Beautiful Graves, page 23
“Embarrassed,” he repeats. “You thought we were blaming you?”
“I knew you were.” I shift, tucking my feet under my butt. “It was written plainly on yourselves.”
He closes his eyes, shaking his head. “Yes. No. Maybe. I was very upset. I might’ve looked at you differently, but not because I thought you were guilty, only because I didn’t know what to do with you and your brother, how to comfort you. I didn’t realize at the time that you might notice. I didn’t notice the change myself. I’m sorry.”
“I should be the one apologizing, Dad. And I am. You just followed your heart. I mean, you weren’t wrong. I caused it. All because of a stupid boy.”
Dad takes a sip of his tea. “Was he, though?”
“Was he what?” I ask, confused.
“Stupid. Because when your mom talked to me about it, I remember her saying you were head over heels in love with him. That he was smart and artistic and that he made you laugh. That doesn’t sound very stupid to me.”
I swallow. “No,” I say, finally. “He wasn’t stupid at all. He was great.” The best, really. “I met him in Salem afterward. Not intentionally, of course. A kismet of sorts.”
My dad nods slowly, holding my gaze. “Seph, I assume.”
“How did you know?” My eyes fill with tears. Just thinking about the Graves family makes me want to curl into a ball and cry. I’m also surprised he didn’t say it was Dom. He was the one I was supposed to marry, after all.
Dad dips the tea bag into his mug in a soothing motion. “I saw the way you two were looking at each other when you talked at the church. Under that tree, when you thought no one could see you. The way you were the only thing that mattered to him, and he was the only person on earth to you. There was something very protective about the way he treated you. He reminded me of myself when your mother died. All I wanted to do was shield you and Renn from the world.”
I’m caught red handed. Busted. But I feel oddly relieved to be able to talk about it with someone.
“Well, obviously, I can’t keep in touch with Joe. That would be too messy.”
“I think that’s the issue, Everlynne. What you don’t understand—what your generation doesn’t understand, I think—is that things are naturally messy. They’ve always been messy. Perfect doesn’t exist. Embarrassment and shame are a package deal. They’re a part of life. You cannot remove these compartments from your existence. You have to meet your challenges head-on. When your mother died, she took a part of me with her to that grave. But losing you on top of that? Not being able to hug you, to talk to you, to cry on your shoulder and let you cry on mine? That made things unbearable. Some days, I wondered why I’d even gotten out of bed. But then I heard your brother snoring down the hallway and remembered. There’s always someone to fight for.”
I think about Dom’s infidelities. Joe’s harsh words before he kissed me the day Dom and I got engaged. I close my eyes. “It’s hard to forgive people. Including yourself.”
“I’ll tell you what your mother always told me. It’s a good lesson. ‘Be thankful to those who helped you when you were down, and be thankful to those who didn’t. The former are worth keeping, and the latter helped you realize it.’”
I break into tears for the millionth time this week, burying my face in my hands. Dad keeps talking.
“No. Shush. Don’t feel bad. Even if you thought we were angry, you should’ve stayed. You should’ve fought for this family. Renn and I have been working on trying to get back to what we were for six years now, and we could’ve used the extra pair of hands.”
I put my teacup aside and fling myself on him, crying into his chest. He wraps his arms around me tentatively. Frozen at first, and then, when he feels my body shaking against his, tighter. He drops his tea on the floor in the process. The cup breaks at our feet. He grabs the back of my head.
“Jesus, Ever. We thought we’d lost you forever.”
“I thought I’d lost you forever,” I say between sobs and hiccups. “I thought you hated me.”
“I never hated you.” Finally, his voice breaks. Finally, I can hear the emotion in it. “I only hated the situation, and wished your mother was alive, so she could tell me what to do to get you back.”
It is so clear to me now that this was what I needed all this time. A hug from my dad. A confirmation that he still loves me despite everything. Salem was my cloak. I’d hidden from the world, because I thought it didn’t want me.
