Reconstructing Amelia (13 page)

I took the book reluctantly, afraid I’d spill what was left of my beer on top of it. It was a first edition of
The Sun Also Rises
.

“Wow,” I said again. I could hear myself sounding totally stupid, but I couldn’t help it. The book was pretty amazing.

“Anyway, I thought maybe they’d be your kind of thing,” Dylan said, grabbing
The Sun Also Rises
from me and shoving it back on the shelf. She’d cooled suddenly, that warm smile that had guided me up the stairs had vanished. I’d offended her somehow, but I had no idea when. “Actually, I’ve gotta go,” Dylan said, turning fast for the door. “You can stay and look around if you want, but I’ve gotta go do something. I’ll see you back downstairs in a couple of minutes.”

Then she was gone. And there I stood, alone in Dylan’s library, a nearly empty beer in one hand and a bunch of questions in my head. I had no idea what had just happened, much less how to fix it. It wasn’t easy when I didn’t really understand what was going on between Dylan and me in the first place.

I texted Ben as soon as I got home:

AMELIA

I went to the first coed party today

BEN

Was it debauch?

AMELIA

Pretty much

BEN

Sex, drugs

AMELIA

Pretty much

BEN

But I’m guessing not for you

AMELIA

Not really; Dylan was really nice to me though

BEN

That’s good

AMELIA

Then she turned off all of a sudden

BEN

Not good. Why?

AMELIA

IDK, I’m asking you

BEN

What do I know about girls? I think you’re all crazy. That’s why I stick with boys

AMELIA

U r useless

BEN

:)

I dropped my phone, rolled over in bed, and picked up
To the Lighthouse
. It wasn’t like I needed to read it again to write my English paper. I practically knew the whole thing by heart. Virginia Woolf was kind of my hero. Not because she walked into a river with rocks in her pockets—though as far as ways to kill yourself went, that did have a certain style—but because she was crazy talented and had been who she’d wanted to be, despite the world telling her to be someone different.

How inconspicuous she felt herself by Paul’s side! He, glowing, burning; she, aloof, satirical; he, bound for adventure; she, moored to the shore . . .

I put the book down and looked at the clock. It was close to ten. I’d gotten a text from my mom at a little past eight telling me that she was on her way home soon, but that I should go ahead and eat. I’d ordered enough sushi for her. If I didn’t order her dinner, she’d go to bed without eating at all.

With Leelah not around anymore, I ate alone a lot, usually three or four times a week—Japanese, Chinese, Thai. Never Indian. It would have made me miss Leelah’s cooking too much. Most of the time, it wasn’t so bad. The takeout people knew my address by heart and said things like “For you, anything.”

I didn’t blame my mom for having to work. She had a job, and she had to do it well. Most of the time I was proud of her for that. It was still lonely sometimes, though. But that didn’t mean I was “looking for something” like Woodhouse had said. I was fine just the way I was.

Besides, we had our Friday night dinner dates, which neither of us was allowed to cancel, ever. And we tried for brunch together on Saturdays, and we’d always curl up on a couch together for a movie on Sunday nights. We did other things on weekends, too, depending on my homework and field hockey schedule and how much work my mom had to do. And now my Maggie meetings. We went to museums or got our nails done together. Once we went on a cupcake walking tour in Manhattan. In summer, we always spent a week somewhere at the beach together—Fire Island, Block Island, Nantucket. And I knew my mom would have spent even more time with me if she could have.

I heard the front door open downstairs a few minutes later. Then my mom was on the stairs, creeping up, probably afraid she might wake me. When she finally pushed open my bedroom door and poked her head inside, her dark blond hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and she was wearing her tortoiseshell glasses, the ones that I thought were cool in a mom kind of way. She looked beat, with big dark shadows under her blue eyes. But still pretty. My mom was always pretty. Not in a MILF sort of way, that would have been humiliating. My mom was just a regular mom, but a pretty one.

I waved a hand back and forth, my head still down on the pillow, so she’d know I was awake.

“Oh hi.” She smiled, looking pleasantly surprised. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Nah.” I pushed myself up in bed and put my book down on the nightstand. “I was just reading.”

“Haven’t you already read
To the Lighthouse
a bunch of times?”

And that was my mom. She could have been around a lot more and noticed a lot less. Maybe we weren’t all
Leave It to Beaver
or whatever, but what we had worked for us.

