I feel as alone and devastated as I’ve ever been, including that horrible night at Vanderbilt.
But in some other ways, I’ve never felt stronger or more certain of my path. I take a shower, then put on my pajamas and get in bed. My curtains are still open, and as I stare out at the lights of Nashville, my phone rings.
It’s Tom.
Feeling tremendous relief, I answer, saying hello.
Without saying hello back, he simply tells me that Polly’s going to be okay. “She’s staying at the hospital overnight, but she’s stable.”
“Oh, thank God,” I say. “How do you know?”
“Lyla tracked down her parents.”
Of course she did, I think, amazed by her once again. “Can I talk to her? Is she still awake?”
“No. She just fell asleep,” Tom says. “Pretty rough day.”
“I know,” I say, thinking back to standing with my mother in my parents’ kitchen early this morning. How that now seems like a lifetime ago.
“Want to hear the craziest part?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, adjusting my head on the pillow, listening.
“So right after you and Lyla left…guess who just happened to…show up?”
“Who?”
“Lyla’s mother.” Tom lets out a wry laugh. “She just sailed into town for a surprise visit.”
I laugh back, in spite of everything. “She sounds as awful as Kirk.”
“Worse,” he says. “At least Kirk stuck around.”
I swallow, as it occurs to me that maybe I’m no better than his ex, checking out when the going gets tough. But I tell myself I’m not giving up—I’m just taking a stand. There is a difference. I then return my focus to Lyla and say, “I just want you to know…how truly incredible your daughter was tonight. So, so brave.”
“Yes. She’s pretty great,” he says. “And so are you, Nina….Lyla told me everything. About Finch. About the photos. And about how much you’re supporting her.”
I start to well up as I tell him how sorry I am.
“I know you are,” he says. “But for what it’s worth?…I think there’s still hope for Finch.”
Tears stream down my face as I ask him why he thinks this. I wait for his response, telling myself I will trust my friend—along with whatever answer he gives me.
“Because…” Tom finally says, his voice soft in my ear. “Because you’re his mother.”
Since graduating from high school nearly a decade ago, I rarely return to Nashville. Dad usually comes to visit me instead. I’m not really sure why, but I think it has more to do with how hectic my life has been—first at college, then at law school, now in the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office—than with any lack of fondness for my hometown. I can also say with complete confidence that it has nothing to do with Finch Browning or the events of my sophomore year. That is ancient history.
Of course Finch still crosses my mind now and then—flashbacks to his basement, and Polly’s attempted suicide, and especially the day Mr. Q called Dad and me into his office and broke the news that Finch had gotten off. Completely. With tears in his eyes, Mr. Q told us that the Honor Council, composed of eight students and eight faculty members, had concluded there “wasn’t enough proof.” It was outrageous, of course. What proof did they need beyond a photo of Finch’s dick on my face? But I guess they weren’t willing to go down the penis-forensics road after Finch introduced his Photoshop defense.
Maybe if Polly’s parents had let her return to Windsor, or send me the rest of the photos, things would have turned out differently. Then again, maybe not. Maybe the cards were that stacked in Finch’s favor (or, as Dad believed, Mr. Browning really pulled off the Belle Meade bribery scheme of the century).
For several months, Dad and I contemplated bringing real legal action—or at least writing a letter to Princeton. But ultimately, I just wanted to move on, and with Bonnie’s help, I was somehow able to convince Dad that Finch’s fate really had very little to do with me. Karma would sort him out. Or not, as the case may be. Either way, I had my own life to live.
Along those lines, I also persuaded Dad to let me stay at Windsor. It was the right decision for so many reasons. For one, I was genuinely happy there. Grace and I remained close friends (I was recently a bridesmaid in her wedding), while branching out and extending our duo to include a few other strong, like-minded girls. For another, I became superfocused academically, finishing second in our class and getting into Stanford. Dad says I deserve the credit for that—not Windsor—but the education I got, along with a glowing recommendation from my headmaster, certainly didn’t hurt. Besides, it was good training for real life. A reminder that no matter where you are, you can find a silver lining—along with good people like Mr. Q and Nina.
I actually still keep in touch with Mr. Q, who is now retired, our email-based friendship mostly consisting of an exchange of New Yorker cartoons and articles about the dire state of the world. We both remain hopeful, though, and I think some of that hopefulness I learned from him during those dark days at Windsor.
Against the odds, Dad and I stayed close to Nina, too. After her divorce was finalized, she and Dad even started a boutique design business together—he did his carpentry thing and she decorated and helped Dad be more commercial. The coolest part of their gig was their custom tree houses, like the one in Bonnie’s backyard. Most of their clients were pretty well off, and included a few celebrities, but my favorite project was a gift to the children staying at an abused women’s shelter in Nina’s hometown of Bristol. It wasn’t the fanciest, but I knew from the photographs I’d seen that it had brought the most joy.
Their work—and especially that joy—was good therapy for both of them during their empty-nest days. I know Dad missed me a lot, and Nina probably missed Finch even more, because he barely spoke to his mother during his years at Princeton. I’m not sure if it was punishment for siding with me, or for leaving his father—but things got worse before they got better.
According to Dad, Nina never gave up on him, though, and sent him long, handwritten letters every week, until at some point he returned to her. Dad pretends to have a cynical view of the shift, saying out of Nina’s earshot that it probably had more to do with some sort of financial scandal Mr. Browning got caught in rather than any real change of heart. But I can tell Dad wants to believe something different. That like me, he might have faith that it was as simple—and powerful—as a mother’s love.
I’m thinking about all of this now as my Uber turns onto Avondale and I see Dad standing on the front porch at the exact spot where that terrible word was once written. He waves, watching me get out of the car and climb the steps.
“I can’t believe you wouldn’t let me pick you up at the airport.” He shakes his head, muttering something about my hardheadedness, then gives me a long, tight hug. “Thank you for coming,” he says. “I know how busy you are.”
“Of course,” I say. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
“It’s really not that big of a deal,” Dad says, downplaying the design award he and Nina are receiving this evening. “But it’s going to mean a lot to Nina. And remember—your being here is a surprise.”
“I know, Dad,” I say, smiling. “You’ve only told me a hundred times.”
“Well…I just want tonight to be perfect.”
“You’re so sweet to her,” I say.
“She deserves it. She’s the best,” Dad replies.
It is wild praise coming from him, and I find myself wondering, as I often have over the years, if there’s something romantic between them. They swear up and down that they’re just friends—best friends—and in some ways, I think that’s even sweeter.
“So…is he coming?” I say, referring to Finch, knowing that Dad invited him, too.
“No,” Dad says, shaking his head. “Work conflict. Although to be fair, he does live in London now.”
“London?” I say, annoyed that Finch managed to land himself in the only city in the world better than New York.