"I'm sorry, honey. I can't believe she let you down like that. I'm so sorry. I can't explain it. I can't understand how a person can change so much."

I looked away, considering the situation, and how what he was saying pointed to things not being as bad between them as I thought. Maybe they were not completely severed. He could still apologize on her behalf. I managed a smile. I appreciated his understanding, his apparent concern for us both.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Can you tell me exactly what she said to you? Before she hung up."

"She just...she sounded a little crazy." I shrugged. I picked up my knife and fork again. The steak tasted amazing, salty and firm. "She feels bad about it now. She's left messages, apologizing. She said she was having a bad day."

"But she knew you'd been in a car accident, correct? She knew you were out on the highway somewhere?"

I frowned. Correct. He was using courtroom language. "I don't remember," I said. I took another bite. He smiled patiently. He leaned forward a little more, reaching past my fork to touch my hand.

"Try." He appeared annoyed, or disappointed. "Just tell me what she said to you. Tell me exactly what she said."

I was about to ask him what he was getting at, why he was so fixated on this small point, when, while trying to gather the courage, I found myself gazing at the pen in his pocket, which, now that I looked at it, didn't look like a pen at all. It was rectangular. And it appeared to have several openings on the tip.

He saw me looking and sat up quickly.

I stopped chewing. I put my knife and fork down.

"What's in your pocket?"

He gave me a blank look. I think it was the first time in my entire life that I had ever stumped him.

"Is that your voice recorder?" I shook my head. It was impossible. I did not believe it. It was the voice recorder my mother had given him for Christmas. It was sleek, expensive, designed to look like a pen. She had hoped he could use it for work.

"Were you recording just now? What I was saying?"

"Fine. I'll turn it off." He touched a b.u.t.ton on the recorder and picked up his knife and fork. He reached for the steak sauce, his mouth tight.

"Why would you...?" I was at a loss. My hands were limp in my lap.

"She's crossed a line, okay?" He pointed at me with his fork. It wasn't a threatening gesture, more of a lazy one-he was still eating, and he didn't want to put his fork down. And yet he needed to point. "What your mother did, leaving you out there, was completely unacceptable. And it needs to be doc.u.mented."

Warm saliva pooled in my mouth. I looked down at my steak. My stomach no longer existed. "Doc.u.mented for what?"

"Don't worry about it. It has nothing to do with you. It's not your problem." He looked up and made the quickening gesture. "Why aren't you eating?"

I did not move. "You're going to use this in the divorce? You're going to use this against her?"

He rolled his eyes, still chewing. He brought his napkin up to his lips. When he spoke again, his voice was very quiet, but his words were clipped and hard. "You bet I am. You better believe it. She's completely delusional about my a.s.sets. She thinks I'm hiding piles of money from her."

"Yes," I said dully. "You've both told me."

"Okay. Be sarcastic. Be sullen. But at least consider what I'm saying. Let's review the facts. Your mother, as you know, had an affair. She made the choice to break the vows, the legal contract." He popped a piece of steak in his mouth and went back to cutting. "So she is solely responsible for the demise of the marriage, but because of the law, she still gets to walk away with half of everything I've earned, everything I've worked my a.s.s off for, for almost thirty years. And even that isn't enough. She thinks she's still getting a bad deal!" He was still cutting the steak, his knife scratching against his plate, his voice getting steadily louder. The laughter at the next booth stopped. "She had it pretty good, you know? She never had to work. She always had a nice home, her garden. Nice clothes. She got her hair done. I guess I thought she was a little appreciative. Well you know what? I guessed wrong."

That wasn't fair. My body knew this before I did. I felt something like a current moving through me, pulling my hands up from under the table. "She took care of us," I said. "She took care of your mother. You make it sound like she was sitting around. She..." I tried to think what it was that had filled my mother's days while we were at school. She didn't play tennis. She didn't just get her nails done. She'd called the insurance companies and argued over bills. She'd picked me up at school when I was sick. She'd picked up other kids when they were sick, if their mothers were working.

My father stopped chewing. He stopped cutting his steak. He was still holding his knife and fork, but he was just staring at me.

