The Unexpected Everything (12 page)

There was a copy of the autobiography on the bookshelf in my dad's study, of course, and there was a copy in his apartment in D.C. But somehow, reading it at home, actually sitting down with his hardback, would have been admitting what I was doing, and so I'd read the whole thing here, in short bursts, standing in the stacks or sitting on the ground, leaning back against the rows of books. It
had been written when my mom was still healthy and things were still good—the intent was for it to coincide with the national election that fall, but by the time it came out, everything had changed.

I flipped through it, stopping briefly at the pictures in the middle—my dad in elementary school, his hair combed flat, his front teeth missing; at high school graduation; my parents in their twenties, arms slung around each other, my mom wearing a shirt that said
DON'T MESS WITH KANSAS EITHER
, her hair long and wild—until I got to the page I was looking for. The paragraph was at the bottom of the page, and I read the words over, even though by now I had them memorized.

I'm very close to my daughter, Andie, and I'm proud of that. One thing I've realized is that just because you have children, you don't necessarily automatically have a relationship with them. You have to work at it, make them a priority, and take the time to get to know them. I love my daughter, and there's nothing that's more important to me than my family.

I stared down at the words, fighting a heaviness in my chest. When I'd first read this, four years ago, it had made me angry, but now it was more like I didn't recognize what the words meant, even though they were about me. The book could have easily been shelved in fiction, for all that it resembled our lives now. But I still found myself returning here and reading this paragraph over again, feeling a little bit like an anthropologist looking at a lost civilization, once really something, but now in ruins and mostly forgotten.

I stood in line to check out my dog books behind an older man reading a thick paperback. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, then, out of curiosity, tried to get a look at what he was reading. He caught my eye, and I took a small step back, embarrassed that I'd been so obviously looking over his shoulder. The man turned his book so I could see the cover—from the font and the image, I could tell it was a fantasy book. “You ever read this?” he asked.

“No,” I said immediately, since I couldn't actually remember the last time I'd read a novel. Probably something for school this last year, when I'd had to. But even so, out of politeness, I leaned forward, like I needed to check this.
The Drawing of the Two
was written in raised type across the front, and the cover showed two swords clashing, a crown raised above them.
By C. B. McCallister
, was printed on the bottom, in letters almost as big as the title. “Sure haven't,” I said, my tone polite but hopefully not one that was encouraging further conversation.

The guy shook his head and huffed. “Don't start,” he said irascibly. “This writer hasn't even finished the series. Left us all hanging for years.”

“Ah,” I said, nodding, my favorite polite but noncommittal answer. Even as I spoke, though, I realized this was starting to sound familiar. The title was ringing a bell, and I was pretty sure I'd caught half of the movie version on a plane a while back. The movie had been okay, there had been a follow-up, and it was supposed to be a series . . . but the author hadn't written the rest of the books. Since I hadn't loved the movie, this hadn't mattered to me all that much, but it seemed like this guy was more invested than I was. “That's too bad.”

The guy nodded. “Goddamn kid,” he muttered as he stepped up to the checkout line.

I tried not to smile. The writer was probably in his forties or fifties, but maybe everyone younger than you becomes a kid when you get older. Either way, reading a fantasy series had never been high on my list of things to do, so I figured I was in the clear as the line moved forward and I brought my books up to the checkout.

Half an hour later I unlocked the front door and pushed my way into the house backward, my arms piled high with my library books and a pizza box from Captain Pizza balanced on top of them. As I'd left the library, Palmer had texted, asking if I wanted to go to her house for dinner, and I'd considered it. During the school year I ate down the street at the Aldens' at least once a week. But as I stood there in the fading sunshine, I was suddenly feeling, all at once, the events of the day and the blisters that were starting to form from walking dogs in four-inch heels. And I realized that nothing sounded quite so good as picking up dinner, finally changing out of this dress, and vegging out in front of some really bad TV.

I dumped the books on the table in the foyer and headed into the kitchen with my pizza box, then stopped short in the doorway. The fridge was open, and I stared at it for a moment, trying to understand what was happening. Then the door swung closed, and there, standing behind it, was my father, looking irritated. “Oh,” he said when he saw me, sounding as thrown as I felt. “Andie. Hi. Sorry—you surprised me.”

“Same here,” I said, giving him a quick smile as I set the pizza box on the island in the center of the kitchen. There were
stools that pulled up to it, and this was where I ate most nights, when I wasn't eating in front of the TV.

I hadn't seen my father at all yesterday—I'd been out trying to find something to do with my summer, and he'd been locked in his study, there when I left in the morning and when I came back at night.

He was frowning now, as he looked at me, like he was just now putting together that something was off. “Didn't you . . . ? When do you leave for your program?”

I could feel irritation starting to bubble up, but I pushed it away. My dad had forgotten I was even
going
to this program, so I really shouldn't be annoyed that he'd forgotten the start date, even though he seemed perfectly able to remember all kinds of obscure details about his biggest donors. “Well, it was supposed to be yesterday,” I said. “But, um . . . I'm actually not going.”

“Not going?” my dad repeated, staring at me. “What do you mean?”

I took a breath before telling him, planning out what I was going to say. I'd start with the phone call, then what happened with Dr. Rizzoli, and at least I'd be able to follow it up with the good news about my job.

“Why isn't there any food in the fridge?” my dad interrupted, having pulled the door open again, leaning in closer, an irritated look on his face.

I didn't reply, just waited for him to remember that he'd asked me a question and that I still hadn't answered it. He shut the door and pulled open the freezer, then opened the fridge again, his face suddenly brighter in the refrigerator light. “There's no milk or bread or fruit. . . .”

