Bright Before Sunrise(20)

I flip the frame facedown on the countertop and check the baby monitor again—sleeping. Though I’m still curious, I make myself walk away from the photo and into the living room.

It isn’t even curiosity, really, just restless energy. I thought tonight would be different. I thought it would be nightmarish, like the night before Dad’s funeral—tidal waves of Evy’s tears. Mom’s grief, which demands and judges and suffocates and needs an audience. And me—helpless and guilty because I couldn’t cry, couldn’t stop their tears, and couldn’t fix anything.

I spent today preparing for that, and in the end I wasn’t needed. I could be at Jeremy’s party with everyone, making Amelia ridiculously happy by giving him a chance. I could be catching up with Evy. I could be home right now, sleeping. Or watching mindless TV and eating popcorn. So how did I end up in some stranger’s house watching Sophia sleep on the video screen of her baby monitor?

I didn’t have to agree to babysit. Really, it’s just a plaque—Mr. Donnelly won’t be too disappointed if we wait until next year to order it. I don’t need it as filler for my college apps. Dad would hate that I’m stressing over this. I need to let it go.

And who cares why Jonah doesn’t want to volunteer?

Or why there’s no trace of him in this house besides a photo that’s four years old? Not even a hat or a sweatshirt or a backpack on the first floor. Nothing of his written between the playdates and Zumba classes on the calendar on the fridge. No magazines with his name in the rack by the couch.

I’ve scoured the whole first floor, and there’s nothing here to teach me anything more about him. But it’s not like I’m going to go snoop in his room. That would be ridiculous.

I turn up the volume on the baby monitor until it’s slightly staticky and I can hear the soft splashes of the rainfall setting on her white-noise machine. Instead of soothing me, the rhythm makes me feel useless. I need a distraction, a purpose, an outlet.

There are four remotes aligned with military precision on the coffee table. These are framed by a neat stack of parenting magazines and a pink basket of teething rings, bibs, pacifiers, and burp cloths. I pick up the remote on the left and study it. Pick up the next one and compare them. I press the power button on the third one and the stereo blares to life with, “My teddy loves me. He’s got a big red bow—” I jab at the button again and hold my breath. The music dies instantly and the sound isn’t replaced by crying. Returning the remotes to the coffee table, I double-check the baby monitor. Sophia’s still sleeping and I still have nothing to do.

I cross to the bookshelves. Since I don’t want to read What to Expect When You’re Expecting or during the First Year or any portion of a child’s life, I hope there’s something tolerable and diaper free in their library.

On the top shelf is a book I recognize too well. It’s stuck between a battered copy of the Mayo Clinic Guide to a Healthy Pregnancy and a hardcover bio-thriller. I pull it out and sit on the floor with it cradled in my lap, tracing the cover lettering like I did when I was seven and Mom would bring me to visit Dad at his office. This cover is different—a newer edition. What new criteria have they added to Teens in Flux: Adolescent Psychology by Ethan Waterford, Ph.D. And who is Roberta Schell?

Why does the cover advertise that she’s written a brand-new introduction to my father’s book? I flip the pages—turning past highlighted passages and pencil notes in the margins—wondering how a book like this would assess me. What would Dad think about how I’ve turned out?

If Dad were still here, would he be able to explain how to make Teflon work in my favor? How to let that barrier down occasionally and who to let in?

If Dad were still here, everything would be different. Tomorrow we’d be making pancakes and going golfing. Maybe I’d even finally figure out how to play. I used to tag along just so I could ride in the cart, hand him clubs, and have four hours of his attention. If Dad were still here, tomorrow I wouldn’t be putting on black and dueling with my grief.

I don’t want to go to the memorial tomorrow. I’m not ready to say good-bye again. I want to shut the door on those feelings—the ones that might consume me if I ever allow myself to acknowledge them—and run away. I thumb through the index of Dad’s book, knowing there’s probably a section on “repressed emotions”—and that’s the closest I’ll be able to get to him helping me deal with his death.

I shut the book’s cover. I should have told Mom “no” when she asked for my help with planning. Instead, I chose caterers and florists; picked out hors d’oeuvres and flowers. Called all our relatives to invite them, which meant listening to all of their reminiscing and tears. And I made sure we were stocked up on tissues, because every time I had to ask Mom a question, she would cry and I’d feel guilty for not being able to answer it myself.

There’s a quiet sneeze over the monitor—it isn’t followed by any other sounds, but I click on the video. Sophia’s in the same position as the last fifty times I checked.

I wish I had something to do—anything. Anything but sitting here thinking about Dad … or Jonah.

Which is just pathetic, because I’m sure I haven’t crossed his mind once since he walked away and left me standing at his locker.





11

Jonah