel again. I was scarred for life.
Speaking of scarred for life, I couldn’t figure out how Josh could act so normal. Not that he ever showed much emotion of any sort. But still—I was a mess, my hair unbrushed, my limbs stuffed into baggy jeans and a wrinkly old sweatshirt. I had my headphones on and Ani DiFranco at top volume (also to see if Mom would notice, because she’s normally very concerned about our hearing). This kid, on the other hand, sat quietly in the back seat with his hands folded, his clothes neat and tidy, his hair combed, staring straight ahead.