“Yeah, like ten times. But we’re supposed to write a paper on it for English. I was just looking at it again to decide what I was going to do it on.”

“Should you be in a different English class?” my mom asked. “I know we thought that another honors class would be too much. But being bored isn’t good either.” She looked concerned. “We pay a lot of money for that school. They should be able to accommodate your needs.”

“Mom, the class is fine, seriously. Liv’s, like, my favorite teacher.” I shrugged. My mom got like this—all intense about stuff that wasn’t that important. It was because she felt guilty for not being around. She was always itching to go to bat for me, on everything. Even things I didn’t need help with. “Besides, I’ve got some ideas about how I can make the paper more interesting.”

“You promise to tell me if it ends up
not
being okay?” she asked seriously. “I mean, with classes or anything else.”

I thought then about my dad. I didn’t think whoever had sent those stupid texts really knew anything about him, or me. But the texts had gotten me wondering about who, and where, my dad really was.

He was supposedly some guy my mom had met one night fifteen years ago. “A boy in a bar,” my mom called him, who was a do-gooder on his way to Africa when they crossed paths. That was awesome and everything, to think of my dad being that person, except he didn’t sound
at all
like the kind of guy my mom would ever go for. Seth was my mom’s type—supernice, and smart and buttoned-up—except not gay like Seth was now. Actually, the whole setup didn’t make any sense. My mom didn’t go to bars, ever. She hardly ever drank. I don’t know when I stopped believing the story. It was kind of gradually, over time, and I’d never really cared before about finding out the truth. I’d figured that if my dad had been worth finding, he would have tracked me down a long time ago.

And then came the texts.

As much as I wanted not to care about them. They were bugging me.
It
was bugging me. I wanted to tell my mom that she didn’t have to protect me anymore, that I could handle knowing the truth about my dad. But looking at her tired eyes, that way she was smiling at me like she was trying to make me feel her love through her teeth, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t rip the whole thing open. I didn’t want my mom to think she wasn’t enough for me. Also, I was a little afraid that what she’d tell me might make me mad. At her.

Besides, there were other, more important things I needed to talk to her about. I needed some advice. I couldn’t go into any secret club nonsense obviously. My mom would have charged down to Grace Hall in the middle of the night and taken the place apart brick by brick. She’d also definitely hire Leelah back on the spot. And that would be the end of the Magpies, and Dylan. Instead, I’d have to get my questions in through the back door.

“Did you belong to a sorority in college?” I asked her instead.

Sorority, secret club. It was a safe way to get in most of my questions.

“A sorority?” My mom looked confused for a second, then kind of embarrassed. “Yes, I’m afraid to say I did. In my defense, pretty much everybody at Duke belonged to one. It didn’t feel like there was much of a choice.”

“Was it fun?” I asked. “I mean, were you glad you did it?”

“Glad?” She wrinkled her forehead and tapped a finger to her lips. “I don’t think
glad
would be the word I’d use. I survived it, let’s put it that way.”

It was funny imagining my mom at something like a Maggie meeting. If I was a Goody Two-shoes, my mom was a saint.

“What kinds of hazing stuff did you have to do?” I asked, feeling this weird secret bond with her.

“Wait, what’s with all the questions about sororities, Amelia?” My mom narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re not planning on running off to college early, are you?”

“No,” I said, scrambling to think of an excuse. “I’m writing a paper on sororities, for my Moral Controversy in America class.”

Wow, where had I pulled that out from? I was getting better and better at this lying thing.

“Moral Controversy in America? Have I heard about this class before?”

“Yes, you were there when I picked it.”

“I was?” She looked confused. “Do you still take regular classes, too, like math?

I rolled my eyes. “Mom, come on.”

“Well, if it’s for a paper, then my honest answer is that I think sororities are bad. I think they’re terrible, actually. I think they make girls feel awful about themselves under the guise of sisterhood.”

That didn’t sound good. And she wasn’t even playing it up on purpose to talk me out of something. That was her real unbiased opinion. But then again, a secret club wasn’t
exactly
the same thing as a sorority. Not at all. Actually, they were really, really different. High school and college were totally different.

“But for the record, should you end up in a sorority, I won’t hold it against you.” She put a hand on my forehead. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” I said, pulling my head away. “And how old were you when you first went out with boys?”