The waitress reappeared. "How is everything?"

My father smiled, though he kept his eyes on me. "It's all wonderful, Erin. Thank you."

I looked down at my plate and listened to the receding footsteps of the waitress. I could hear my own shaky breathing. My napkin was in shreds in my lap.

My father took a long drink of water. "I paid for her mother's hospital bills. Let's not forget that. She helped my mother. I helped hers. We were a team. I thought."

I slid my plate away and sat hunched over, my elbows on the table.

"You must be exhausted." He went back to work on his steak. "I don't think I've ever seen you be so...contrary before. I have to say...I'm a little impressed."

"Great. That was my goal." I could feel tears welling, but I fought them back. I was angry, not sad, and I wanted him to understand the difference.

I stood up. I didn't look at him. I s.n.a.t.c.hed up my purse and my coat.

"Hey!" I heard his startled voice behind me. I kept going, blurry-eyed, past the smiling hostess at the register, past the large statue of a Holstein in the lobby, and out through the double doors to the parking lot. I was aware of the rain, the wind in my face. My coat was still balled up under my arms. I got to the edge of the parking lot and stood there for a moment. I was maybe three miles from Jimmy's, two from the dorm. I put on my coat and started toward Jimmy's, my head bowed against the wind.

I knew he would come after me. I couldn't imagine that he wouldn't. But I really wasn't sure if I would get in. He was no better than she was. There were many ways to leave someone stranded. There were many ways of hanging up.

I'd only gone a couple of blocks when his car pulled up alongside me. The pa.s.senger window lowered, and he ducked to catch my eye.

"Okay. I'm sorry, honey. Okay? Please get in."

Cars honked behind him. He ignored them. I kept walking, my hands pushed deep in my pockets. He kept rolling slowly along.

"What? You gonna walk home in the rain? It's far, honey."

I stopped and looked at him. Whatever he saw in my face made him lower his gaze. Cars were still honking. Someone yelled.

"I'm sorry." He cleared his throat. "Okay? Okay? I am. I shouldn't have done that in there."

Another car honked. He held up one gloved finger to me, asking me to hold on for a moment. He rolled down his window, turned back, and let loose with one of the longest, and loudest, streams of obscenities I have ever heard in my life. The honking car screeched around to pa.s.s him. He made a series of gestures, screaming after it, and then turned back to me.

I leaned down a little so he could see my face. I wanted him to know how absolutely serious I was, how much I meant what I was saying.

"You're not allowed to use that against her," I said. "You're not allowed to talk about it, about her and me, with your lawyer at all."

"Okay. Okay." He leaned over and opened the door. "Just get in. Please? It's getting all wet in here."

I stood where I was, considering my options. I was cold. And wet. I wished, wished, wished that I had my own car. But I didn't. I opened the door and slid into the bucket seat. The heater in his car was working well. He angled all the vents toward me.

"You said it doesn't have anything to do with me." I spoke without looking at him, my purse cradled in my lap. "But you're the one it doesn't have anything to do with. It's between us. It's between her and me. You need to just stay out of it."

"Gotcha. Okay." He extended his hand. "This glove is leather. A dead horse. Beat it."

I shook his hand limply, still looking away.

"This thing has heated seats, you know. They're great. You'll feel it in a minute, even through your coat."

His voice was shaking a little. I said nothing.

"Please put on your seat belt."

We stared at each other. I looked like her. Everyone said so. You couldn't look at me and not see her eyes, her mouth, her strong chin. It must have been strange for him, to be so mad and done with her, and still have a daughter with so much of her face.

I put on my seat belt. He reached behind him and got a Styrofoam box out of the backseat. I could smell the steak inside. "I got the potato, too," he said, handing the box to me. I started to shake my head, and he set it carefully in my lap.

"You'll get your appet.i.te back." He sounded tired. He put the car in gear, glancing up in the rearview mirror. "It'll all be okay, sweetie. I promise. Okay? Just wait and see."

8.

