Pretending to Dance (38 page)

“Molly, are you in there?” Daddy asked, and I sighed.

“Why are we talking about this?” I asked.

“Just wondering,” he said. “Humor me.”

I sighed again. I'd give in. Get it over with. I hadn't thought about that question in a while, though. What did I want to do with my life? Last summer's plan to become an entomologist had lost its allure for me. I thought what my mother did was pretty cool, the way she understood how drugs worked, how they interacted with one another and I felt proud of her when I saw her in her white coat. But my father had the coolest job of all, helping people feel better about themselves. “Maybe a pretend therapist,” I said.

“Really?”

I saw a spark of joy in his eyes.

“Maybe,” I said.

“You'd be very good at it. Your sensitive nature would be an asset.”

I tried to imagine myself in an office like his—the one he didn't go to any longer—helping a girl like that Dorianna from the tape. I could picture it. I couldn't quite see myself counseling an adult, though.

“Maybe just with kids,” I said.

“Do you want to have kids yourself?” he asked.

“You mean … when I get married?”

“Of course. Marriage first. Please.”

“Sure,” I said. “And definitely more than one.”

He laughed. “Are you saying you haven't adored being an only child?”

“That's what I'm saying,” I said dryly.

“I imagine it's been rough at times.” He looked thoughtful, then smiled at me. “I like the idea that I'll get to live on through you and your children,” he said.

Whatever,
I thought. It seemed like a weird thing to say.

“Do you think you'll live here when you're an adult? At Morrison Ridge?”

I tried to read the time on his watch, but the angle was wrong. “I'll always live here,” I said. Living any place else was unimaginable.

“Where will you build your house?”

“Maybe on the other side of Nanny's.” I pictured the thick woods at the northern end of the Ridge.

Daddy smiled. “You mean as far from home as you could get and still technically be in Morrison Ridge.”

I returned the smile. “Right.”

I wanted to ask him if we were done talking for now. I thought again about the sheets in the springhouse. Mom would be suspicious if I changed them. It was better if I left them alone. Chris wouldn't care.

“I just wanted to tell you that I'm proud of you, Molly,” Daddy said, pulling my mind back onto the porch. He'd told me he was proud of me any number of times, but the fact that I was planning something I should be ashamed of made me wonder what he was talking about.

“What for?” I asked.

“Well, I'm always proud of you just for being a great girl and for how well you do in school, and how uncomplainingly you've helped me with my writing and … everything. But I also know this has been a rough summer for you. All your friends have been away and then we cracked down on how much you could see Stacy. Plus we cut you off from Chris, and you had feelings for him and thought he was ‘the one,' but there will be lots of other guys in the future. Guys who are better suited to you.”

“You don't even know him,” I said, “so how can you say he's not suited to me?” I didn't want to argue with him—I really didn't—but the words popped out before I could stop them.

“I know his age and that's all I need to know for now,” Daddy said.

“That's so lame,” I said. “You're three years older than Mom.”

“And if I were seventeen and she was fourteen, we wouldn't be right for each other, either. Not until we were considerably older.”

“You were nine years older than Amalia,” I argued.

“We were both adults,” he said.

“You should have given him a chance!” I said. “It's not his fault he's seventeen.”

“We've already settled this, Molly,” he said.

“No,
you
settled it,” I snapped. “I didn't get to have anything to say about it. I just had to go along with what you say.”

“In this case, yes. You did. You do.”

I stood up. “I think you're being very unfair.”

He looked up at me with those big eyes. They reflected the sky and were bluer than I'd ever seen them. “I know you think that,” he said, “but—”

“You always say, ‘Oh, Molly, tell me how you really feel about things' and you tell me how you admire me and you're proud of me and everything, but you don't
trust
me. If you admire me so much, why don't you trust me to know what's right for me?”

“Because you're fourteen.”

“That's such a cop-out!” I took a step toward the house. “I'm done talking.”

“Molly!” he said. “Stop.”

I did. I stopped mid-step. Shut my eyes.

“I know you don't understand, darling,” he said. “I wouldn't have understood it when I was your age, either. But you will. When you're older, you will.” He paused for a moment. “That's the best I can do,” he said.

I looked at him. “Can I go now?” I asked.

Time stretched between us as I stood there, staring at him, waiting to be released. Any other kid my age might have simply left, but I couldn't seem to take another step toward the door.

“Those kids you're going to have?” Daddy said finally.

“What about them?”

“Be sure to hug them a lot,” he said, “in case someday you can't.”

I knew he needed me to hug him right then. I knew it, but my anger was too raw. I walked past him to find Russell. I'd tell him our visit on the porch was over.

 

52

 

Mom stared at me across the dinner table that night and I was afraid she was going to tell me I was old enough to be at tonight's family meeting. I loved that I'd been left out of whatever boring talk was going on at those meetings and I was particularly glad to be left out tonight. I was ready to argue that Nanny needed my company, since she wasn't coming. I figured Nanny had had it with talk about the land. As long as she went to bed by ten, everything should work out fine, though I had to admit the thought of walking through the dark all the way from Nanny's house to the springhouse was freaking me out a little. It would be worth it, though, to be with Chris.

Mom had made Daddy's absolutely favorite food tonight: meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy. He was the only one of us who seemed interested in eating, though. Russell didn't even have a plate. The four of us were weirdly quiet, and I didn't know if Daddy was still upset with me for the way I'd acted on the porch or if I was still upset with him or what. I had this terrible fear Mom and Daddy and Russell were all on to me, though I didn't know how they could be. I thought I felt their eyes on me, but when I looked at each of them, they didn't appear to be interested in me at all. Mom was no longer looking in my direction. Instead, she stared at her plate, poking her fork slowly in and out of the meat loaf without lifting a bite of it to her mouth. Daddy's meat loaf was nearly gone and he asked Russell to put another spoonful of potatoes on his plate. Then he looked over at my mother.