He pulls away from me, clutching my arms. “Hey. I forgot to mention the best part.”
“W-w-what part is that?” I sniffle and hiccup and generally look like a total mess.
“That the war Renn and I were fighting? We won. We are still a family. We laugh. We go places. We have vacations, and holidays, and dinners. We tell inside jokes. All we needed was for you to come back to us. And now that you have, everything will be okay.”
For the first time in a long time, I believe in something good.
I believe in my family.
Wearing Dad’s slippers, I clean up the broken china on the patio. I sweep the floor while he waters the flower beds. Every now and then, I look up to look at him. He is doing an awful job, drenching each bell pepper. I have no idea how he’s kept the garden alive for so long.
I feel lighter after my conversation with him. But also tired from the long day and the flight. I don’t know what I’m going to feel like tomorrow, but I know today is bearable, and that is a good start. The world did not end when I left Massachusetts. Dad and Renn did not change the locks and tell me to go away. And even though I am still guilt ridden about what I did to Joe—how I left things—I know he probably doesn’t want to hear from me.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I ask after a few minutes of watching Dad refilling the funnel for the fifteenth time. There is zero chance this is how he is sustaining this beautiful garden. There is also no way in hell he can handle the kind of water bill that comes with watering his plants this way.
Dad drops the empty funnel at his feet, moving a hand over his hair. He laughs. “I’m busted, aren’t I?”
“I thought it was weird that the garden survived without Mom.” I shrug. “Who’s taking care of the garden, then? Lawrence?”
Lawrence had been our gardener since I was three. He and Mom used to spend a lot of time together, planting and trimming and laughing.
Dad shakes his head. “No. He had to retire three years ago. He had a knee surgery, and then his daughter needed him to watch the grandchildren while she was at work . . . it got too much for him.”
Dad makes his way up the three stairs to the patio. I lean the broomstick against the wall, dusting my hands off. “Don’t tell me Renn is keeping this garden alive?”
“Renn?” He lets out a high-pitched, nervous laugh. “I wouldn’t put him in charge of dishwashing duties.”
“Did you get a new gardener?” I frown, confused.
He shakes his head. “It felt wrong to let a stranger touch all the things Barbie had created.”
“So who’s in charge of it now?”
“Ever . . .” He puts his hands on my shoulder. “The thing I’ve been trying to tell you . . . the reason why I wanted you to come here for Thanksgiving last year, is because I’m seeing someone.”
Silence engulfs us. I have no idea how I feel about what he’s just told me. A part of me is angry. How dare he get over Mom? How dare he date? Is he having actual sex with another woman? What in the hell? This is wrong. This is Mom’s house, with Mom’s things. It feels deeply unjust that someone else is taking care of her garden. Of her family.
But then I also can’t help but feel an acute sense of relief. Because he wasn’t alone all this time. Because he did have a shoulder to cry on, even if it wasn’t mine. Because it takes a lot of courage to move on from losing the love of your life. And because ultimately, I want him to be happy. Mom would want him to be happy.
It’s also difficult for me to pass judgment on other people in my situation. I slept with Joe while still wearing Dom’s engagement ring.
“Please say something.” Dad actually cringes, taking a step back. “Anything.”
“I . . . I don’t know how I feel about this,” I admit. “Does she sleep in Mom’s bed?”
His face says it all. She does. She sleeps in Mom’s bed. Okay. Okay. I take a deep breath. Count to ten in my head. Remind myself that perfect doesn’t exist. That I, myself, slept with Joe and then bailed on him. That humans are deeply flawed creatures. That maybe what matters is that we are not malicious. That we don’t want to hurt others. I know Dad did not move on because he wanted to hurt me.
“Are you happy with her?” I ask quietly.
He looks down at his shoes, thinking about it.
“I’m less unhappy when I’m with her,” he says, finally. And this, of course, is exactly how I felt about Dom. The soothing notion that there was someone to take the pain away. Is Dad’s girlfriend like Dom? Is his love for her guarded, comfortable, never coloring out of the lines? I don’t dare ask him.