GRETCHEN GAVE ME A RIDE back to Jimmy's. She felt bad that she wouldn't be able to stay and help me clean-she had a study group, and then she would be on duty at the dorm the rest of the night. She offered to come over early Sunday morning, but I told her not to. The party had been my idea. I would clean the rest of the mess up myself. back to Jimmy's. She felt bad that she wouldn't be able to stay and help me clean-she had a study group, and then she would be on duty at the dorm the rest of the night. She offered to come over early Sunday morning, but I told her not to. The party had been my idea. I would clean the rest of the mess up myself.

But when I got inside, alone again, all I wanted was to take a bath. The garden tub off the master bedroom stretched out, wide and long, beneath a window with a view that, from the lower vantage of the tub, showed only sky, which was a deep gray, the winter afternoon already fading. But the bathroom itself seemed to have its own, tropical climate. Potted begonias and ferns hung from the ceiling. The rim of the tub was populated by stone statues of friendly looking forest animals, some of which cleverly hid the speakers for the waterproof stereo over the faucet, which I quickly learned to operate with my toes. I used a small amount of Haylie's expensive shampoo. I kept the water hot, the jets on high, the music loud. I knew I needed to clean. I knew I needed to study. I knew I needed to call Tim back, to at least let him know I was okay. But I didn't want to lie to him, and I didn't want to tell the truth. Actions had consequences. I knew that. I only wanted to put them off for a while.

Just as I got out of the tub, steam still rising from my skin, my phone rang. Tim's number flashed on the screen, and I picked up. I don't why. Habit. Guilt. A desire to hear a kind voice.

"Hi."

"Hey. You're okay." There was a pause. "Did you not get my message?"

I sat on the bed, still wearing a towel. The room was dim, but in the mirror, I could see a crescent of my face illuminated by the small, gray light of my phone. Outside, past the winter-dead golf course, the setting sun was a bright pink slash, the sky above it a deep purple. "I'm sorry," I said. "I should have called you back...Things have been a little crazy here."

"Okay," he said, his voice neutral. He didn't say anything else.

"I was in a car accident." I instantly regretted saying it. I should tell him everything or nothing at all. I was acting like my parents, campaigning for pity, adjusting a storyline to fit my needs.

"In that guy's car? That little car? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. It was just a fender bender. I mean, more than that. The car had to be towed. But really, I'm okay."

He breathed hard through his teeth. "I knew it," he said. "Isn't that weird? I knew it as soon as I heard about the weather."

"What does that mean?"

"What?" He was confused. I could picture his expression, his dark eyebrows lowered.

"You just a.s.sumed I would wreck the car in bad weather?" My hands were clenched. I accidentally pressed a number on my phone. "You knew as soon as the roads got a little slick? You can make it all the way up to Chicago, but you already knew that little me wouldn't even make it home from the airport. Is that right?"

"What?" He started to laugh, and then stopped. "Veronica. That's not what I meant. I was just worried. I heard the ice was really bad. I would have worried about anyone out driving in it. Or you, especially, because you're my girlfriend." He paused. "Are you-are you okay?"

"I'm not a bad driver."

"I know you're not." There was a pause. "But that's not what I was saying, Veronica. I was just saying I was worried."

His voice was kind. I was a bad person. I was lying. Already, just by not mentioning Clyde, I was lying.

"Did you get hurt at all?"

"No." I rubbed the back of my neck. "I'm a little sore maybe." I glanced at the screen of my phone. There were no new messages. My mother had given up.

He wanted more details. He wanted to know how I'd gotten home, and whether or not I'd already told Jimmy. The more concerned questions he asked, the worse I felt. I stalled and hesitated. Finally, and honestly, I claimed fatigue. "I'll tell you when you get home," I said. "I'll tell you the whole story." I turned away from the mirror and lay back down on the bed.

He'd be home Sunday night, he said, but late. And he had cla.s.ses all day on Monday. We could see each other on Monday night. He knew I had a test coming up, but he wanted to take me out to dinner, somewhere nice. He could pick me up at seven.

