Beyond Blonde (25 page)

“Will Mama be there?” I asked. “At the restaurant, tonight?”

“I hope so.” He waved to a straggler. “But maybe not.”

Reality pierced our celebration bubble. Mama. Somehow, she had managed to keep both of his big secrets from me.
Papa’s one-year sobriety medallion and Papa not coming home. She gave me my week, a whole week of being in a miracle bubble. How much did it cost her? Would she have retreated to her room by now? I felt myself go small inside.

“I’m going to keep renting at Eva’s,” Papa said because he could always read my mind. “There’s lots of different ways of being a family, Sophie.”

The Blondes, the Aunties, he was right, I guess. Most families were messy, not just mine, not just me. I think I nodded.

Papa stood there waiting, looking like a hopeful twelveyear-old with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“If it’s okay with you, Papa, maybe I’ll pass on the milkshake part right now, but I’ll definitely for sure be ready to celebrate like crazy at the restaurant with you and everybody tonight.”

“And your …”

“And I’ll try to get Mama to come.” He looked relieved. “But no promises, okay? Right now, I think I want to go home.” I let the word roll around in my mouth. I never called it that, never called any of our places that all these years. They were the apartment, the flat, the condo, not
home
. The word felt odd, sticky, like it would catch in my teeth.

“Home?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “I need a bit of time, Papa, and more importantly, I think Mama needs me. Actually, I think maybe Mama needs me to need her right now.”

We walked toward the car. “And how may I ask, are you going to accomplish that?”

“It’s time to paint my room!”

Papa laughed. “Genius!”

“Yeah, well, it really is time, and I know what I’m going to do. Remember my
Endless Summer
poster?” Papa nodded, but he didn’t remember. That was okay.

“Anyway, it’s in these beyond awesome shades of hot pink, psychedelic orange, and electric yellow. I’m going to paint each wall one of those colours and then hang the poster on the remaining white wall. It will make her demented, but she’s the one who’s been after me all these years to fix it up. Then there’s the furniture and bedding …”

“I see endless weeks of operatic arguments over paint and fabric samples.” Papa threw his arms around me. “I repeat … genius!”

“Yeah, and even if it’s not the perfect plan, at least I’ll finally have a finished bedroom. Hey, I deserve a decent bedroom!”

“You, Sophie Kandinsky, deserve a palace.” He winked and then opened the car door for me. “So …”

“So, I want to go
home,
Papa.” A little less odd this time, less sticky. I could get used to it.

He fired the ignition and the car purred into life.

“Okay, Sophie.” Papa tried to smile, and then he tried harder.

“Home it is.”

Acknowledgments

It takes a shocking amount of work by a shocking number of people to turn my words into a book. My husband, Ken, and my daughters, Sasha and Nikki, are not only first-class first readers but indefatigable cheerleaders as well. My writing group, the infamous GOUP, did a lot of heavy lifting. Thank you, Loris Lesynski, Ann Goldring, and especially Nancy Hartry and Susan Adach. Margaret Morin, Paula Wing, and Marie Campbell were indispensable—again. I am deeply grateful to the ever-patient and talented Penguin team, including Vimala Jeevanandam, Lisa Jager, Dawn Hunter, and Karen Alliston, and to Caitlin Drake, who made my Blondes better than they would have been without her. And finally, to all of
my
own Blondes and Aunties, who always were and still are my inspiration,
puno ti hvala
.