The Truth About Forever (36 page)

"Macy," Wes said as I moved past him, out into the hallway.

"It's just," I said, swallowing again. "I… need to talk to my mom. I mean, she's worried probably, and she's wondering where I am."

"Okay," he said. "Sure."

Suddenly I just missed my mother—who once stared at the ocean, who laughed huge belly laughs—so much it was like a pain, something throbbing. I gulped down some air. "So I'll just do that," I said to Wes. "Call my mom. And I'll be back."

He nodded. "All right."

I crossed my arms over my chest as I started toward the elevators, walking quickly, struggling to stay calm, even as tears began to sting my eyes. I could feel my heart beating as I ducked around the next corner to an empty alcove. I barely made it before I was sobbing, hands pressed to my face as the tears just flowed, tumbling over my fingers.

I don't know how long I was there before Wes came. It could have been seconds, or minutes, or hours. He said my name and I wanted to collect myself, but I just couldn't.

When he first put his arms around me, it was tentative, like maybe he expected I'd pull away. When I didn't, he moved in closer, his hands smoothing over my shoulders, and in my mind I saw myself retreating a million times when people tried to do this same thing: my sister or my mother, pulling back and into myself, tucking everything out of sight, where only I knew where to find it. This time, though, I gave in. I let Wes pull me against him, pressing my head against his chest, where I could feel his heart beating, steady and true. I felt someone pass by, looking at us, but to them I was just another person crying in a hospital. I couldn't believe it had taken me this long to finally understand. Delia was right: it was fine, okay, expected. This was what you were supposed to do. And it happened all the time.

We caught the last of the fireworks, the biggest and best, as we walked to the Wish van in the hospital parking deck. As they burst overhead, Wes and Bert and I all stopped to look up at them, the whiz and pop as they shot upwards, and the trailing, winding sparks that fell afterwards. Avery was lucky, I thought. She'd always have a party on her birthday.

After everything that had happened, I'd thought that maybe things would be weird between Wes and me when I finally emerged from the ladies room, having splashed my face with cold water in an attempt to compose myself somehow. But as usual, he surprised me, walking me back to Delia's room to say our good-byes as if nothing really out of the ordinary had happened. And maybe it hadn't.

When we turned into Wildflower Ridge, he pulled up at the far edge of the Commons, a decent distance from the picnic and fireworks area, as if he knew I'd need a little bit of a walk to get my head together and prepare myself for the next challenge. In the backseat, Bert was asleep, snoring with his mouth open.

Before I opened my door and hopped out, I eased my purse from under his elbow, careful not to wake him.

Wes got out too, stretching his arms over his head as he came to meet me in front of the van. Looking more closely, I could see the party was breaking up, people gathering their blankets and strollers and dogs, chatting with each other as they rounded up the children who weren't already sleeping in arms or over shoulders.

"So," Wes said, "what are you doing tomorrow?"

I smiled, shaking my head. "No idea. You?"

"Not much. Got a few errands to take care of in the afternoon. I'm thinking about running in the morning, maybe trying that loop in this neighborhood."

"Really," I said. "Are you going to ask me
the
question? Maybe shout it from the street?"

"Maybe," he said, smiling. "You never know. So you'd better be ready. I'll probably pass by around nine or so. I'll be the one moving really slowly."

"Okay," I said. "I'll keep an eye out."

He started back to the driver's side. "Have a good night."

"You too," I said. "And thanks."

Once he was gone, I took a deep breath, then started across the Commons to find my mother. There was so much I wanted to say to her, and for once I wouldn't overthink, instead just letting the words come. Delia had convinced me that my mother only wanted me to be happy. It was up to me to show her that I was now, and why.

After picking my way through the crowd, dodging little kids and various dogs, I spotted my mother talking to Mrs. Burcock, the president of the homeowner's association. I watched her as she listened, waving now and then at people passing by. The night had clearly been a success, and she seemed relaxed as I walked up to stand beside her. She turned and glanced at me, smiling, then redirected her attention back to what Mrs. Burcock was saying.

