Everything Between Us (6 page)

“Is Stell here?” my father calls from the dining room, and I go out there to see him sitting at the head of the table, a glass of scotch in his hand. “Baby! How are you today? Ready to head back to school?”

I take a step back. “No,” I say, the jolt of anxiety in my stomach making my voice sharp. The look of disappointment on his face blunts my tone. “I mean … not yet.” My dad was so proud when I got into the Ivy League, and I let his enthusiasm carry me along, right past all my doubts. Sometimes I wonder if I went just to please him—and to avoid a fight with my mom. Now I’m letting them both down. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I say softly. “I’m trying.”

 He waves his hand, pushing away all the bad feelings like he always does. “Your mother said you’ve taken up art.”

The table’s already set, so I drop into the chair next to him. “I guess you could say that.” I don’t want to disappoint him
again
. I know he’s been worried about me.

He pats my arm as I breathe in his familiar boozy scent. “Do you have any pictures to show me? You used to love doing that. You’d come running into my office to show me what you’d done. Usually it was a dinosaur baking a cake.”

“What?” I laugh. “Really? I don’t remember that.”

He nods and gulps his drink. “I’ve got a trunkful of dinosaur-baking-a-cake drawings. What are you drawing these days?”

My cheeks heat up. I’ve been drawing nothing, but I’ve been telling my mom the lessons are going fine, because I don’t want her to think I’m doing anything to sabotage them. “Er … possums.”

He pauses with his glass halfway to his mouth. “Say that again?”

“Possums,” I say more firmly. “They’re just … really spunky little marsupials.”

He glances into his cup, as if he’s wondering if the scotch is responsible for my crazy talk. And then I think he decides that it doesn’t matter. He polishes off the drink and says, “Well, that’s marvelous. Have you—” His head snaps up as my mother strides into the room and sets the platter of chicken and potatoes on the table. “This looks delicious.”

My mother gives him a wan smile and sits down. We serve ourselves and eat in silence for a few minutes. If I wanted to cut through the tension, I’d need a sharper knife. Finally, my mom puts down her fork and turns to my dad. “You said you had something to tell us.”

My dad gets up and pours himself another scotch, then turns to us. “I’m going to be in Germany for the next three months.”

I look back and forth between my parents. “Are you, like, moving there or something?”

He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “It’s a new contract, sweetheart. I need to be there to make sure the customers have exactly what they need from Bierens.”

My mother snorts. “One customer in particular.”

“Liza,” he snaps, then inclines his head toward me.

Mom’s eyes go wide and
who, me?
again. She’s got that look down. “Is there something wrong, Lou?”

Dad rolls his eyes. I don’t blame him. For that, at least. “I’m leaving tonight,” he says. “But you can call whenever you need.” He directs that last part to me. “If you decide you want to go back to school, you just ring me up and tell me to buy you a ticket. I’ll fly with you.”

“Thanks, Dad, but at this point, it’s a little late.” My heart is pounding at the mere idea.

“All the same. If you need me, you call.” He reaches forward and squeezes my shoulder. I can tell he’s trying, but that he has no idea what to do. I wonder if I’m driving him away, if what’s happened to me has made him desperate to escape, just like Taylor was desperate to escape. But I’ll never be able to ask him. I’m too afraid of the answer.

My mother gets up quickly and picks up her plate. “I have a headache. I’m going to lie down,” she says. “Have a good trip.”

Her plate clatters into the sink a second later, and then she’s gone. My dad finishes off his drink and looks down at me. “I’m sure you have plenty of friends to call, plenty of things to catch up on,” he says.

I almost laugh. “Sure.” I get up and give him a hug, and he hands me several hundreds.

“For pizza,” he says.

“I appreciate it, Dad.” It’s the closest I’m going to get to
I love you, Stell.
He used to say it, but that was when I was much younger. “Safe travels.”

I put my dish in the sink and start to head back to my room, but then I glance down the hall toward my mom’s suite, and I make a last minute course correction. She was obviously upset, obviously on the verge of hurling her wine glass at my dad’s head. She thinks he’s headed to Germany with a new girlfriend, and maybe she thinks it’s serious because he’s going to be gone for so long. Either way, I’m worried about her.

I pad down the hallway and stop outside her closed door. Light filters out from underneath, so I know she hasn’t gone to bed. I’m about to knock when I hear her voice, muffled, but still understandable.