“Is she . . .” I’m trying to think of what I want to ask—pretty? Nice? Funny? Artistic? Eccentric? Mom-ish? Is she an entire bursting world? Complete with a northern English accent and a collection of Oasis and Smiths CDs?
Dad continues to stare like I’m holding the secrets of the universe in my palm and he really, really needs them to save the world right now.
“Complete the sentence,” he asks firmly.
“I guess what I’m trying to ask is . . . will I like her?” I gulp.
A slow smile spreads across his face. “I think so. I think it is impossible not to like her. Renn loves her.”
I’m sure he means this in a reassuring way, but all I feel is quiet rage that my brother has accepted someone else into our family without putting up a fight. Was she that forgettable?
“I’m happy,” I say, finally. And then, in a louder voice: “I am. Very. Yes. Definitely.”
It might not be the entire truth, but I will get there. I will rid myself of the weirdness and accept this. I must.
“Really? You don’t think it’s too soon?” His eyes light up.
“Well, that depends on when you met her,” I answer truthfully.
“Eight months ago.” He actually blushes. My dad, who is the least emotional person on planet earth.
“Yeah, I’m okay with that.” I pick up the broomstick again and sweep, just to do something with my hands. “Tell me about her.”
He tells me that her name is Donna. That she is his age. Widowed, with two kids, my age and a little older. That she actually used to be a professional tennis player before she became an instructor. And that Renn gets along really well both with her and with her sons, Dylan and Ashton.
I promise to meet her soon. He nods, looking sheepish.
“What?” I ask. But then it all clicks together. Dread falls over me. Oh, no. I really have been away for an eternity and a half.
“She is living here now, isn’t she? That’s why the house looks so pretty. Why there are fresh flowers on the kitchen counter and the garden is lush.”
Dad looks apologetic. He wrings his fingers in his lap like a punished schoolgirl. “Things escalated quickly. She moved in this December. This was why I wanted to talk to you so urgently in November. I didn’t want you to feel blindsided.”
I deserve this. This feeling of being a guest in someone else’s life, even though this someone is my dad.
“Just tell me one thing,” I say.
He stares at me expectantly.
“Who makes better pancakes—Mom or her?”
“Oh, Donna does not make pancakes under this roof. That’s the rule. We both decided it was better this way early on. Too many memories.” He waves a hand in the air. “If we want pancakes, we go out.”
I smile. “Then I think we’re good here. I’m going upstairs to take a nap.”
TWENTY-THREE
The answer to my question—how would I feel the next morning—presents itself the day after.
And the answer is: shitty. I feel shitty.
I am hyperaware of the fact that I have lost three of the people I cared most about—Mom, Dom, and now, possibly, probably, Joe. True, Joe is not dead, thank God, but with the kind of luck that’s attached to people I care about, it is better to leave him be than to pursue any sort of connection with him.
Plus, it has to be said—even though I’m happy for Dad, I’m also destroyed by the idea that he is in love with another woman.
I spend the next two weeks holed up in my room. Silver lining: this time, I’m not as pathetic about it as the month that followed Dom’s death.
No, I am now officially a high-functioning train wreck. I shower daily. I have to. Renn and Dad take turns banging on my bedroom door when I linger. I’m on cooking duty Tuesdays and Fridays. And they are always adamant I make healthy things. With lentils and vegetables. Anything frozen from Costco doesn’t count, they say. The rest of the time, I’m in my bed. Reading, crying, processing.
I don’t hear from Joe, and I shouldn’t expect to. I slept with him, then moved to the other side of the country. Again. Only now he has to face the fact we both betrayed Dominic. Alone.
And yet I give myself some grace and allow myself to heal.
As I heal, I listen carefully to the telltale signs of happy life that rise from downstairs, seeping through the cracks of the floorboards. Donna comes to the house every day. Renn mentioned she is crashing at Dylan’s place, to give me space, which I have to admit is a promising move on her part.
