Where We Belong

“Yeah. It’s really exciting,” I say, although the only thing that I can focus on at that moment is that I’m officially holding hands with the only boy in the world I have ever liked.

  Then, as if I weren’t already dying, Philip abruptly stops walking, right in front of the fountain on Maryland Plaza, turns to face me, and takes my right hand in his left. He pulls me toward him, so that our bodies are just inches apart, close enough for me to tell that he is as wildly nervous as I am. And then it finally happens. He leans in, as our faces collide. He smiles, changes angles and tries again. This time it works. The kiss is sweet and slow and it does something to my insides that makes me think of Charlotte and I melting fudge squares from Merb’s in the microwave, how the outside stays firm, the center becoming molten.

  Seconds later, we separate, nervously glance around to see if anyone saw us, then continue walking, as if something earth-shattering hasn’t just happened.

  “So tell me about these drums of yours?” he says.

  “What?” I say, because I’ve been careful not to discuss drumming. I’d be shocked if he were one of those fools that think all girl drummers are sort of weird, but just in case, I haven’t said anything yet.

  “I saw a picture of drums on your Facebook page. Are those yours?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “That’s cool,” he says, and I can tell he means it.

  I smile and start talking about drumming, feeling happier by the second. He asks a lot of questions, like he’s really interested in the subject—and me.

  “Seriously,” he says. “That’s, like, the coolest thing I’ve ever heard about any girl. Ever.”

  “Thank you,” I say. And I can feel myself beaming as we keep talking, turning right, then left, then right again, winding our way through the Central West End.

  24

  marian

  It is the night before my trip, and Claudia and Jess are over, helping me pack and generally offering me moral support—or, as Jess likes to call it, “immoral” support. She is in one of her particularly irreverent, wildly cheerful moods, fueled by the Ketel One and Red Bull she’s drinking, and an earlier visit to her dermatologist. As Claudia says, Botox and fillers always seem to enhance her personality, too.

  “This is adorable! When did you get it?” Jess asks, pulling a cable knit Chanel sweater dress from my closet. She spontaneously undresses, peeling off her jeans and white T-shirt, before trying it on. I cringe—as it is both woefully too short and baggy on her long, impossibly narrow frame.

  “Take that off at once,” I say. “I’d prefer that you just call me short and fat—rather than illustrate the point.”

  Jess shakes her head as if I’m being ridiculous, but I see her cinching in the waist of the dress and sneaking a glance in the mirror as if to determine what it might look like a size or two smaller.

  “Focus,” Claudia tells her, snapping her fingers twice. It is a casual reprimand, but I can tell she’s slightly annoyed with Jess, wanting to get down to the emotional core of what’s about to unfold in my life.

  “I am focused,” Jess says, now wearing only her jeans and a leopard-print bra. She leans down, scrutinizing the contents of my suitcase, then says, as if I’m not in the room, “And I really think she should pack some nicer underwear, don’t you?”

  Claudia glances down at my short stack of perfectly decent, white cotton panties and says, “Jess. Her underwear’s fine.”

  “I think she should shoot for something north of fine.” Jess tries to make a face but her frozen forehead won’t allow it.

  “And why’s that?” I say, even though I know what she’s getting at.

  “In case you and Conrad … hit it off … again.”

  “Jess!” Claudia says, looking as appalled as I am.

  “What?” Jess asks. “It’s possible that they’ll, you know, rekindle that old spark.”

  “The spark that unraveled my life?” I ask.

  “The spark that created one,” Jess says, suddenly the sage one.

  I nod, as if to give her this point, silently acknowledging that I can never really regret what happened, especially now, after knowing Kirby.

  Jess continues, “Besides, didn’t your mother always tell you never to be caught in anything less than your best underwear?”

  “Yes,” I say. “In case of a fire.”

  “Exactly,” Jess says, pointing at me.

  “Oh, God,” I say. “Do you seriously see this weekend as one with romantic potential?”