I could hear how annoyed he was getting, and I realized he'd totally forgotten about my program, had moved on to other things. I knew I could interrupt and tell him why, exactly, I wasn't going, and that it was his fault, but I dismissed this plan before I even found the words. I wasn't about to start begging my dad to pay attention to me.

“Well,” I finally said, about to answer his food question, which was clearly the most important thing right now. “Joy would sometimes pick stuff up. Or I'd get what I needed. . . .” The fact was, we almost never had that stuff in the fridge. I ate about four things, so it had never been an issue for me to keep myself fed. I took a breath, not really sure if I should point out that he was an adult who was capable of shopping for himself, when I realized a moment later that maybe he wasn't. He had a housekeeper in D.C., along with interns and assistants who probably made sure he had everything he needed.

“I guess I'll pick some things up later,” my dad said, mostly to himself, as he closed the fridge. He blinked at me again, like he was surprised to see me still there, his brow furrowing like he was trying to put something together. “So did you have another program lined up? Or are you going to be here this summer?”

“No other programs. So . . . I'll be here.” As I said the words, I felt them sink in as, for the first time, I really understood what that meant. I'd been so caught up in getting my new job and feeling like I had at least some semblance of a plan that I hadn't thought about what this would mean exactly. I would be
home
all summer. With my father.

My dad blinked. “Oh,” he said, and I wondered if he was coming to the same conclusion I was—that this was not a state
either of us was used to. “Well, that's—that'll be nice.”

I nodded, not really trusting myself to say anything else. For a moment I thought about telling him how I'd spent my day—walking dogs, getting a job, seeing the painting, reading what he'd written about me, about us, five years ago. But I couldn't even make myself picture it. It felt like trying to imagine a world without gravity, or something equally impossible.

I opened the pizza box, then hesitated. My plan to watch bad TV while eating pizza on the couch clearly wasn't going to happen. I started to turn and get a plate, then stopped and walked back to the island just as my dad opened the fridge again, then closed it. It felt like we were bad actors who'd collectively forgotten our blocking, like what happened to Tom last year during a particular painful performance of
The Seagull
. I maneuvered around my dad, grabbed a plate, then put two slices of pizza on it. Even though I had a thing about crumbs, I was feeling more sure by the minute that I couldn't keep standing there, more aware with every forced sentence just how little we had to say to each other. Especially knowing now that this wasn't something I'd have to endure for only a day or two. This was the
whole summer
.

“Have some pizza if you want,” I said over my shoulder as I headed for the back stairs with my plate, taking them two at a time.

When I got to the top, I looked down. I could still see my dad, standing alone in the kitchen, looking really small from this vantage point and like he was a little lost in his own house. I walked to my room, then closed the door and leaned back against it, my thoughts all circling back and back again to the same question.

How were we ever going to get through this summer?

T
amsin glared at her brother as he lounged in the chair at the other end of the table from her, helping himself to the candied fruit. It was so typically Jack—he showed up after almost a year gone doing god knew what (though she unfortunately did know, and much more than she wanted to, with minstrels writing songs about his most outrageous exploits. She'd heard the groom in the stables singing one yesterday morning, and it had stayed in her head nearly all day) and just expected that everyone would be thrilled to welcome him back.

“What?” he asked, shooting her a grin, the one she was sure had worked on every barmaid up and down the southern coast, all innocence and rumpled charm. It wasn't going to work on her, and Jack seemed to realize this as he dropped the smile and tossed a piece of fruit into his mouth, catching it easily.

“Are you planning to stay this time?” she asked, folding her arms. She wasn't sure, to be honest, which answer she wanted to hear.

“My kingdom needed me,” Jack said, raising an eyebrow. “Also, I may have been asked to leave Riverdell. Rather rudely, I'll have you know.”

“Because I've been the one keeping things going here,” she said, trying not to let any emotion come into her voice. “And—”

“And you've done a
wonderful
job,” Jack said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “But the adults are here now. You can run off and do your needlepoint.”

Tamsin took a breath, about to let him have it—when she realized what she was being offered. Freedom. She smiled as she stood from the table and walked toward the door, faster, until she was almost running.

“Uh—Tam?” she heard Jack call out to her, but she didn't stop, didn't even turn and look back.

She was going to the woods, to the last place she'd seen the Elder.

And she was going to get some answers.

—C. B. McCallister,
A Murder of Crows
. Hightower & Jax, New York.

“How did it go?” Maya called to me from the driveway as I locked the door, then double-checked that it was locked, then checked once more for good measure. It had been four days since I'd gotten the job, and this was my second training day. I was getting more comfortable with the dogs, but I hadn't had to do it on my own yet, without Maya there for backup.

I was still coming to terms with the fact that this was what my summer was going to look like. It was fine, for the most part—I'd blocked the Young Scholars page on my computer after I'd spent one night just looking at pictures from the welcome party, beyond jealous of all the people who got to be there. I'd also been tiptoeing around my father—or maybe it was mutual avoidance, but I hadn't seen him much, beyond occasionally crossing paths in the kitchen. I hadn't told him about my job, and he hadn't asked what I was doing with my days. But then again, I wasn't asking him what he was doing all day either, so maybe we were just respecting each other's privacy.

“It was okay,” I said now as I walked down the front steps to join her. Maya was sitting in the back of her SUV, the hatch
open and her legs dangling. She'd let me follow her in my own car, and I'd shadowed her when we'd picked up the first dog—Wendell, a fox terrier who clearly thought he was a Great Dane, judging by the way he barked at every big dog who crossed his path. I'd watched Maya work, trying to keep in mind everything she was telling me—how to announce your presence when you come to the door, the way even some normally friendly dogs' protective instincts kick in when a stranger tries to come into their home, how to always crouch down and let a dog sniff you first, never just reach for their collar—while having the distinct feeling that I was missing crucial lessons because I wasn't able to take detailed notes.