Letting Ana Go (4 page)

I don’t ever remember Dad lying to me on one of our Dad and Daughter Date Nights when I was little.

This was a first.

Dad scribbled a tip and a signature across the credit card slip, then pocketed his card and headed for the door as if he were being chased. Just like that I looked up and saw our dinner was over—almost before I realized what was happening.

It began as a cookout.

It turned into a freak-out.

It ended in a walkout.

First there was Dad firing up the grill, and me turning up the music, and Mom whipping up the fixings. She was whistling as she seasoned that ground beef and smiling to herself as she rolled it into balls and smashed them into patties.

I knew she was feeling good about herself. I can’t really tell the four pounds are gone, except when I look in her eyes. For
the first time in a long time, she’s got that twinkle back. She doesn’t look tired. She looks as if she’s remembered some sort of good news she’d almost forgotten about.

The smell of the burgers was making my stomach growl as I carried the place mats and utensils out back to the patio table by the grill. Vanessa and I ran this morning even though Geoff slept in. I knew I’d have to eat two burgers to hit my calorie goal for the day, and that was fine with me.

Mom raised her can of Fresca once we all sat down: To my beautiful daughter, whose beautiful friends helped me start to feel beautiful again.

I laughed: Oh, please, Mom. You’re beautiful all the time.

Mom: I was telling your dad I’ve lost four pounds already by keeping track of everything in that app you showed me.

Me: I’m very proud of you, Mom.

I looked at Dad. I looked at Mom, who was looking at Dad. Dad was biting into his burger as if nothing was happening at the table, as if nothing important was being said, as if it didn’t matter that Mom had lost four pounds.

As if he didn’t care.

I saw the hurt in Mom’s eyes as she reached for the tray of burgers and wrapped hers in lettuce instead of a bun. She gave a halfhearted laugh and told me this was “protein-style,” without the carbs.

Dad asked me how far we ran this morning. He asked me what we’d been doing since school got out. He laughed when I told him about the Cannonball Splash-O-Rama and the “assistant head lifeguard.”

I reached for a second burger and another slice of cheese: These are delicious, Mom.

Mom winked in Dad’s direction: Well, your father sure can cook on a grill.

Me: You should have seen him at the Korean barbecue place. He’s practically a pro.

The minute the words left my lips, Dad looked up and stared into my eyes. It was a hard stare, one that said he wished I hadn’t said what I’d just said.

Mom and I both said, “What?” at the same time. Me to him. Her to me. She looked at Dad and said she’d always wanted to go there, but he’d always said he was afraid they served mystery meat. I turned to her and told her about our Dad and Daughter Date Night on Wednesday. How Dad is like a celebrity at this place downtown. Something in Dad’s stare told me to shut up. Something in Mom’s eyes told me to keep going.

I could hear the words coming out of my mouth, but it was like someone else was saying them—like I couldn’t have stopped them if I wanted to:

He knew everybody’s name.

The chef came to our table.

It was delicious.

The waitress asked about the dealership.

He goes there all the time for lunch with clients.

There was a strange silence when I finished. It lasted for what felt like forever. Mom reached for another burger. This time, she took two slices of cheese and a bun.

She gave me an awkward smile: I’ve been so good this week.

I felt Dad’s long, cold stare leave my face as he shook his head: Not
that
good.

I’d never heard my mother curse before today. Never once. Nor had I ever seen her throw anything besides a towel, into the hamper. The burgers must’ve still been pretty hot because Dad yowled like an alley cat when they hit him in the face, and the ceramic platter bounced off his chest and broke across his knee. As the pieces clattered to the concrete patio and shattered into a thousand bits I had the sudden thought that we’d never be able to put this back together if we tried, and as Dad raced into the kitchen for a towel to stanch the blood pouring from his knee and Mom yelled words I’d never heard her say before in a voice I could not recognize, I slowly climbed the stairs to my room, closed the door, and put on my headphones.

