The Paris Library(35)

But someone else was dating. The ladies of Froid pushed every single single woman in Dad’s path. In the church hall, they set him up with a giggly blond teller who’d recently started at the bank.

“He’s nothing but skin and bones,” said old Mrs. Murdoch.

“Lost his appetite,” Mrs. Ivers said. “But his savings account is plump.”

During the fall band concert, they stuck him next to a florist with greasy hair. “He’s a good provider,” Mrs. Ivers whispered during Danse Macabre. At the fireman’s spaghetti fund-raiser, they paired him with my English teacher. Listening to her yammer on about Macbeth, Dad didn’t seem happy, but he didn’t rush through dinner, either. Mary Louise and I were the first to leave.

“Revolting,” I told her, kicking at the dead leaves on the sidewalk.

“Gag me,” she agreed.

“Your dad goes on more dates than you,” Tiffany Ivers said as she slithered by.

In Mary Louise’s room, we sang “You May Be Right” at the top of our lungs, using Angel’s Aqua Net as a microphone. Something in the angry twitch of Billy Joel’s voice spoke to me. At midnight, Sue Bob pounded on the door and told us to shut up.

In the morning, Mary Louise and I trotted down the alley—the quickest way to my place. Two houses from home, we froze like antelope when we saw Dad at the back door with the blond bank teller, who blushed as she stroked the arm of his shirt. He wound his fingers through hers.

“Gross!” Mary Louise hissed. “They’re having hand sex.”

“She spent the night.”

“Do you think he’ll marry her?”

It had only been eight months since Mom died.



* * *




GRIEF IS A sea made of your own tears. Salty swells cover the dark depths you must swim at your own pace. It takes time to build stamina. Some days, my arms sliced through the water, and I felt things would be okay, the shore wasn’t so far off. Then one memory, one moment would nearly drown me, and I’d be back to the beginning, fighting to stay above the waves, exhausted, sinking in my own sorrow.



* * *




A WEEK LATER, after church, Dad, Mary Louise, and I were picking out pastries in the hall when the blonde approached and regarded him expectantly. He kept glancing from me to her. “Girls,” he finally said, “I’d like you to meet Eleanor. She’s… This is Lily and Mary Louise, her partner in crime.”

“Nice to meet you. Heard so much about you.” She squeaked like a demented parakeet.

“Lily?” I heard Dad say. “Are you okay?” I shook my head. He could move on. I would stay with Mom. I remembered her hand, dusted with flour, passing me the beaters covered with chunks of cookie dough; her laugh as I twirled my tongue around the metal, trying to get what I could. I remembered the clown costume she made me for Halloween, her foot on the pedal of the sewing machine, head bent in concentration. I remembered things I could not possibly remember. Mom watching over me as I slept. Mom with a tender expression, patting her enormous belly, me nestled inside. I remembered that I wouldn’t wear the sweater she’d crocheted because it wasn’t store-bought like Tiffany Ivers’s. I remembered the way Mom smiled to hide the hurt. If I could find it, I’d wear the sweater every day.



* * *




FOR MY FOURTEENTH birthday, Dad took me to Jeans ’n Things, which was owned by Mrs. Taylor, who sat three pews in front of us and had a brown bouffant. Angel and her friends had designed their own T-shirts with their names printed on the back, and that’s what Dad decided to get me. I was impressed he came up with the idea himself.

The T-shirts came in five colors; orange was the only one in my size. Next, the decal. Pictures of bunnies, birds, or rock bands. Before, Dad would have checked his watch twenty times, worried about time away from work, but now he examined each one with me.

“Your mom would have chosen the eagle,” he said, so softly I barely heard.

That’s what I picked. Mrs. Taylor brought out the velveteen letters—big, medium, and small, and red, black, and blue. He and I felt them all.

“Your mom took care of the presents. I didn’t realize everything she did.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, hugging him tight, the way I wished I’d hugged Mom that last day.

I wore the T-shirt home.

Odile brought over a cake—chocolat!—and Mary Louise and a few other girls from school watched me blow out the candles. The smoke was still rising when Eleanor Carlson barged in without knocking.

Scowling, Mary Louise said, “What’s she doing here?”

“What a nice surprise.” Dad kissed Eleanor Carlson’s cheek.

“Happy birthday!” she chirped.

“Lovely to see you.” Odile nudged me.

“Lovely,” I muttered.

Mary Louise crossed her arms and wouldn’t say a word.

Dad and Eleanor Carlson were careful not to touch, careful to stand well apart. But he smiled at her more than he smiled at me, and it was my party. Wanting the day to be done, I horked down the cake and tore open my gifts.

Afterward, as Mary Louise and I stuffed the paper plates into the trash, Dad brewed a fresh pot of coffee. His girlfriend opened the exact cabinet for the cups. Out of all of them, she chose my mother’s favorite with the dainty blue flowers. Of course she did. Dad didn’t seem surprised.