Vanishing Girls(50)

“Maybe what Nick meant to say”—Aunt Jackie shoots me a warning look—“is just that Dara’s not here yet. It’s her birthday,” she adds, when I open my mouth to protest. “This is her favorite restaurant. She’ll be here with us.”

All at once, Mom begins to cry. The transformation is sudden. People always talk about how faces crumble, but Mom’s doesn’t; her eyes go bright, vivid green right before the tears start flowing, but otherwise she looks the same. She doesn’t even try and cover her face, just sits there bawling like a little kid, mouth open, snot bubbling in her nose.

“Mom, please.” I reach for her hand, which is cold. Already people are turning to stare. It’s been a long time since Mom has had a fit this bad in public.

“It’s all my fault,” she says. “This was a terrible idea—stupid. I thought going to Sergei’s would help. . . . I thought it would be like old times. But with just the three of us—”

“What am I, chopped tofu?” Aunt Jackie pipes up, but nobody smiles.

Anger moves like an itch along my spine, into my neck, down into my chest. I should have known she would flake. I should have known she would find a way to ruin this, too. “This is all Dara’s fault,” I say.

“Nick,” Aunt Jackie says quickly, as if I’ve cursed.

“Don’t make this worse,” Dad snaps. He turns to Mom and puts a hand on her back, then immediately withdraws it, as though he’s been burned. “It’ll be okay, Sharon.”

“It’s not okay,” she says, her voice cresting to a wail. By now, half the restaurant is looking at us.

“You’re right,” I say. “It’s not okay.”

“Nicole.” Dad spits out my name. “Enough.”

“All right,” Aunt Jackie says, her voice low, soothing, as if she’s talking to a group of kids. “Everyone calm down, okay? Let’s all calm down.”

“I just wanted to have a nice night. Together.”

“Come on, Sharon.” Dad moves as if to touch her again, but his hand instead finds its way to his whiskey glass, which a waitress has just deposited before scurrying quickly away. A double, judging from the size of it. “It isn’t your fault. It was a nice idea.”

“It’s not okay,” I repeat, a little louder. No point in keeping my voice down. Everyone is already staring at us. A busboy coming toward us with ice water catches sight of Mom, turns around, and bolts back toward the kitchen. “There’s no point in pretending. You always do this—both of you do.”

At least Mom stops crying. Instead she stares at me, openmouthed, her eyes all bleary and red. Dad grips his glass so hard, I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole thing shatters.

“Nick, honey—” Aunt Jackie starts to say, but Dad cuts her off.

“What are you talking about?” he says. “Do what?”

“Pretend,” I say. “Act like nothing’s changed. Act like nothing’s wrong.” I ball up my napkin and throw it on the table, suddenly disgusted and sorry that I even showed up. “We aren’t a family anymore. You made sure of that when you left, Dad.”

“That’s enough,” Dad says. “Do you hear me?” The angrier Dad gets, the quieter his voice. Now he’s speaking in practically a whisper. His face is a mottled red, like someone choking.

Weirdly, Mom has gone totally still, totally calm. “She’s right, Kevin,” she says serenely, her eyes floating up past my head again.

“And you.” I can’t help it; I can’t stop it. I’m never this angry, but it all boils up at once, something black and awful, like a monster in my chest that just wants to tear, and tear, and tear. “You’re on a different planet half the time. You think we don’t notice, but we do. Pills to go to sleep. Pills to wake up. Pills to help you eat, and pills to keep you from eating too much.”

“I said that’s enough.” Suddenly Dad reaches over the table and grabs my wrist, hard, knocking over a glass of water onto Mom’s lap. Aunt Jackie shouts. Mom yelps and leaps backward, sending her chair clattering to the ground. Dad’s eyes are enormous and bloodshot; he’s holding my wrist so tightly, tears prick my eyes. The restaurant has gone totally silent.

“Let her go, Kevin,” Aunt Jackie says very calmly. “Kevin.” She has to put her hand on his and pry his fingers from my wrist. The manager—a guy named Corey; Dara used to flirt with him—is moving toward us slowly, obviously mortified.

Finally Dad lets go. He lets his hand fall in his lap. He blinks. “God.” The color drains out of his face all at once. “My God. Nick, I’m so sorry. I should never have—I don’t know what I was thinking.”

My wrist is burning, and I know I’m going to cry. This was supposed to be the night Dara and I fixed everything. Dad reaches for me again, this time to touch my shoulder, but I stand up, so my chair grates loudly on the linoleum. Corey pauses halfway across the restaurant, as if he’s afraid he might be physically accosted if he comes any closer.

“We aren’t a family anymore,” I repeat in a whisper, because if I try to speak any louder the pressure in my throat will collapse and the tears will come. “That’s why Dara isn’t here.”