  “Yes,” Jess says. “I see every weekend as one with romantic potential.”

  I tell her she’s warped as Claudia reminds her that I already have a boyfriend.

  “They’re on a break,” Jess says.

  “Famous last words. Remember Ross and Chloe from the copy room?” I say, always enjoying when I can reference any television show.

  “Pfft,” Jess says. “Only Ross, a spineless, noodge fictional character, would be dumb enough to admit to a fling that occurred while on a break.”

  Claudia gives her a look, obviously thinking of her own, brief affair during her breakup with Ben. “Or your best friend here? Might I remind you of Richard?”

  Jess laughs. “Good point. You and Ross. That makes two fools.”

  “Okay, look,” I say, adding a pair of my most cozy pajama bottoms and an ancient Michigan T-shirt to my suitcase before zipping it shut. “I’m not going to be kissing anyone this weekend. Break with Peter or otherwise.”

  Jess looks disappointed, then clears her throat and says, “Okay. So what do you think it will be like? When you see him again? What are you going to say to him?”

  “No clue,” I say.

  “Do you think you should call him first—give him some warning before you just knock on his door?” Claudia asks.

  “Do you think I should?” I say, as if the rather obvious question has never once crossed my mind.

  “I don’t know—you tell me. Do you wish Kirby had called before she showed up?” Claudia says.

  Trying to justify my decision, I tell her I’m not sure that it would have made a difference; it might just have made me nervous.

  “I think you’re just hoping he won’t be home,” Jess says. “Classic conflict avoidance. Could buy you another decade. Or two.”

  As soon as she says the words, I realize that she’s just nailed it. I’ve been talking a big game for Kirby’s sake, but pretty much the last thing I want to do in the world, including discussing the layers of domestic deceit with my father, is see Conrad Knight again. The thought of it makes me so sick to my stomach, in fact, that I ask my friends if they think it’s really necessary for me to join Kirby when she knocks on her second door.

  “Are you fucking kidding?” Jess says, dropping her jaw dramatically as if to compensate for her inability to make any other expression.

  Even Claudia agrees, firmly shaking her head. “Marian, no. You can’t do that to Kirby. And you certainly can’t do it to Conrad.”

  “It was just a suggestion.”

  “A really shitty one,” Jess says as Claudia nods her agreement.

  “Yeah. You gotta suck it up, girl. Put on those cotton, big-girl panties,” Jess says. “It’s time.”

  “High time,” Claudia chimes.

  “Okay. Okay. I got it!” I say, unaccustomed to being in the hot seat, Jess’s usual role in our threesome. I take a deep breath, wondering how I will get through the next seventy-two hours—and knowing only one thing for sure: It won’t be the same way I got through the last eighteen years.

  * * *

  Twelve hours and a painfully early morning flight later, I’m standing in the baggage claim of O’Hare, waiting for my suitcase and father, in no particular order, something I’ve probably done fifty times since I went away to college. But, of course, this time feels completely different, and as I stare at the metal carousel overflowing with luggage, I start to wish I had either rented a car or asked my mother to get me. But she insisted that this was for
the best—that my father and I needed some time alone before Kirby showed up to, in her words, “confront the past.” My dad and I have yet to speak since everything came to light, and as I spot my bag descending from the chute, it occurs to me that in some ways, this will be our first truly honest moment in eighteen years—our entire adult relationship. As nervous as I am, I am also excited for our fresh start, and hope that he feels the same.

  Seconds after I collect my bag, I turn toward the exit and see him coming toward me. He is always thin, but looks thinner than usual, tired too, with an expression of focus and determination that he gets during the sleeplessness and angst of a big trial.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say when he is just one step in front of me.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he says, then peppers me with his usual questions. How was the flight? Only one bag? Are you hungry?

  Fine, yes, no, I answer on the way to his car, then initiate some small talk of my own. How’s work? Any summer trips planned? It sure is hot out—summer is coming, even in Chicago.