“You're not eating,” he said.

When she turned her face toward him, I could tell she was trying to smile, but her eyes were full of tears. What was going on? “I have no appetite,” she said. She pushed her plate in his direction. “Want mine?”

Daddy shook his head. “No, darling,” he said. “It was perfect, though. Russell, you have to have some.”

“Later,” Russell said.

“Do me a favor and put your hand on my miserable wife's hand for me,” Daddy said to him.

Russell and my mother exchanged a look of surprise, but Russell leaned across the table and set his hand on my mother's.

Daddy looked at her intently. “You are stronger than you know,” he said.

She turned her hand so that she and Russell were palm to palm and she smiled at my father, though the tears never disappeared. “I'll try to remember that,” she said.

If it had been any other night, I would have asked, “What's going on?” Tonight's meeting marked some kind of change, I could tell. Were they going to give in to Uncle Trevor and sell our land after all? Was that why Nanny didn't want to be there? I didn't have the patience to invite that sort of conversation tonight. My mind was on one thing: Chris. That was why my own meat loaf was barely touched.

Russell let go of Mom's hand and got to his feet to clear my father's plate from the table. I stood up, too. “I'm going to get ready to go to Nanny's,” I said. I felt like I'd been drinking coffee, something I'd only done once in my life and once had been enough. It had made me feel like squirrels were running around inside my body.

My father looked up at me. “Hug?” he asked.

I debated a moment before leaning over to give him a little hug. I was still angry.

“Longer,” he said, and with a sigh, I gave in to him. I held my arms around his shoulders. Rested my cheek on his temple. “You're so beautiful,” he said, and in spite of myself, my eyes stung.

When I stood up, I saw that my mother had turned away from us. She stared out the window with such concentration that I followed her gaze, but I saw only trees and, in the distance, the mountains.

“Bye,” I said to all three of them as I headed for the door to the hallway.

No one said a word in reply.

 

53

San Diego

Aidan treats me as though I'm very ill, and that's the way I feel. He makes me tea and tucks an afghan around my shoulders and we sit together in the corner of our sectional. I rest my head on his shoulder and begin to tell him all the things I should have told him long ago.

“That family friend I told you about?” I say. “The one who broke her leg?”

He hesitates and I know he doesn't really remember the conversation. “Yes?” he prompts.

“She wasn't really a family friend,” I say. “She was…” I lean my head back to look at him. At his pretty, loving brown eyes behind his glasses. “She was my birth mother.”

I feel his body stiffen next to me. “What are you talking about?” The words come out slowly. I try to listen to discern if there is any anger behind them.

“I haven't told you the truth about my childhood,” I say. “About Morrison Ridge. I've left things out because … I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” No, there is no anger, I think. Not yet.

“You know I was engaged before we met, right?”

“I'd forgotten, actually,” he says. “Jordan somebody?” He's frowning, and I turn my head so I don't have to see his face.

“I told Jordan everything about my family,” I say. “It was two months before our wedding and he called it off, he was so … so disgusted by it all, and so I decided never to tell you. I didn't see any reason to.”
I'm sorry, Molly,
Jordan had said.
This is too much.

“He was disgusted by what?” Aidan asks.

“He said I was screwed up and he didn't want to raise a family with me,” I say. “And maybe I
was
screwed up back then, but I'm not now. Or at least I thought I wasn't. But now—”

“Molly,” he says, “would you start at the beginning, please? I can't follow you, and frankly, you're scaring me right now.”

I take a deep breath.

“I told you my mother is dead,” I say, “but she's not. Well, she's dead to me, but she's still alive.”

“I thought your cousin just called to tell you she died?”

“That's my birth mother.” I tell him about my father's relationship with Amalia and how she disappeared once she realized she was pregnant with me. How she showed up on our doorstep with the social worker. How Nora adopted me.

“My father set it up so that she could live on our land,” I say, “so I would have her close by. I lived with my father and Nora—my adoptive mother. And Amalia lived nearby.”

“Molly…” Aidan's voice is incredulous. “Why didn't you tell me this? With all we're going through right now with the adoption, and you've had this experience, I just don't get—”

“I know you don't,” I say. “I know it's—”

“What was your relationship like with them? I mean, it sounds like you had the ultimate in open adoptions. Is that what's worried you about an open adoption with Sienna?”

“I think so, yes,” I say. “I loved them both … although I don't love either of them any longer.” When those words leave my mouth, I feel sick to my stomach again and I squeeze my eyes shut. I no longer know what I feel for anyone at Morrison Ridge. “But,” I say, “Amalia was warmer. She was easier to be around and I think I turned to her when I was annoyed with Nora. And you're right. I worried our child would bond more with her birth mother than with me. I don't think I was actually conscious of that fear. I just knew I didn't want to share our baby. Although now that I know Sienna, I'm not so worried about it.”

“Why did you tell me your mother—this Nora woman—was dead?”

“Because it was the easiest way to explain why I'm not in touch with her.”

“And why aren't you in touch with her?”

“Oh…” I hedge. “Just … her coldness.” Nora had loved me; I was quite certain of that, but had she loved me for myself or had she loved me because I was Graham's daughter? That I didn't know. I'd never forget the day Daddy, Russell, and I returned home from the book tour. How she'd raced past me as if I were invisible to get to my father in the van. “Everything changed after Daddy died,” I say. “To start with, my relatives all kicked Amalia off Morrison Ridge and Nora did nothing to stop them.”

“Wow,” he says. “They didn't have your best interest at heart, did they? Was Nora jealous of her?”