Her gaze flitted from Julian to me and back again. “Those eyes, though …”
He nodded again. “Meet Taliah. Your granddaughter.”
She gasped again and clutched at the neckline of her robe. “Granddaughter?” She turned to Julian for clarification.
“It’s a long story,” he said in a slow and stilted way.
“A long story, huh?” she pushed.
“Mama, I promise to tell you everything, but it’s late.” I could hear the desperation in his voice; it made me feel unbearably awkward.
Her eyes flitted from Julian to me and back again. “I don’t know what to say. …”
I stared down at my sneakers, debating whether or not I should walk back to the car. “I’m sorry,” I finally managed to say.
“Sorry?” she exclaimed. “Sweetheart, you have nothing to be sorry for.” She walked toward me and clutched my face in her hands. “I’m so glad your father has finally brought you home.”
Home, my brain repeated. H-O-M-E. So many mysteries, so many feelings, so many questions wrapped up in those four letters.
DAY TWO
(In Which I Learn About the Multiplicity of Self)
I.
I woke up before Harlow. It took me a moment or two to remember where I was. The creaky twin mattress and plaid comforter were startlingly unfamiliar. I rolled over onto my side and groaned, and then groggily slipped out of bed. I pulled my jeans back on. I’d slept in my striped T-shirt from yesterday. I sniffed it. It had at least another day left in it.
I crept down the hallway. The other bedroom doors were still closed tight. I checked my phone and saw it was only 6:03 a.m. I never woke up that early, but I guess my body knew I was in a different and strange place, so it decided to adjust accordingly by doing different and strange things.
I had bad reception in Oak Falls, but after a few painful seconds my phone dinged and I saw an email from Mom pop up. Harlow always compares my relationship with my Mom to Lorelai and Rory Gilmore’s, but I take some issue with that comparison. First, I feel like any mom and daughter who are close and the mom is relatively attractive get compared to Lorelai and Rory.
Admittedly Mom and I are pretty inseparable, which is basically the only way to be when it’s just the two of us. We have our routines—sushi night on Tuesdays at Hiro, and Saturday-afternoon movie matinees at the Edgecliff. I’m almost always her date to any of her academic functions or gallery openings, and we help each other get dressed, offering advice (that is sometimes taken, sometimes not) on shoes and lipstick color.
But Mom is much stricter than Lorelai. Or maybe I just feel that way because I’m her daughter.
I touched the screen to open the email. I held my breath, feeling impossibly guilty. I hadn’t even technically lied to her yet, and still. The withholding of information almost felt worse. Especially when I was used to sharing almost everything with Mom.
HB,
Good morning from Paris! I walked the streets around my hotel this morning and treated myself to a pain au chocolat and a café au lait, which made me miss you so much as I remembered our last trip here and how I think you ate the whole country of France out of pain au chocolat!
I’m heading over to the gallery this afternoon to preview the space. I’m feeling very excited about the talent they’ve booked for the opening. Should be wonderful. I might bop over to the Cluny afterwards. Do you remember how much you loved the unicorn tapestries? Exquisite.
How are you? Is Harlow still there? I hope you girls are behaving and not getting yourself into too much trouble. Remember you can always call my cell phone if there’s an emergency, but no need to pay the long-distance charges if everything is fine.
Have I already told you I miss you? I miss you, my sweet girl.
Xo,
Mom
Mom always addresses me as HB in our correspondence. It’s an inside joke of sorts. She calls me habibti, the blanket Arabic endearment. And since she claims “kids these days” abbreviate everything, she started calling me “HB” and it stuck.
I fiddled with my phone, my fingers anxiously hovering over the screen. I finally decided on a quick but simple reply:
Hi! Sounds like you are having lots of fun! Harlow and I are fine. We’re also having an interesting time. Will tell you about it when you get home!
Love you,
Tal
Not a lie, but not exactly the truth. I wish there was a word for that middle ground. It should be “truelie” or something like that.
I put my phone back in my pocket and continued to creep down the hall. When I reached the study, I saw the door was halfway open. I peeked inside and spotted Julian passed out on his side on the futon. He hadn’t even bothered to put sheets on it. I debated waking him up, but decided against it.
I padded down the wooden staircase that was covered with a shaggy oatmeal-colored carpet runner. The kitchen was empty. Last night when Grandma—or Debra, as I was still referring to her because it was too much to just call her Grandma (or rather, Nana, as she’d requested) right off the bat—invited us in, she’d pulled several casseroles out of the refrigerator and heated them.
“Folks don’t know what to do about the fact that Tom’s …” she’d said, trailing off as she unwrapped the tinfoil off of one of the casseroles. The reality of Tom’s state hovered silently in the air. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second and let out an audible exhale. She turned to face me. “The people around here are very kind. What they lack in knowledge of what to say, they make up for in casserole-making. God bless the people of Oak Falls.”
Once Debra had heated all the casseroles, she gave me a pointed look. “You’re my first granddaughter. It’s been all boys until you. And I want to know every single thing about you, but tomorrow we’re going to the hospital to possibly say good-bye to my husband of fifty-two years. And so for the time being, I need to be in my room.” She paused and her eyes drifted from me to Julian. “I fixed up the upstairs guest room with the hope that you’d come home, JP. But now that you’re all here, why don’t you take the futon in …” She paused again and a pained look came over her face. She pursed her lips together and shook her head like she was fighting against the tornado of emotions brewing inside of her.
“Mama, it’s okay,” Julian said softly. “I’ll make sure the girls get set up in the guest room, and don’t you worry about me. I’ll find somewhere to sleep.”
She nodded and gave him a look like she was seeing a ghost. “I’ll see you all in the morning” was all she said, and then she left the kitchen.
We all took halfhearted bites of meaty lasagna and cheesy broccoli and Harlow and Julian helped themselves to second servings of a potato bake that was sprinkled with bacon. (Perhaps the only Islamic tradition observed in our household was that Mom and I didn’t eat any pork products, and I couldn’t bring myself to eat the bacon. I already felt guilty enough as it was.)
“You don’t want any?” Julian asked, pushing the potato bake dish closer to me.