  The more minutes that pass, the more the tension between us grows, only it isn’t a typical, anxious tension, but rather an almost comforting suspense. It’s as if we both know the whole point of the visit and what we will soon discuss, but neither of us is in a hurry to get there. We’ve waited this long; what’s another few miles, one more car ride home. So he continues to drive, the songs on the radio changing the mood of the car on the margins.

  When we finally exit on Green Bay Road, close to home, he clears his throat, and I think for sure it’s finally coming. Something about that summer. Something about my choice. Something about our visitor from St. Louis, arriving in only a couple hours. But instead he says, “Your mother is in a bit of cooking frenzy right now. Going a little overboard, as usual. What do you say we give her a little more time?… We could play the direction game? It’s been a while…”

  I glance at him, confused for a second, then remember the ancient game we made up together when I was no older than five or six. We’d get in the car and I’d close my eyes and whenever he got to an intersection, he’d say “Left, right, straight?” and I’d pick one of the three, sometimes alternating, sometimes sticking with one direction for the entire duration of the game.

  Left, right, left, straight, I’d demand, to which he’d joke that we were going to end up in Guatemala or Saskatchewan—and every time, I’d picture such a destination as a distinct possibility. Or, even more terrifying and simultaneously thrilling, that we’d wind up completely lost. In the middle of nowhere, stranded without food or water, in extreme temperatures. Of course, I knew that such a thing couldn’t really happen, that we’d never get any farther than Naperville or some other western suburb; yet whenever we reached our dead end, and my father instructed me to open my eyes, I still felt a surge of wonderment by whatever ordinary spot we had arrived together, be it a car dealership, an optometrist, a stranger’s driveway. It was always hilarious in its randomness, especially when we continued our charade and actually went inside to shop for the cherry-red Audi convertible, or peruse reading glasses, or even, once, knocking on someone’s door, pretending we’d lost our puppy.

  As I got a little older, and actually knew my way around town, I’d peek while my dad would pretend not to know I was peeking, and lo and behold, we’d end up at Cold Stone Creamery or the mall or one of our favorite parks, both of us exclaiming at what a lucky day it was. It occurs to me now that those moments weren’t unlike what is happening in the car today—both of us pretending, yet well aware that the other knows.

  So I say, “I’d love to play,” then promptly press my forehead against my window. “Ready when you are.”

  “Your eyes shut?”

  “Yes,” I lie.

  “All right. Go,” he says when we reach our next stop. “Left, right, or straight?”

  “Right,” I say, trying to read his mind, determine where it is he’d like to go, then deciding that Gillson Park will be our final destination. “Definitely right.”

  I proceed to direct him from Green Bay east to Sheridan, the familiar stretch of road that connects the North Shore’s string of suburbs, winding along the lake with views of gorgeous homes, harbors, and glens, the classic scenery of John Hughes’s films.

  “Straight,” I continue to instruct, as we drive southward, past preppy Winnetka and sleepy Kenilworth until we reach the intersection of Lake and Sheridan.

  “Left,” I say, and then direct him to a quick right on Michigan Avenue, then through the south entrance gates of the park.

  “Okay! Dead end!” my father announces with glee. “And you’ll never believe where we are!”

  I turn from the window, feigning shock. “Ohhh! Gillson Park! I can’t believe it!”

  He shakes his head and laughs, making his way to the parking lot near the softball fields.

  “Nice work,” he says as we get out of the car.

  “Whatever do you mean?” I say as we exchange a sideways glance. “I couldn’t see a thing. We could have ended up anywhere.”

  “Even Saskatchewan,” he says.

  “Even Saskatchewan,” I say as we meander along the path toward the small-boat harbor. It is a sunny day, warm but gusty, and I keep holding my hair back in my hand so it doesn’t blow in my face.

  At one point, he reaches in his pocket for a rubber band and hands it to me.

  I shake my head and say, “You just happen to have one of them on you?”

