When We Collided(54)

“I am not sorry about you and never have been a single day in my life; do you hear me?” my mother asked, that fierceness in her voice imploring me to nod. I did hear her, and I do know this, that I am her world, as she has told me throughout my whole life. She cleared her throat. “But I am so very sorry you didn’t wind up with the dad you deserve.”

I keep thinking that I’m a different Vivi than I was just days ago, and I don’t know how to be the new version. I just know I can’t go back to the endless possibilities. I have an answer. And I wish it was a different one.

I’m not saying I hate Jim Bukowski because, you know, I try really hard not to have hatred in my life. It’s just . . . you know that Sunday-night feeling, where the dread of reality sinks in, that you’ve mismanaged your time and now the anxiety of homework and the wasteland of early mornings and school stretches ahead of you? Well, I hope he has that feeling every minute of every day of his entire life. That’s all.

When the doorbell rings, I slump down to answer it because my mom went out for a while. It’s Officer Hayashi, in full uniform, looking stern—all business—as if I summoned him here. “You haven’t been at breakfast.”

I stare back at him.

“Do you need anyone arrested on your behalf?”

Hmm, now there’s an idea. “Well, if you happen to be in Berkeley, you’re welcome to arrest my father. The official charge is being a shitweasel slash never wanting to know me and hating that I’m alive.”

“Sounds like a moron.” His eyebrows lower in this protective way that makes me think he might actually growl. And I guess I expect him to say that he’s sorry or that he thinks I’d be a great daughter to have. Instead, he straightens. “But that’s life. Gotta deal with what you got.”

Oh, is that all I have to do? If only someone had told me sooner! That I just have to deal with what I’ve got. Snap! I think I just did it. I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you even have kids?”

He ignores me, turning to go. “You need to eat and get some fresh air. Won’t do you any good locking yourself in your house.”

He’s gone before I think of a comeback, so I slam the door and make myself oily black coffee. I push the French press down harder than necessary.

“Oh good, you’ve emerged,” my mom says, keys jangling as she comes through the front door. I think it’s the third day after my misadventure to Berkeley. “Did you even remember I was going to pick up your birthday present this morning?”

I glance up from my coffee. She’s still standing in the entryway, and I can’t see what she’s holding over the kitchen ledge. When she leans down, I hear the scrambling of feet.

A wriggly white pouf of a dog, no bigger than a loaf of bread, bursts into the kitchen, and her tiny claws are clicking all over the kitchen floor. It’s love at first sight, and I gasp.

“Wait, really?” I scoop up the dog, and she’s so warm and squirmy, complete with two little pink bows on her ears. “She’s mine?”

I’ve wanted a dog since before I understood words and certainly since before I could speak. People say they don’t remember their earliest years, but I swear I remember being in a stroller and pointing at passing dogs, trying desperately to communicate that I want that thing to be mine.

“She’s yours. Her owner moved into a retirement community, and she had no one to take care of her. Her name is Sylvia.”

“Sylvia,” I whisper. She is a Sylvia, saucy but innocent, elderly with her white hair but young in spirit. She wastes no time licking my neck. Yes, a stuffed animal come to life to keep me company in my hollowness.

“Viv,” my mom says, smile fading a bit. “Sylvia is your dog now, so she’s your responsibility. You’re all she’s got. If for some reason you’re not around, I will not take care of her. I won’t feed her or walk her, okay? Do you understand?”

I narrow my eyes at my mother—clever woman.

Sometimes I think my mom doesn’t really know what to do with me. She got a whirling dervish of a daughter, and the best she can do is brace herself for the violent winds. I know what she’s telling me with this dog: don’t run away or end up in the hospital again. Now someone else’s life depends on me keeping it together. This little, innocent girl-dog, who is working her pink tongue around the back of my ears.

“Okay,” I say. I know it’s a trick or at least a trick wrapped in a present, but you know what? I will take it. “I understand.”

Upstairs, Sylvia roams around my bed, inspecting my stuffed animals at first and then lying down amid them. I place my head on the pillow right next to her, and it’s nice to have the company of someone who won’t try to talk to me or tell me what to do. She dozes off eventually, and her breath is so hot that she’s like a fluffy miniature dragon on my bed. When she hears a knock at the front door, she startles awake with a little bark. I’m not talking to Hayashi again.

I hear my mom’s footsteps, then my door creak open.

“Viv,” my mom says. “Jonah’s at the door.”

I give her this look like So? because I’m being horrible, and I don’t even care that I’m being horrible. I want to retreat into myself, and no one else is invited except for Sylvia.

“Viv,” my mom repeats. “Come on.”