BFF* (14 page)

“Babies grow up,” Aunt Robin said, looking at Howard.

Howard burped.

Papa Jack took some more ulcer medicine.

By eight, our company had left, including Carla and Katie, who drove back to the city with Aunt Robin and Scott. Suddenly the house seemed very quiet. The four of us cleared the table. Then Mom loaded the dishwasher and Dad scrubbed the pots and pans, while I wrapped the leftovers. I guess Mom and Dad were too tired to talk.

When I finished I went upstairs to change because I'd dropped a blob of cranberry sauce on my shirt. While I was in my room Dad poked his head in and said, “If you hurry and pack we can still get down to the city tonight.”

“I didn't know we were going tonight.”

“Yes.”

“But Mom has to work in the morning, doesn't she?”

“Stephanie,” Dad said, “sit down.”

There are times when you know you're going to hear something that you don't want to hear. Something that you've kept yourself from thinking. I sat on the edge of my bed, chewing on the insides of my cheeks.

Dad paced the room. Finally he sat beside me. “I know you've guessed by now …”

“Guessed what?”

“About Mom and me … about our separation.”

“What separation?”

“This separation,” Dad said, sounding impatient. “About how we're living apart for a while.”

“No!”

“I thought you knew,” Dad said, shaking his head.

“What am I supposed to be … some kind of mind-reader?”

“But all those questions last night …” Dad said.

“What about them?”

Dad stood up. “Wait here …”

He went into the hall and called, “Row … would you come upstairs for a minute?”

I looked at Benjamin Moore. I forced myself to concentrate on him. If he were really my boyfriend I'd be getting ready to go out with him now. Probably we'd go to a movie first, then to Arcudi's for a pizza. While we were eating, Jeremy Dragon would come in with some of his friends and say,
Hey, Macbeth … how's it going?
Then I'd introduce him to Benjamin and he'd be really impressed, not just because Benjamin is so cute but because he's seventeen. Later, Jeremy would take me aside and ask for my phone number. I'd say,
Just dial 662-STPH
.

I heard Mom and Dad walk down the hall. I heard the rise and fall of their voices but I couldn't make out what they were saying. What exactly had Dad meant by a separation? And why
had he acted as if it were my fault that I hadn't known all about it? I tiptoed down the hall. The door to Mom's room was closed. I stood outside and listened.

Dad said, “I thought we agreed not to hide it.”

Mom said, “I wasn't hiding anything. They never asked.
I
thought we agreed that if they didn't seem concerned we wouldn't bring up the subject.”

Then Dad said, “Well, the cat's out of the bag … and Stephanie's upset.”

“Who's fault is that?” Mom asked.

And Dad said, “How was I supposed to know she really didn't have a clue …”

That did it! I threw open the door and shouted, “I suppose now you think I'm gullible!” I could see the look of surprise on their faces. “Well, I'm not. I can't be easily tricked by you or by anyone else!” I turned, slammed the door and ran back to my room where I threw myself face down on my bed.

“What's going on?” Bruce asked, standing in my doorway.

“Plenty,” I told him. “And none of it's good!”

Weekend

I refused to go to New York with Dad. Bruce went without me.

“Don't you think you're being hard on him, Steph?” Mom said on Friday morning.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” I asked, wolfing down my second bowl of cereal. “In case you're wondering,” I added between mouthfuls, “I'm just as mad at you as I am at Dad.”

“I can see that,” Mom said, “and I'm sorry. I should have talked to you about the separation before but you seemed so happy … enjoying school and your friends …”

“So you let me go right on thinking that everything is the same as always.”

“Well, in a way it is,” Mom said. “Your life isn't going to change.”

“How can you say that?”

“It's no different from when Dad's on a business trip, is it?”

“Until last night it wasn't any different.” I cut myself a slice of apple pie and heated it in the microwave. “I suppose that's why we sold the yellow house and moved here,” I said, “because of the separation.”

“That's one reason.”

“And I suppose everyone in the family knows.”

“My sisters do,” Mom said, “and Gran Lola and Papa Jack.”

“And Carla?”

“Yes, Carla knows.”

I finished my pie and stomped out of the room, leaving my dirty dishes on the table.

“Where are you going?” Mom called after me.

“Back to bed,” I told her.

“I wish you'd get dressed and come to the office with me.”

“No, thank you.” I went upstairs and got into bed, pulling the quilt over my head.

When I woke up, two hours later, I heard Mom talking on the phone. Now that was really unusual because she never takes off from work. When one of us is sick and has to stay home
from school, she gets Mrs. Greco to come in for the day.

I went to the kitchen and ate the leftover sweet potato pudding. All of it. I might have spaced out in front of the TV then, but Mom was still on the phone in the den. I couldn't tell if it was a business call or if she was blabbing to Aunt Denise, because when she saw me standing there, she covered the mouthpiece with her hand and waved me away. So I went back to bed. I slept on and off, all afternoon.

Mom looked in on me twice. The second time she felt my forehead, but I didn't let on that I knew.

By dinnertime I still hadn't gotten dressed. I went downstairs. Mom was on the phone again. “I'm going to eat now,” I told her. This time she held up her hand, motioning for me to wait, but I didn't. I made myself a gigantic turkey sandwich on bread sliced so thick I could hardly fit it into my mouth. I ate half the leftover stuffing and the last piece of apple pie. Then I went back to bed.