I haven’t met her yet. I make sure I’m always in my room when she is here. But I hear her making Dad and Renn food whenever they deem mine inedible (which is always). I hear her whistle and sing old eighties songs (Duran Duran, Air Supply, Tina Turner) as she takes care of the garden. She always asks Renn if he needs something from the supermarket.
I can tell she is, at the very least, not Snow White’s evil stepmom. I think these small doses of her that I consume without actually interacting with her are helping me come to terms with her presence in our lives. But I’m still worried that this is all for show. That she is putting on an act because she knows I’m listening.
There are other happy sounds. The sound of Renn and his friends laughing, playing video games, or chugging beer on the patio. The sound of Dad’s cackling as he watches The Office reruns every day after work, even though he utters the iconic punch lines right along with Michael Scott. Loki conversing with whomever is downstairs, trying to coax them to throw him a piece of pastrami or two.
And at some point, two weeks after locking myself in my room, the idea of meeting people doesn’t seem quite as hellish as it did before. The trigger is, as always, food.
It is a sunny Saturday. Donna, Dad, and Renn are downstairs, eating breakfast. The scent of fresh sourdough bread, butter, bacon, and beans wafts around the house, making my mouth water. Normally, I wait until everyone leaves before I eat the leftovers. But today, it doesn’t feel like the end of the world to meet the woman Dad has fallen in love with if it means consuming greasy bacon and freshly squeezed orange juice.
I emerge from my room in my Cookie Monster onesie, determined to set any expectations for me low. The stairs creak as I descend them, and dread fills my gut when I think about all the looks I’m about to get.
But when I get to the landing, I see the three of them sitting around the dining table, talking animatedly. They don’t see me at first. Or maybe they’re giving me a few moments to collect myself. Donna is lean and redheaded—like Mom—with a narrow face and a gap in her front teeth. She is not as beautiful as the late Barbie Lawson, which is oddly and pettily comforting, but they both hold the same quality, of women who appear both genuinely nice and yet ooze not-to-be-messed-with vibes.
Dad is the first to notice me. He drops his fork on his plate, blinking, like he’s seeing a ghost. I can tell he has no idea what to say. Donna follows his gaze to see what’s made him freeze. Her face opens up when she sees me.
“Love that onesie,” she says, popping a piece of bacon into her mouth casually. “Where’d you get it?”
You seem to be wanting a lot of things the Lawson women have for themselves, something inside me wants to snap. But then I remind myself I have to play nice, for Dad and Renn.
“My friend Nora bought it for me. Somewhere online, I don’t know.”
She stands up. She is wearing . . . a hot dog onesie? Could that be? With ketchup and mustard and everything. A smile tugs at my lips, but I bite it down quickly. I’m not Renn. I shall not betray Mom because of a simple onesie.
“Where’d you get yours?” I ask, not exactly coldly, but definitely not conversationally.
Dad and Renn exchange looks silently. They’re smiling.
“Renn got it for me for Christmas. I think the store is called Rad and Bad.”
“Is that so?” I turn to look at Renn pointedly, still standing up. “Weird that he managed to get you something cool, ’cause I’ve been getting kitty calendars and scented bath bombs from him for the last four years.”
And I didn’t even have a bath in my Salem apartment.
Renn points at me with his fork, which is full of scrambled eggs and bacon. “That’s because I only put in effort with people I’m tight with, and you were MIA.”
“We used to be tight,” I say, but I don’t feel the overwhelming sadness that comes every time I think about how much has changed in the last half decade. Instead, I am hopeful that we can maybe fix this.
“Right. And now you have to work your way back into my good graces.” Renn downs an entire glass of orange juice before slamming it on the table. “You can start by massaging my feet every night.”
Donna uses her foot to push the chair opposite hers.
“Have a seat, Ever. There’s a plate for you on the table. The sourdough is still fresh.”
“Did you make it?” I scrunch my nose, not making a move.