My mom blew some air out of her cheeks. “Wanted to?” she asked. “Or actually did? Because I always spent more time thinking about boys than actually being with them. As you know, romance has never been my forte.”

“When did you start
liking
boys?”

I’d been wondering lately if my late blooming might be genetic.

“Before I answer this, are you
already
dating somebody? Because our agreement was fifteen, but only
after
we talked about it. I won’t be mad, though, I promise. You can always tell me the truth, no matter what.”

“I’m not dating anyone, Mom,” I said, making sure to look her in the eyes. “I would tell you, I swear. It’s just research, for the same paper.”

“The same paper?” she asked, her eyebrows scrunched low.

It had been a bad lie. It didn’t even really make sense.

“Yeah, it’s a two-parter.”

She looked skeptical still.

“Uh-huh. Okay, let’s see, I guess I was thirteen maybe,” she said, wiggling her hand around like it might have been even younger. “It’s hard to remember exactly. But I am sure that I never kissed anyone until I was fifteen,
at least
. Maybe even twenty.”

She looked at me like she was trying to drive her point home, but then she smiled. One of the things that was great about my mom, as a mom, was that she always knew when she was being kind of ridiculous.

“Oh, okay,” I said, suddenly feeling kind of lonely. Thirteen was younger than fifteen. Only by two years, but they felt like big years. Maybe there was something wrong with me. Not that I could really expect my mom to make me feel better when I wasn’t even telling her what we were really talking about. “Thanks. That was all I needed to know.”

She leaned forward to give me a hug, talking into my hair.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it home for dinner, Amelia. I was trying to get out the door, and then I got stuck on the phone and—”

“It’s okay, Mom,” I said. “It’s not like you want to stay at work, I know.”

And I did know that, even though sometimes it sucked anyway. My mom’s eyes were glassy when she leaned back to smile at me. When she got really tired, she was a total crier. She ran a hand down my cheek.

“You are one sweet girl, Amelia.”

She kissed me on the forehead, then pushed herself off the bed and headed for the door. My mom was almost there when I realized that I
really
didn’t want her to go. I needed to talk to her more. I needed to tell her everything.

“Mom,” I called after her.

She turned around in the doorway. “What, honey?”

“I got tapped by—”

Her phone rang then, and she patted her coat pockets looking for it. When she finally pulled it out, she looked aggravated when she saw who was calling.

“Ugh, sorry,” she said, turning to answer it. “Hello, yes, hold on just one second.” Then she turned back to me, her hand muffling the phone. “Victor is in Tokyo, and he apparently thinks the world revolves around his time zone. But I should probably take it. He’s called me four times today. Can it wait, Amelia?”

I stared at the phone in her hand and her trying-so-hard face. If I’d told my mom that I needed her to hang up the phone right then, she would have. I knew that. I also knew that she would do anything to make sure I didn’t get hurt by the Maggies or Dylan. And I knew that I could trust her with everything. But maybe I just wasn’t ready to, after all. Not yet. Not until I understood what there was to tell.

“It can wait,” I said.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “This is your time, not theirs.”

“I know, Mom,” I said, and it meant a lot that she’d said that. It meant everything. “I’m sure.”

Kate

APRIL 30, 1998

Three weeks, four days, and five hours. That’s how long it’s been since Amelia was born.

I feel like it should be getting easier. But it isn’t.

The first few days were the toughest, though. In the hospital, all by myself, trying to figure out how to breast-feed in the middle of the night. I had a hard time just getting out of bed. Everything hurt. And then there was picking her up out of the little plastic bassinette.

She’s so small and soft. Like her bones are made of sponge. It’s a sick joke that nature made them so damageable.

At least the baby nurse Gretchen is paying for comes today. I’ll be grateful when she’s here, even if the only reason my mom paid for her is so that she could rush out of town after three short nights at the Essex House. Gretchen still had the nerve to get teary when she was leaving, though. Surely tears of disappointment.

Mothers. I am one now. That’s the craziest part. Me: a mother. To an actual, real live person.

The nurses in the hospital kept telling me that I should have Amelia sent to the nursery so that I could get some rest. They promised to bring her back in for feedings. I know they kept offering because I was alone. My roommate, whose husband was there to help with her baby all day long, didn’t send her baby away.

So I didn’t either. Amelia’s not going to get less because it’s just me. Not yet. Not ever.