"… and bring it up at the meeting next week. I just really think a pooper-scoop rule would improve things for everyone, especially out here on the Commons."

"Absolutely," my mother replied. "Let's bring it to the table and see how everyone responds."

"Well, Macy," Mrs. Burcock said to me. She was an older woman with a prim haircut. "Did you have a good evening?"

"I did," I said. I could feel my mother watching me. "Did you?"

"Oh, it was just wonderful. We'll have to start planning next year, right Deborah?"

My mother laughed. "Starting tomorrow," she said. "First thing."

Mrs. Burcock smiled, then waved and started across the Commons toward her house. My mother and I stood there for a second, not talking, as more neighbors passed on either side of us.

"So," I said. "Did you get my message?"

She turned her head and looked at me, and I saw, in that one moment, that she was mad. Beyond mad. Furious. I couldn't believe I'd missed it before.

"Not now," she said, her lips hardly moving as she formed the words.

"What?"

"We are not," she said, and this time I could hear, clearly, the absolute rigidness in her voice, "going to discuss this now."

"Great event, Deborah!" A man in khakis and a golf shirt called out as he passed us, a couple of kids in tow.

"Thanks, Ron," my mother replied, smiling. "Glad you enjoyed it!"

"Mom, it wasn't my fault," I said. I took a breath: this wasn't how I wanted this to go. "Delia went into labor, and I couldn't—"

"Macy." Never before had I flinched at the sound of my own name. But I did now. Big time. "I want you to go home, get changed, and get into bed. We'll discuss this later."

"Mom," I said. "Just let me explain, you don't understand. Tonight was—"

"Go." When I didn't, she just stared at me, then said, "
Now
."

And then she turned her back and walked away. Just walked away from me, her posture straight, crossing over to where her employees were waiting for her. I watched her as she listened to them, giving her full attention, nodding, all the things she hadn't, for even one second, done for me.

I walked home, still in shock, and went up to my room. As I passed my mirror I stopped, seeing my shirt was untucked, my jeans had a barbeque sauce stain on them, my hair and face were all mussed and wild from crying. I looked different, absolutely: even if I hadn't been able to explain it, all that had happened showed on my face, where my mother had seen it, instantly.
Get changed
, she said, which was ironic, because all I'd wanted to tell her was that I already had.

I was so screwed.

It wasn't just that I hadn't showed up for the picnic. It was also the fact that Jason, arriving at the info desk to find I'd quit, had immediately called my cell phone, then my house. Not finding me available, he discussed the situation with my mother, who had been trying to reach me ever since. I'd forgotten to turn my phone back on, then left it in the van, never checking it afterwards. Until late that night, when I finally pulled it out of my bag. I had ten messages.

Put plainly, I was in big trouble. Luckily, I had someone around who knew that area, could recognize the landmarks, and knew the best road out.

"When you first get down there, just let her talk," Caroline said. She'd been unlucky enough to stop in that morning en route from the beach house, walking right into this maelstrom. Now we were in the bathroom, where I was devoting twice as much time as usual to brushing my teeth as I attempted to put off the inevitable. "Sit and listen. Don't nod. Oh, and don't smile. That really makes her mad."

I rinsed, then spit. "Right."

"You have to apologize, but don't do it right off, because it seems really ungenuine. Let her blow it out of her system, and then say you're sorry. Don't make excuses, unless you have a really valid one. Do you?"

"I was at the
hospital
," I said, picking up the bottle of mouthwash. If I was going down, at least I'd have nice breath. "My friend was giving birth."

"Was there not a phone there?" she asked.

"I called her!" I said.

"An
hour
after you were supposed to be at the picnic," she pointed out.

"God, Caroline. Whose side are you on?"

"Yours! That's why I'm helping you, can't you see?" She sighed impatiently. "The phone thing is so basic, she'll go to that right off. Don't even try to make an excuse; there isn't one. You can always find a phone.
Always
."

I took in a mouthful of Listerine, then glared at her.

"Tears help," she continued, leaning against the doorjamb and examining her fingernails, "but only if they're real. The fake cry only makes her more angry. Basically, you just have to ride it out. She's always really harsh at first, but once she starts talking she calms down."