On Saturday morning Mom came to my room. “As soon as you're dressed I'll drive you down to the station. Dad's waiting for you … he doesn't want you to miss the windows on Fifth Avenue.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” I said.

“He's got three tickets for a musical tonight.”

“Let him take someone else,” I said. Then I burped. I didn't mean to. It just slipped out.

“I know how much you like musicals, Steph …”

“I am
not
going to New York!”

Mom stayed home again and worked on the computer. That afternoon she found me in the kitchen, gnawing on a turkey leg. “Stuffing yourself isn't the answer,” she said. “You're going to get sick if you keep this up.”

“It's all your fault,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Mom asked.

“I mean, if you weren't such a go-getter this wouldn't be happening. If we had all gone to California you and Dad wouldn't be separated now.”

“That's not true,” Mom said. “I don't know where you got such an idea.”

“Then explain it to me,” I said, searching the refrigerator for the jar of dill pickles.

Mom closed the refrigerator door and stood blocking it. “Dad and I have some problems. We're trying to work them out.”

“What problems?”

Mom sighed. “He's bored with his life. He wants to make changes. I like my life the way it is …”

“But he
had
to go to California,” I said. “He had no choice.”

“He
asked
to go to California,” Mom said.

“I don't believe you!” I said. “I don't think you even care about this separation. If you did you'd be crying!”

“When I feel like crying I do it in private,” Mom said, raising her voice. “I don't tell you everything.”

For a minute neither one of us spoke. Then Mom softened. “Look,” she began, trying to put her arm around me. I jumped out of the way. I wasn't about to let her touch me. “We're not going to make any hasty decisions … I can promise you that. This is just a trial separation.”

“How long does a trial separation last?” I asked.

“As long as necessary,” Mom said.

I ate a piece of pumpkin pie without even tasting it.

That night, when I went to bed
again
, I thought over what Mom had said about Dad being bored with his life. I don't understand how he could be bored. He's got a wonderful family. He's got a good job. He makes enough money. Maybe what he needs is a hobby, I thought. Maybe he needs to get interested in something like scuba diving or refinishing furniture. Or maybe he's having his mid-life crisis. Yes, that's probably it! When Rachel's father had his mid-life crisis, a few years ago, he changed his job. He used to be a lawyer and now he's a teacher. Maybe Dad
should become a teacher, too. Then he could get a job at the high school, like Mr. Robinson. He could even coach football since that's his favorite sport. And that way he wouldn't have to commute to the city or fly away on business trips. I fell asleep wondering what subject Dad should teach.

I slept until noon on Sunday. When I got up I threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Then I hit the kitchen. I polished off the rest of the pumpkin pie, the stuffing and most of the turkey. I was beginning to feel like I might explode. I needed to get out of the house. I put on my new winter jacket, the one I got two weeks ago. Mom wanted me to buy it in either red or blue but I held out for purple. I zipped it up and went out the back door. It was cold out, and gray. Winter was definitely coming. I burped twice. Too bad Howard wasn't there. He'd have been proud of me.

The wind whipped around my head, hurting my ears. I covered them with my hands and kicked stones as I walked down to the pond. When I got there I sat on a log, facing the water. I sat until my feet were numb from the cold. Then I jumped up and down trying to get the feeling back in my toes. But that made the food slosh around in my stomach and I started to feel sick. I grabbed a handful of stones and tossed them one by one, into the pond, hoping
to get them to skim the water. But none of them did. Then I sat on the log again.

I don't know how long I'd been sitting there when I saw Dad's rental car. It slowed down, stopped briefly, and Bruce jumped out. “Hey, Steph …” he called, running toward me. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I'm doing?” I asked.

“Sitting by the pond and freezing your butt.”

“Very good.”

“We had a great time in New York. We saw the best show.”

“What show?”

“Little Shop of Horrors.”

“I saw the movie.”

“Yeah … but the show was better. It was so funny.” He imitated Audrey II, the talking plant. “Feed me, Seymour … feed me!”

I almost laughed.

“Dad gave your ticket to Carla.”

“Carla took
my
ticket?”

“Yes … and she liked the show a lot.”

“That's disgusting!” I said.

“What is?”

“That Dad would give my ticket to Carla and that she would take it!”

Bruce shrugged. “What'd you do all weekend?”

“I did nothing … that's what!”

“Oh.” He picked up a stone and tossed it. It
skimmed along the water. “Let's go home now, okay? Dad wants to talk to you before he leaves.”

“I'm staying here until he's gone.”

“But …”

“Why don't you go tell him that for me?” I shivered and hugged myself, trying to keep warm.

Bruce reached into his pocket and pulled out a ski hat. “Here,” he said, dropping it in my lap. Then he ran up the hill to our house.

My eyes filled with tears. I sniffled and checked my pockets for a tissue to blow my nose. But the pockets were empty. I pulled on Bruce's hat.

A few minutes later Dad parked his car by the side of the road. “Steph …” he called, waving for me to join him.

I acted like I didn't even notice.

So Dad came down to the pond. “We missed you this weekend,” he said, sitting beside me on the log.

I didn't say anything.

He picked up a stick and began scratching the ground with it. “I'm sorry you found out the way you did. Mom and I should have told you sooner.”

I still didn't respond.

“Look …” he said, “I just want you to know that no matter what happens I'll always be your father.”

“Did you read that in some book?” I asked.
“Some book that tells you how to talk to your kids when you're separating because you're bored with your life?”

“I didn't read it anywhere,” Dad said. “It's how I feel. And who told you I was bored with my life?”