“Daniel, it’s Liza. Can you come over tonight?” She pauses, listening. “I don’t care when. It’s just—oh, come on.” Another pause. “I’ll make you forget whatever you’re worried about. I’ll make you forget your own name.”

I cringe at the wheedling, singsong sound of her voice.

“Fine,” she snaps. “Fine! You’re spending more time with Estella these days than you are with me!” Her exasperated sigh is so loud that I can hear it through the door. “Yes, I know I hired you. Yes, I know you’re doing your job. But—” In the silence, I wonder what Daniel’s saying. Is he telling her that I’m such a bitch that she should be paying him double? Is he talking dirty to her? Apologizing? I don’t even know what I want it to be.

“This better not become a pattern,” she says quietly enough that I almost have to press my ear to the door to catch it. “Because there are plenty of artists who could do a series for my entertainment suite. Caleb, for example. He’s in such demand these days that—”

My mouth drops open. That’s flat-out mean. Threatening to snatch back a commission simply because he won’t come over and service her? I saw him this morning. He wasn’t himself. He had something going on and he’s probably dealing with it now.

“That’s better,” she purrs. “I’m looking forward to the gallery opening, then.”

My stomach turns. I march back to my room, my thoughts of comforting her turned to ash under the heat of my anger, my thoughts of Daniel warped into a tornado of confusion. Do I care if my mom is with him? Why the hell would I? Why do I feel like throwing something right now? And when he comes back tomorrow morning, what am I going to do?

Chapter Five: Daniel

The edge of my bed creaks as I stand up and shove my phone into my pocket. I’d just gotten to my parents’ when Liza called, and so I headed to my old bedroom for some privacy. I so did not want my mother to hear me getting a booty call.

This is getting complicated. I should have known it would. When Liza called, I could tell from her voice she was upset, and when she started going on about how I’m spending more time with Stella, I realized she was jealous. Which is ridiculous. Except … as she said it, I found myself thinking about Stella again.

Who am I kidding? I haven’t stopped thinking about her all day.

A few years ago, I decided that it was much easier to give people what they want from me and tuck things that are important away, to keep private. Most people aren’t interested in those things anyway. They’re interested in themselves, and what I can do for them, or how I can make them feel. Sex is like that. Art is like that. Caleb bares his soul on his canvases. I bare everything but.

This morning, as Stella watched me sketch, I felt naked. I don’t know how she did it, or why, or if she even understood what she was doing. I don’t think she did. But moment by moment, she slid her fingernails under my pretty wallpaper and peeled it away in strips. I’m not sure whether I liked it or hated it, whether it was good for me or bad, but one thing is clear to me—I have to be more careful around her. Especially because Liza is getting moody about it.

It’s an opportunity, really. If Liza’s jealous, she might cut off the lessons without resenting me for it. She could save me from Stella. But instead of taking advantage of Liza’s insecurity, I found myself appeasing her, just so she’d settle down. She’s coming to the gallery exhibit opening next week. She’ll be expecting me to entertain her after. And I will. I’ll give her a good show. That’s all she’ll ever get from me, though. It’s all anyone will ever get from me, because it’s all I’m willing to give. This morning with Stella was a fluke. It happened because I was upset.

And now I have to go find out why. I draw in a slow breath and let it out, then head to the kitchen, where my mom is buttering the garlic bread. She smiles when she sees me and turns her cheek so I can kiss it. I put my arm over her shoulders and inhale the scent of her lasagna, which is in the oven. “When’s Dad going to be home?”

“Any minute. He just ran out to get some ice cream.”

I grin. “You and your ice cream addiction.” My mom’s built like a bird, but she eats like a horse. I squeeze her shoulders, and she winces. I let go quickly. “Sorry. Are you all right?”

She looks away and nods. “Can you get the plates and forks?”

My stomach twists, but not with hunger. “Sure.” I set the table while she finishes dinner, and my dad comes in with a carton of caramel praline. Instead of his usual jokes, he gives me a tight smile and heads for the kitchen to help my mom. Now I’ve almost completely lost my appetite. Something is very wrong. I sit down in my usual spot. Across the square table is a blank space where my younger brother Nate would sit if he were here. This is how I grew up, and I took it for granted until I met Caleb, whose foster parents lived next door. Every single day of my first eighteen years of life, my parents and brother and I would sit here for dinner. My mom trained us all to say something about our day, and to ask questions about how everyone else’s day was. When any of the four of us is missing from this table, it doesn’t feel quite right to me, though I’m sure I should be used to it by now.