I fell asleep listening to a singer I love who plays the piano in a minor key over wailing guitars. Her voice is full
and lush and I dreamed of falling endlessly backward into a rich velvet darkness.

When I woke up Dad was gone.

Mom was sitting on the couch, staring at the television screen with the sound muted, eating a pint of Dad’s Chubby Hubby. I sat down next to her, and she tried not to look at me, but I could see her eyes were almost swollen shut from crying.

I put my arm around her shoulders: Is it over?

She nodded: Yes.

I’d always wondered what it would feel like if my parents split up. Sitting there, holding my mother as she buried her face in my shoulder and cried until my T-shirt was soaked, I didn’t feel anything at first. Somehow, it made a strange sort of sense. It seemed this wasn’t about me. This was about them. So shouldn’t they be the ones with the feelings? Wasn’t it right for my mom to be the one crying?

Then I felt something wet and cold against the leg of my jeans. The ice cream Mom was holding had melted and was oozing out of the container, a thick, cold pool across my thigh. Something about it made me gag. We were a mess. This was a mess. I was covered in tears and mascara and stickiness. I pushed my mother away from me, grabbed the carton and the spoon from her hand. As I ran to the kitchen, a chill went up my spine as her tears trickled down my neck and over my
clavicle. I looked back at her as I wiped the ice cream from my jeans and washed the stickiness from my fingers and arms. In a flash, I felt something:

Disgust.

And guilt for feeling disgusted.

And certainty that we’d never be able to put this back together—even if we tried.

I can’t stop crying. I can’t eat anything. I don’t know why. It’s not like they were such a barrel of laughs when they were together. Jill showed up and rang the doorbell because I turned off my phone. She sat in my room on the bed and didn’t say a word for three hours. Just handed me Kleenex while we watched reruns of that Internet video-clip show with the comedian. It’s one of the reasons Jill is my best friend. She knows when to be quiet.

I even watched the broken bone videos. Didn’t bother me at all.

Vanessa and Geoff came over to pick me up for our first summer cross-country practice. They barely noticed I wasn’t really speaking until we got to the parking lot at school. Vanessa just kept talking about this movie they went to see last night
and how awful it was. How the lead actress is supposed to be a teenager in love with a zombie slayer but couldn’t even move her mouth. Geoff parked and turned around to do his impression of her happy face, her surprised face, and her sad face, which were all the same face. I started laughing, and then burst into tears like one of those girls I hate. I am not a public weeper. Vanessa is a public weeper.

I told them about my parents. Vanessa was shocked about what had happened, shocked that I hadn’t called her, simply
shocked
. (She can really be a drama queen.) I assured her I was fine.

Vanessa: You don’t look fine.

Me: You wouldn’t have answered your phone anyway.

Vanessa: What’s that supposed to mean?

Me: Nothing. You were in a movie. Can we please just drop it?

Vanessa: Um, your parents just split up. I don’t think that’s something we can drop.

I told her I was far more worried about these stupid printouts. I haven’t been able to eat anything in two days. Vanessa and Geoff assured me Coach would understand, although I didn’t see how. Either I had eaten enough or I hadn’t. Why would my parents or my feelings have anything to do with it?

But they did.

Coach Perkins isn’t exactly the touchy-feely type. She has a very finely tuned BS meter, and the second she saw me, she asked me what was wrong. Her exact words were: You look awful.

Something about the way she said it made me laugh. I
did
look awful. I thrust my CalorTrack printouts at her. I told her I hadn’t been eating. She pulled me aside and asked me if I was upset over a boy.

Me: Kind of. My dad left.

Coach: I’m sorry.

Me (starting to cry): I’m not.

I’ve run cross-country for Coach Perkins since the summer before freshman year. For the first time in two seasons, she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me until I pulled it together.

She said: You don’t have to run today.

I said: Yes, I do.

I told Geoff and Vanessa I needed a day off from running this morning, but really I needed a day off from them. I didn’t sleep very well, and when I woke up in the gray light at six thirty this morning, I clamped my eyes closed again as if I could shut out the day, but it was too late. The feeling in my stomach, the one
that won’t let me eat much, seems to kick-start my brain into hyperdrive:

Who was Dad taking to that Korean barbecue place?