  “I have a paper clip, too, if you need one,” he says, grinning.

  “How about a safety pin?” I ask.

  “In the car.”

  “Good to know.”

  We reach a bench near the water and sit, both of us toward the middle. I tell him I remember when my feet used to dangle. He says he can top that; he can remember pushing me in a stroller when I was a baby.

  And there it is. Baby. The subject no longer avoidable.

  I break down first and say, “So Dad … Mom says you wanted me to keep her?”

  Without missing a beat, he says, “I’m just glad you had her.”

  I nod, realizing how much alike we are—to have the restraint to avoid a topic for this long, then launch right into the meat of it. I also realize that he didn’t answer the question. “But you wanted me to keep her. Right?”

  “That’s a difficult question … I didn’t want to lose her forever,” he says. He is wearing dark aviators, yet he still squints out over the water, lines appearing around his eyes, extending down toward his mouth. “But look. As it turns out, we didn’t.”

  “Dad?” I say, turning to face him, my eyes hidden behind my own glasses.

  “Yes, honey?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you … I wish I had.”

  “It’s okay, honey.”

  “I was just so … embarrassed,” I say, my voice cracking. The word isn’t strong enough for what I felt. “I was mortified, ashamed. And I didn’t want to let you down. I’m thirty-six years old and I can see now that the situation … was not the end of the world. But at eighteen, I couldn’t see that … I just couldn’t.”

  “Sweetie. I understand. I always did. I never thought any less of you … I just wish I could have been there for you.”

  “It wasn’t just that, though,” I say. “I didn’t want to upset you. You work so hard—and have always given me everything. And there I was about to go out into the world, making the biggest mistake a girl could make, and I just—”

  “But honey—that’s just it. It was a mistake. You didn’t try to hurt anyone. You might have let yourself down, but you didn’t let me down.”

  “That can’t be true,” I say. “You might say that now, but then…”

  “Marian. Look at me,” he says, as he removes his glasses. “Your mother and I have always been proud of you. Always.”

  I nod, then whisper thank you.

  A long moment of silence follows, until I sigh, then say, “This is really Mom’s fault.” I smile but his expres
sion doesn’t change.

  “She did the best she could, too,” he says, and I can’t help feeling touched by his defense of her.

  “I was just kidding,” I say.

  “I know … But for a long time, I did blame her. Longer than I even realized … Every time we saw a baby. Or a friend had a grandchild … I wanted her,” he says. Then he reaches into his wallet and pulls out a photo of her. The same one I have. The only one I have.

  “She has your face,” he says. “She looks exactly like your newborn pictures.”

  I nod.

  “Does she still?” he asks, blinking. “Look like you?”

  “Yes. She definitely has my ears,” I say, pressing them against my head. “And yours. Thank you very little.”

  He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a choking sound, as if narrowly converting a sob into something else.

  “You’ll see,” I say. “I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

  “I know,” he says. “I just can’t believe that she grew up … She is a young woman now.”

  I nod. “It makes me feel so old.”

  “You have no idea,” he says, running his hands through his silver hair. I have a sudden pang, thinking about him getting older, worried about him being gone. So grateful that nothing happened to him before this day.

  “You know, I was shaving this morning, thinking about this baby picture,” he says, staring down at it again. “How I look at it every so often when I’m alone … Counting the years … trying to imagine her, at whatever age she is. And I thought to myself, that although I’m meeting her today, finally, that that baby, that little girl, is gone forever.”

  I nod, knowing by the pattern of his speech that he is not only musing, but making a larger, more organized point.

  “And then. It struck me … that that happens no matter what. That happened with you. My baby is gone. My little girl is gone.”

  “Dad! I’m not gone,” I say.

  “I know, I know. But in many ways you are,” he says. “Sure, we see you. We talk to you. We know what you’re doing and we watch your friendships and relationships and career and life unfold. But for all intents and purposes, you aren’t ours anymore.”