Bright Before Sunrise (11 page)

I flip on a lamp to see it better, and Sophia stirs. She lets out one quick whimper and her face creases for an instant before I click off the lamp and back out of the room with hasty steps.

Next to Sophia’s nursery is a bathroom. I don’t realize I’ve made up my mind to peek into Jonah’s room until I’ve shut the door again and am reaching for the next knob. This room is a home gym: yoga mats, treadmill, and free weights set up facing a flat-screen TV and a bookshelf full of fitness DVDs.

I don’t hesitate to try a third door; at this point there’s no pretending I’m doing anything but snooping.

Guest room. Decorated with stiff, expensive-looking fabric in green-and-navy stripes.

Fourth knob—master suite. I shut that door fast; it’s weird to see where Mrs. and Mr. Shea sleep. If there is underwear or anything on the floor, I don’t want to see it or I’ll never be able to face them when they come home from dinner.

Door five—linen closet.

Door six—home office.

The seventh door opens to reveal another guest room with furniture identical to the first. This one is decorated in the same striped fabric, but the green stripes are burgundy instead. I start to shut it until I realize I’m out of doors. There are no more rooms to inspect.

A second glance over this room and I notice a history textbook on the nightstand. One dresser drawer is open a crack, and I can see the green T-shirt Jonah wore to school today.

This isn’t right. I don’t know what I expected his room
to look like—some sort of mash-up of the teen-boy clichés from TV: car, band, or bikini-model posters; big stereo; video games; dirty dishes; clothing all over the floor. In fact, it’s probably statistically more likely that I’d see underwear on
this
floor than in the Sheas’ master bedroom. My eyes shoot to the ceiling and then creep back to the hardwood that doesn’t contain so much as a stray sock.

This is how Jonah lives? How am I supposed to learn anything about him in a bedroom that’s as generic as a hotel room? I take another step through the door and do a slow 360-degree rotation. There’s a backpack leaning against the closet door. TV cables and power cords snake from the wall up through the back of an armoire in the corner. There’s a similar set up with laptop cords on the desk, but the actual surface doesn’t hold so much as a pen. Except for the history book, the bedside table is empty. The bureau looks blank too—except, no, it isn’t. There’s a frame on its back corner.

With a glance back at the silent hallway, I cross the room and pick it up. It’s heavy, made of some dark wood, and holds two pictures.

In the top photo Jonah’s dressed for baseball, though it’s not a copy of the middle school one from downstairs; this is a Hamilton High uniform. There’s a man next to him with his arm around Jonah’s shoulders. I pull the picture closer. It’s hard to really study it in the dark room, but the man’s got to be his father. The resemblance is uncanny, from their sandy hair to their tans to the smiles they’re both aiming at the camera.

The second picture is from a prom. Jonah looks good in a tuxedo—that’s my first thought. But then again, who doesn’t
look good in a tuxedo? I look beyond him to the rest of the photo. It must be Hamilton’s, because ours didn’t take place in a gym, and the country club wasn’t decorated with Mylar balloons and paper streamers.

Jonah looks alive, animated. And the girl beside him must be why. His girlfriend? She’s wearing a short pink dress, tight enough to showcase her gorgeous curves. She’s looking up at him with laughter written all over her face. His arm is tight around her, pulling her up against his side, and she’s got a hand on his chest.

So playing baseball and this girl, that’s what makes Jonah happy.

It’s hopeless.

What a waste of the night.

I want to go home.

13
 
 
Jonah
 
 
8:05 P.M.

It’s quiet as I cut through the laundry room and into the kitchen. I expect Mom and Paul to be sulking over a glass of wine or consoling themselves with some fancy takeout, but the only thing on the counter is my eighth-grade baseball photo.

Maybe they want the frame for another picture of Sophia.

I lean into the family room to tell them I’m home. If Mom’s paying attention, she’ll read my expression and wish me a good night. If she isn’t, if she gives me crap about my attitude to Paul earlier, then the gloves are coming off. I’ll make it clear that no matter how much she forces Paul and me to watch sports together or discuss current events, we aren’t going to bond. We are never going to be the magical blended family she reads about in her parenting magazines.

And Paul, I’ll tell him all the things I’ve kept in, starting with: I don’t care what you read on the
Modern Father
blog, real men
don’t
wear pink polo shirts to match their daughter’s onesie or carry diaper bags with butterflies. Once, I
heard him pull into the garage with some baby bopper music playing—and Sophia wasn’t even in the car. I mean, hooray, he loves his daughter, but get a grip. And I am
not
your son.