"Just come up to my room," I said. Guilt aside, I had to be strategic. I had to tell him in my own room. I couldn't wait until we were in his car to tell him. I wasn't going to tell him at some restaurant. I couldn't let myself get stranded again-an unhappy pa.s.senger in someone else's car, too far from home to get out and walk.

I decided I would clean in the morning. I would get up early, bright-eyed and invigorated, and get the town house back in shape long before Jimmy and Haylie came home. By eight o'clock, I had already misted the plants and changed into my pajamas. I sat on the couch, my legs stretched out, with the leftover potato and my chemistry book. I was still a good student. I was not a completely different person.

And truly, for at least a half hour, I diligently studied diagrams of benzene molecules linking their little black arms with other benzene molecules. Ninhydrin and MDMA are colorless whereas the test reaction product is red because neither ninhydrin nor MDMA have enough conjugated p-orbitals to provide a h.o.m.o-LUMO gap. Ninhydrin and MDMA are colorless whereas the test reaction product is red because neither ninhydrin nor MDMA have enough conjugated p-orbitals to provide a h.o.m.o-LUMO gap. I worked through two sample questions. I considered the third. Ten minutes pa.s.sed. Twenty. It wasn't yet nine o'clock. It was still early enough to call Tim and tell him everything, and at least not be a liar. I worked through two sample questions. I considered the third. Ten minutes pa.s.sed. Twenty. It wasn't yet nine o'clock. It was still early enough to call Tim and tell him everything, and at least not be a liar.

Focus. I looked back at the benzene diagram. I reread the equation. I closed my eyes. I opened them. I looked up at the clock. A single shelf, lined with books, sprouted from the wall behind the couch, fanged gargoyles guarding either side. I looked back at the benzene diagram. I reread the equation. I closed my eyes. I opened them. I looked up at the clock. A single shelf, lined with books, sprouted from the wall behind the couch, fanged gargoyles guarding either side. The Collected Works of Shakespeare The Collected Works of Shakespeare was prominently displayed. Apparently, Jimmy hadn't sold his copy back at the end of the semester, which was interesting, given that he hadn't seemed to have read any of the plays as we were studying them. But he did have a nice little library, right there within reaching distance of the couch. Vonnegut. Plato. Emily Bronte. Ginsberg and Burroughs. Plath. The bindings for the hard-backs cracked upon opening, the pages inside pristine. There were four books by Toni Morrison, a slim volume of Cliffs Notes tucked inside was prominently displayed. Apparently, Jimmy hadn't sold his copy back at the end of the semester, which was interesting, given that he hadn't seemed to have read any of the plays as we were studying them. But he did have a nice little library, right there within reaching distance of the couch. Vonnegut. Plato. Emily Bronte. Ginsberg and Burroughs. Plath. The bindings for the hard-backs cracked upon opening, the pages inside pristine. There were four books by Toni Morrison, a slim volume of Cliffs Notes tucked inside The Bluest Eye The Bluest Eye. Looking down at the other end of the shelf, I saw Jane Eyre Jane Eyre. I had read it for freshman lit, which had been taught by a graduate student with flaming red hair and wire-rimmed gla.s.ses who told us on the first day that the freshman reading list had been put together by the English Department, and that the books were not what she would have chosen to have us read at all, and that she was at least going to frame them for us in alternately Marxist, feminist, and post-colonial perspectives. She had frightened me on that first day, but I had come to like her as a teacher, though she and I reached a temporary impa.s.se when the cla.s.s started reading Jane Eyre Jane Eyre. I adored the book. Jane was a great heroine, I thought, with all her spirit and courage, and I believed the love story that unfolded between her and Rochester. The graduate student, however, firmly believed that Jane Eyre Jane Eyre wasn't a love story at all; she presented us with a published article that argued that at the end of the book, when Jane is the young wife to the old, blind Rochester, she is no more than his Seeing Eye dog, an underling hired to maintain the colonial, patriarchal status quo. I didn't believe it for a second, and I was so indignant that I risked my English grade-my one dependable A for that semester-to argue on Jane's behalf in my midterm paper. I wrote that Jane was not his Seeing Eye dog, but his equal companion. Society may have cast them as master and servant, but in their minds, they were equals, because he loved her, and she loved him-there was ample evidence for this in the text. wasn't a love story at all; she presented us with a published article that argued that at the end of the book, when Jane is the young wife to the old, blind Rochester, she is no more than his Seeing Eye dog, an underling hired to maintain the colonial, patriarchal status quo. I didn't believe it for a second, and I was so indignant that I risked my English grade-my one dependable A for that semester-to argue on Jane's behalf in my midterm paper. I wrote that Jane was not his Seeing Eye dog, but his equal companion. Society may have cast them as master and servant, but in their minds, they were equals, because he loved her, and she loved him-there was ample evidence for this in the text.