Why wouldn’t he take Mom?

Why would he lie about it?

Why didn’t Mom try harder to lose weight sooner?

Why didn’t Dad try to be kinder and help her?

Why did he have to leave?

Does he still love me?

I can never let myself go like Mom did
.

But she works so hard
.

Still, that’s no excuse
.

My mind seemed to be on a runaway raft in the middle of a river, bouncing down level-five rapids, until eventually, it tossed me out of bed. I didn’t know what else to do before 7 a.m., so I pulled on my running shoes and put in my earbuds.

I ran in the opposite direction of Vanessa’s house just in case. I ran toward the mountain, staring up at the top of the peak, turning down my thoughts by turning up the music, and letting the cadence of my feet on the pavement focus my breath in a steady rhythm: in-two-three-four, out-two-three-four, in-two-three-four, out-two-three-four. Breathing in for four strides then out for four strides gave me something to focus on besides the thoughts crashing through my head, and then
the sun must’ve broken over the horizon behind me, because it drenched the mountain with a splash of crimson across the top that bled into the indigo at its base. There was something so big about the mountain canvas, and so bold in the colors, that all I could do was drink them in with my eyes like a thirsty little girl with a cold glass of grape Kool-Aid.

My eyes began to water and tears mingled with the sweat running down my temples onto my cheeks. These tears were different from the others I’d cried since Sunday. They weren’t directed at my dad or my mom. These tears were squeezed out of me by the colors of the sun’s brush on the sky, and clouds, and rocky peaks. These tears streamed out of me in answer to the magnitude of what they saw. I ran for farther than I might have otherwise, if only to keep the mountain in my vision, and by the time I turned around to run back home, I felt very small against the massive summit. What a tiny speck of dust I am compared to the rest of this universe. I could no more control the colors of the sunrise than I could my mother’s weight, or my father’s roving eyes.

I realized the only person I can control is me, and as I turned the corner down my street and headed for my driveway I realized one more thing:

I was hungry.

Jill was waiting for me on the porch. It was almost 8 a.m.
and I couldn’t believe she was even awake, much less dressed and waiting on the stairs.

She smiled and waved: There you are. I’ve been texting since dawn.

I opened the front door and she followed me to the kitchen, where I gulped down a glass of water, then rounded the island into the den to stretch on the carpet. I asked her if everything was okay.

Jill: Better than okay. Don’t be alarmed.

Me: You understand my concern? It is a summer day before 10 a.m. and you seem to be showered, clothed, and in your right mind.

Jill: I bring important news.

Me: By all means, share.

Mom wandered into the kitchen right at that moment looking out of sorts. She was rumpled and dazed. Ever since I left her sitting on the couch Sunday, she jumps when she sees me as if she’s startled, as if she’s forgotten I’m here. She turned suddenly when she realized Jill was with me, then stopped and slowly turned back around, continuing into the kitchen to open the refrigerator door. She took out a carton of cottage cheese and bravely tried to smile at Jill. It was almost convincing.

Jill smiled and said good morning, and Mom asked what
the important news was. Jill told Mom it was a good thing she was here, because it concerned her, too.

Jill: Mom and Dad are letting Jack and me each bring a friend on our annual boat trip at Lake Powell this year.

I should note here that Jill squealed this information, which was startling. Jill is not particularly known for any sort of girlish excitement. She is typically droll and measured. Also, it was early for squealing.

I grimaced: So, who are you going to take?

Jill:
You!

This was also a squeal, but Jill was bouncing up and down on her knees, which made me feel extremely fond of her, so I couldn’t frown. In fact, as I pulled my left calf toward my chest in a stretch, I felt my mouth spread into a smile across my face, and turned my head to look at my mother.

Mom had opened the cottage cheese over the sink and appeared to be staring into it for the answer to an unasked question. So I asked it.

Me: Mom, can I go?