The family room is empty. It looks exactly like when I left, except one of Mom’s postdivorce self-help books is on the floor. Or, at second glance, it’s one of her teen-help books. The type she highlights the hell out of and then quotes like she’s reading fortune cookies. “Jonah, I understand that you’re
experiencing a time of intense feelings and urges
, but I want you to remember:
Quick decisions have lasting consequences
.” Or, “
Change is a choice
, bud, and I feel like you’re
choosing not to change
.” I’m still fuming about the sticky notes she’s started leaving on my bathroom mirror: “Your goal each day should be to make the world better by being in it,” and “Adapting to change is an important life skill,” or “80% of any achievement is making the decision to achieve.”

The book on the floor plus the photo on the counter aren’t good signs—she and Paul must be planning some new Jonah intervention.

Dammit, that’s the last thing I need right now.

I lean against the wall, suddenly too exhausted to have this confrontation. I want my bedroom, door shut, music on. Video games under my thumb till I’ve blown up everything that can be destroyed.

I start up the stairs. Since they’re not anywhere down here, that means they’re in their bedroom and I’m not going to knock and let them know I’m home. Once they shut that door, I like to pretend they don’t exist. I’ll do just about anything to avoid thinking about what goes on behind it or how my sister came to be.

My door’s open.

Is it too much to ask that she give me that much privacy? It’s a room that barely feels like mine to begin with—designed by her interior decorator without my input so that my belongings have to fit into the cracks and closets.

The lights are off, and Mom’s back is to the door. She’s standing in front of the dresser. It makes me sad for a time when if she wanted to know something about me she’d just ask—and trust my answer, not go snooping through my stuff.

“I’m not on drugs.” This seems like the most logical explanation: she read something in one of those books about the signs of addiction and is up here looking for evidence.

She jumps and drops whatever she’s holding—I step through the door and turn on the light.

14
 
 
Brighton
 
 
8:07 P.M.

I scramble to pick up the picture frame, horrified by the splintering sound it made when it hit the floor.

“What the hell!” Jonah yells. “Are you stalking me?”

His anger makes me drop it again. This time there’s no question: it’s broken. Triangular splinters of glass rain down from the mangled wood when I pick it up a second time.

I swallow. My whole body has gone hot, and my shirt is sticking to my back. “I’m so sorry.”

“For stalking me or destroying that frame?”

“I …” One corner is split, and I push at the two pieces of wood. They resist and I press even harder—I’m not sure why, since it’s useless without the glass and the wood is cracked. It just seems important, like if I can fix this …

“You know what, I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it. Just get the hell out of my room.” Jonah grabs the frame from my hand. He starts to retrieve the prom photo, then swears under his breath and drops the whole thing in a trash can under his desk.

“I’ll clean it up. And replace it.” I want to run for the door, but my feet won’t move and my mind won’t come up with any explanation that will make this situation better.

“Do I need to call the cops?” he demands. “Get out of my house!”

“What?” He thinks I broke in? I grab the baby monitor off his dresser and hold it up as proof. “No, you’ve got it all wrong! I’m watching Sophia.”

He gestures around his room. “In here? Really?”

I duck my head. “Can we go downstairs and talk about this?”

“No. No, let’s stay. Let’s go through the rest of my drawers.” He reaches around me and starts yanking them open, dumping a handful of T-shirts on the floor. “Would you like to know if I’m boxers or briefs?”

“I didn’t—That drawer was already open.”

“Sure. And I bet you didn’t put my baseball picture on the kitchen counter.”

“No, I did that.” I clench my hands into fists.

“Was I not clear in school today? Leave me the hell alone.” Jonah sinks onto the edge of his bed and kicks at the shirts on the floor. “Just go home. I’ll have my mom drop off a check tomorrow.”

“I can’t. She drove me here.” I wish I had my car so I could put distance between me and my humiliation. I wish I could go back in time to the salon and say no, or back further and not approach his locker today.

He looks at me like I planned it this way. Like I want to be here any more than he wants me here. I can’t stand him looking at me like that. I slink out of the room and chew the
inside of my lip as I head back downstairs, cursing myself with each footstep.

Thankfully he stays put, but through the baby monitor I can hear him talking on his cell phone: “Mom, I’m back. The babysitter’s still here. When will you—?”