"I'm not going to cry," I told her, spitting.

"And, oh, whatever you do," she said, "don't interrupt her. That's, like,
lethal
."

She'd barely finished this sentence when my mother's voice came from the bottom of the stairs. "Macy?" she said. "Could you come down here, please."

It wasn't a question. I looked at Caroline, who was biting her lip, as if experiencing some sort of post-traumatic flashback.

"It's okay," she said. "Take a deep breath. Remember everything I told you. And now—" she put her hands on my shoulders, squeezing them as she turned me around—"go."

I went. My mother who was waiting at the kitchen table, already dressed in her work clothes, did not look up until I sat down. Uh-oh, I thought. I put my hands on the table, folding them over each other in what I hoped was a submissive pose, and waited.

"I'm extremely disappointed in you," she said, her voice level. "
Extremely
."

I felt this. In my gut, which burned. In my palms, which were sweating. It was what I had worked to avoid for so long. Now it was crashing over me like a wave, and all I could do was swim up toward the surface and hope there was air there.

"Macy," she said now, and I felt myself blinking, "What happened last night was unacceptable."

"I'm sorry," I blurted, too early, but I couldn't help it. I hated how my voice sounded, shaky, not like me. The night before I'd been so brave, ready to say all and everything. Now, all I could do was sit there.

"There are going to be some changes," she said, her voice louder now. "I can't count on you to make them, so I will."

I wondered fleetingly if my sister was sitting on the steps, knees pulled to her chest, as I had been so many times, hearing her addressed this way.

"You will not be catering anymore. Period."

I felt a "but" rising in my throat, then bit it back. Ride it out, Caroline had said, the worst is always first. And Delia was going to be out of commission for awhile anyway. "Okay," I said.

"Instead," she said, dropping her hand to the arm of her chair, "you'll be working for me, at the model home, handing out brochures and greeting clients. Monday through Saturday, nine to five."

Saturday? I thought. But of course. It was the busiest day, as far as walk-in traffic went. And all the better to keep me under her thumb. I took a breath, holding it in my mouth, then let it out.

"I don't want you seeing your friends from catering," she continued. "All of the issues I have with your behavior—staying out late, showing less concern about your commitments—began when you took that job."

I kept looking at her, trying to remember everything I'd felt the night before, that sudden welling of emotion that had made me miss her so much. But each time I did, I just saw her steely, professional façade, and I wondered how I could have been so mistaken.

"From now until school starts, I want you in by eight every night," she continued. "That way, we can be sure that you'll be home and rested enough to focus on preparing for the school year."

"Eight?" I said.

She leveled her gaze at me, and I saw my sister was right. Interruptions were lethal. "It could be seven," she said. "If you'd prefer."

I looked down at my hands, silent, shaking my head. All around us the house was so quiet, as if it, too, was just waiting for this to be over.

"You have half a summer left," she said to me, as I studied my thumbnail, the tiny lines running along it. "It's up to you how it goes. Do you understand?"

I nodded, again. When she didn't say anything for a minute I looked up to see her watching me, waiting for a real answer. "Yes," I said. "I understand."

"Good." She pushed back her chair and stood up, smoothing her skirt. As she passed behind me, she said, "I'll see you at the model home in an hour."

I just sat there, listening to her heels clack across the kitchen, then go mute as she hit the carpet, heading to her office. I stayed in place as she gathered her briefcase, then called out a good-bye to Caroline as she left, the door shutting with a quiet thud behind her.

A few seconds later I heard my sister come down the stairs. "That," she said, "was pretty bad."

"I can't see my friends," I said. "I can't do anything."

"She'll ease up," she told me, glancing toward the door. She didn't sound entirely convinced, though. "Hopefully."

But she wouldn't. I knew that already. My mother and I had an understanding: we worked together to be as much in control of our shared world as possible. I was supposed to be her other half, carrying my share of the weight. In the last few weeks, I'd tried to shed it, and doing so sent everything off kilter. So of course she would pull me tighter, keeping me in my place, because doing so meant she would always be sure, somehow, of her own.