The graduate student was fairer than I'd expected. She returned our papers a month later, and on mine, across the top, was written: You are brainwashed by your culture. And you are wrong. But you are a good writer. A- That night on Jimmy's couch, I reread almost all of Jane Eyre, Jane Eyre, reconsidering the Seeing Eye dog argument. I didn't mean to read so long. I just kept turning pages. There was the solace of focusing on someone with real worries: Jane, with her confined life in another century, lived in a far more dismal world than mine; her choices were fewer and far starker. And there was also the familiar pleasure of a good story, the slow revelations of someone's nature and troubles and thoughts; a word-created world to fall into. reconsidering the Seeing Eye dog argument. I didn't mean to read so long. I just kept turning pages. There was the solace of focusing on someone with real worries: Jane, with her confined life in another century, lived in a far more dismal world than mine; her choices were fewer and far starker. And there was also the familiar pleasure of a good story, the slow revelations of someone's nature and troubles and thoughts; a word-created world to fall into.

I woke the next morning stretched out on the couch, Jane Eyre Jane Eyre fallen to the floor. Sunlight streamed in through the living room's sheer curtains. In the dorm, mornings were loud. There was always a door opening, a door closing, someone laughing in the hallway, a stereo blasting, or an alarm clock going off in an empty room. But the town house was peaceful. I was happy when I wandered into the kitchen, even with the suds-stained counters and mud-tracked floors, but then I saw the little digital clock by the oven. It was almost eleven. Jimmy and Haylie would be home by four. fallen to the floor. Sunlight streamed in through the living room's sheer curtains. In the dorm, mornings were loud. There was always a door opening, a door closing, someone laughing in the hallway, a stereo blasting, or an alarm clock going off in an empty room. But the town house was peaceful. I was happy when I wandered into the kitchen, even with the suds-stained counters and mud-tracked floors, but then I saw the little digital clock by the oven. It was almost eleven. Jimmy and Haylie would be home by four.

I circled frantically, picking up cans and cups. My bare feet stuck to the kitchen floor. I tried to prioritize my tasks. There was the dirt on the carpet where the plant had fallen. The blood on the curtain. Haylie's clothes, the boas, the shoes. The faint but distinct odor of cigarettes in the living room. The plastic bag of aluminum cans which Gretchen really should have taken with her, which I did not know what to do with, as I had no car, and no way to leave before Jimmy and Haylie returned.

Once again, I was stranded.

I tried calling Gretchen. No answer. My mother had called again, and left a message. I listened as I dug cigarette b.u.t.ts out of an aloe vera plant by the sink.

"If this is the only way I can communicate with you, I at least want you to know two things. One, you are not the only person in the world with problems. As your mother, I think it's my job to let you know that. Two, I am, again, very sorry I let you down. But, Veronica, I guarantee that, in the future, if you are in a crisis, and you need me, I will be there for you. You can call me, and I will be there. The other morning was an isolated incident. I think if you look at my entire record as a mother, you'll have to agree with that." if you are in a crisis, and you need me, I will be there for you. You can call me, and I will be there. The other morning was an isolated incident. I think if you look at my entire record as a mother, you'll have to agree with that."

I emptied the cigarette b.u.t.ts into the garbage. I debated with myself for only a moment. She answered on the first ring.

"It's me," I said. "It's Veronica."

"I know." Her voice was breathy, distracted. I heard Bowzer's wizened bark in the background. I waited. She didn't say anything more. She was waiting for me to speak.