Love Songs & Other Lies(70)
I nod, taking a seat next to her at the giant oak table. “I’ve missed Cort.” I touch one of the shiny bags. “Can I help?”
She pushes a bowl of mints toward me and I grab a handful of the tiny, pastel bricks. The house is quiet; my dad must be in bed already. Or they’re keeping up the charade of a traditional wedding and he’s sleeping somewhere else. Mom and I sit in silence, stuffing bags and eating mints. The windows behind us are all open and I can hear the gentle rhythm of the waves outside.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
She nods, stuffing another bag. “Sure.”
“How did you forgive him?”
Mom looks up from her bowl of mints. “Who?”
“Dad. Why did you take him back?”
She laughs.
What the hell is wrong with her? I watched her suffer for two years. Going to night classes to finish her nursing degree; working nights at the nursing home, constantly exhausted.
“I never really wanted to get into this”—she’s tying bows onto a pile of bags—“but it’s probably time you hear it. I realize how it looked and I should have said something a long time ago.” She folds her hands on the table and picks at her nails. “I resented your father for a long time. You’re the best thing I’ve done, but you weren’t in my college plan. And I always planned to go back, but life was busy. Your dad was successful, so I didn’t need to work.” She picks up a bag and starts tying bows again. “It didn’t make any sense to put you in daycare so I could go back to school. I thought I was fine with that, but it ate away at me.”
“Dad didn’t want you to go back?”
“He never said that, but he never supported me. He never pushed me. And the more successful he was, the angrier I became.” She drums her fingernails on the table and lets out a long breath. “I’m the one who asked for the divorce.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My father has been the villain of my mind’s story for years. “But he left.”
“I left,” she says. “I went back to school, I got the job at Lake Terrace. I finally felt like I had my own identity. I had to do it on my own before your father and I could work again.”
“And he just waited for you?”
“No. He went on with his life and he gave me space. I had things to work out myself … I couldn’t give him what he needed. He didn’t like it, but he loved me enough to accept it. When I was ready I went after him and hoped like hell I still had a chance.”
I’m staring at the pile of pink and green and yellow mints on the table in front of me, picking out all of the green ones. I can’t look at my mom.
“When someone hurts you the way I hurt your father”—she reaches across the table, and her fingertips barely graze my arm—“it isn’t easy to forgive. I don’t know if I even deserved it.”
“But you went after him.”
“I couldn’t not go after him,” she says.
And this, I realize, is the problem.
*
The wedding was beautiful. And now that it’s finally over, I’m lying on the sandy beach, slightly buzzed from the bottle of champagne I monopolized. In my bridesmaid dress. I close my eyes, listening to the waves as they greet the shore, and I finally feel at home on this beach again. When Cam left, the tiniest things—things I didn’t even know were connected to him—reminded me of him. I couldn’t sit on the beach without thinking of our nights under the stars, couldn’t hold my guitar without hearing his voice. Everything I owned smelled like him. It both hurt and healed me, being constantly confronted by those memories of him.
Even the nursing home, where he had never set foot with me, became tarnished by his memory when I caught a glimpse of him as I sat next to Nonni’s bed one day, in late spring. Cam had been gone for months by then, and I spent an increasing amount of time at Lake Terrace. Because it was such a beautiful day, and Nonni wanted some sunshine, I pulled back the curtain that normally divided the room. There was a small cluster of photos on her roommate’s nightstand, and a gleaming silver frame with ornate curls at the corners had caught my eye.
When I picked it up, Cam stared back at me. He stood next to a girl who must have been a few years older, and an older couple who were clearly his parents. They were outside, in what looked to be a backyard, and all wore khaki shorts and white shirts. Cam and his father wore ball caps, and the only way to describe the way they looked was happy. His dad had one arm around Cam, who had a huge smile across his face. His mom and sister both had long blond hair that was blowing in the wind and wrapping around their faces. The picture was filled with joy, and Cam didn’t look much younger than he’d been when I met him; maybe a few years.
“My parents aren’t in the picture.” Cam’s simple explanation had clawed at my brain.
“Hi,” I said, taking a seat between the two hospital-style beds. “It’s Grace, right? I’m Vee.” I smiled as I placed my hand on hers. I picked up one of the frames and turned it toward her. “Is this your family?”
As the wind brushes past my hideous yellow silk dress and the cold sand seeps between my fingers and toes, I wonder if I’m as forgiving as my father. Or as strong as my mother. I think I’m probably just a watered-down version of both. Maybe I’m not cut out for this kind of love at all.