My dad comes in with the heavy lasagna pan and sets it on a trivet in the center of the table, and my mom brings in a basket with garlic bread wrapped in a paper napkin spotted with melted butter and dried flecks of herbs. I grab a knife and start to serve the lasagna, just to have something to do. They’re both too freaking quiet, and it’s shooting my blood pressure into the stratosphere. When all of us have food on our plates, my dad says grace and we all pick up our forks. I keep waiting for them to tell me what’s up, but instead they ask me questions about how my work is going and if I’m feeling excited about the gallery exhibit. I answer because it would be rude not to, but the whole time, my throat is getting tighter and tighter.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I set down my fork. I wasn’t using it to do more than poke at my food anyway. “Guys, you asked me to come over so you could tell me something. Can we just get that part over with?”

My mother’s lips press together. She glances at my dad, who nods at her. It takes her a few long seconds, but eventually she meets my eyes. “I’ve been feeling more tired lately. A little short of breath.”

“I know,” I say. “You said you thought it was asthma?”

She nods. “Or a dust allergy. I did have to clean out your brother’s closet in December, and I had no idea he was such a packrat.” She smiles, but it fades quickly. “But it didn’t go away, and so I made a doctor’s appointment.”

“You never mentioned that.”

“I didn’t want you to worry if it was nothing.”

Under the table, I’m gripping my thighs and doing my best to keep looking at her, to keep listening.

“I’ve had a lot of tests over the last week or two, and yesterday, we finally found out what it was,” she says, her voice getting raspy. My father takes her hand and she squeezes his fingers. Her eyes go shiny, and mine probably do, too, because goddamn, seeing my mother cry is like having someone dig a dull knife into my chest. She shakes her head, and that’s when my dad takes over.

“Your mother’s been diagnosed with Stage II lung cancer. Something called an adrenocarcinoma.”

I slump forward a little as I absorb that blow. “What does that mean?”

“I have to have surgery to remove a tumor,” my mother says quietly. “And then it’s chemo.”

“What does it
mean
?” I repeat, staring into my dad’s eyes. My eyes are burning. My throat is burning. I feel like someone’s filled my chest with broken glass.

“The five year survival rate isn’t bad,” my mom continues. “It’s fifty percent or so. I don’t mind those odds.”

“You don’t?” I snap. “Because I do.”

“Son—” says my dad, but I don’t need him to continue.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry, Mom.” I clamp my eyes shut. “You just—” I don’t even know how to say it.
You’re my mom. I love you so fucking much and I can’t deal with this.
But I have to. She doesn’t need to worry about me—she needs to worry about herself. I slow my breathing and think of tablecloths and garlic bread and toothpaste and possums and sable hair paintbrushes. I hook onto any piece of randomness as it floats by in my thoughts, and I hold on tight. It works. I open my eyes. “I’m glad you told me,” I tell her. “I’ll be there, whatever you need.”

Her expression crumples, as does my dad’s. “We know that, Daniel.”

I reach for her hand, and she gives it to me. My dad reaches over and grasps my shoulder. We stay like that for a minute, my thumb stroking over Mom’s skin, which feels painfully thin and fragile, and then we all let go. It’s a silent agreement—time to get on with it. A moment later, my dad is talking about his moronic boss’s latest antics. My mom talks about a movie she watched last night. I talk about how Caleb’s got a girlfriend, and they grin and wonder if they should invite us all over for dinner.
After
, is what we don’t say.
After we get through this.
After
is the space between our words, between every topic that comes up. It’s there in every pause, every sentence that trails off, every sigh.

When we finish up, my dad and I do the dishes. We talk about hockey and whether the Red Wings have a shot this season. He’s right on the edge, just like he was when Nate shipped off, and so I know I have to keep it light, because that’s how we do. Neither of us is going to talk about what’s going to happen to Mom, because what’s the fucking point? We can skim the surface or we can dig deep, but the outcome won’t change regardless—and one of those two options hurts a lot less than the other.