Thirty-Three

thirty-three

Only after we’re all fed, watered, and deposited in our respective hotel rooms does it occur to me how strange it is, being with my parents on my own like this. I’ve gotten so used to my brothers’ footsteps darting up and down the hall, the clanging of things that probably shouldn’t be clanging, the unsteady soundtrack of our steady lives. In the absence of it—in the just me, Mom, and Dad of it—I feel inexplicably littler and older at the same time.

We end up sitting in the same configuration we did the last time I was here, them on the couch, me on the chair. I sensed A Talk long before we drifted into position for it, but this one already feels different. We’re looser. Lighter. A lot fewer secrets and, for the adults at least, a lot more wine.

There isn’t exactly a silence to break, only a contemplative quiet, but my mom is the one who interrupts it.

“I know the last few days have been rough on all of us. And there’s a lot to process and decide on, regarding how we’re going to move forward. But before we get to that, we wanted to talk to you about—”

I shake my head. “You don’t have to.”

“No,” says my dad, “we really do. What you were saying, about feeling like the…” He winces.

“The replacement kid,” I supply, wincing right back. “And I—”

“It couldn’t be further from how we felt, how we feel.”

“I know—”

“What we went through was—unimaginable. Even now. But when you were born—”

“I know,” I say, firmer.

Even if I didn’t know it in my bones, I can see it in their faces. I don’t need an explanation, because it isn’t an explanation, really. It’s a lifetime. It’s sixteen years of never having to wonder who to call or how long it will take for them to pick up. It’s looking at them and knowing I’m every bit as much theirs as they are mine.

“Do you?”

I look at them, and at my lap, considering. It feels important to say the right thing here, like the result of this conversation will mean more to them than it does to me. So I have to let them say it. I have to let them get this off their chests if I’m ever going to get anything off mine.

I lean back, feeling the way I sometimes do when I take that first step off the ground—up a tree, or a rickety old ladder, or someone’s car. That sense of pushing off of something solid, leaving something behind, and thinking, No going back now.

My mom takes a breath, and when she speaks, it sounds like she’s been waiting to say the words a lot longer than I’ve been waiting to hear them.

“When Savvy happened—we were young, and confused, and … I honestly can’t remember a lot of that time. It’s murky to me still. Sometimes it’s easier not to think about it too much.” She clasps her hands together, like she is trying to press the words into the feeling, leaning forward so I can feel it, too. “But with you—I remember every moment. You were ours. Before you were even real.”

She’s getting teary-eyed, and I go completely still, wondering if I should say something. But my dad is watching me over her shoulder, and something in his expression tells me to wait.

“We decided on you together,” says my mom. “The day you were born was the happiest day of our lives. Like … something had lifted, maybe. Out of all the darkness. The thing we’d been waiting for.”

I blink back my own tears. It’s not that I have trouble believing her. But it’s overwhelming, hearing it all like this. I think in life you can know you’re loved without peering too closely at the edges of it. It’s almost scary, seeing that there aren’t any—it doesn’t have a beginning or an end. It just kind of is.

My mom lowers her voice and says, “But if I were in your shoes, thinking what you thought, I’d be upset, too.”

They’re both watching me—no, waiting. This is the part where I’m supposed to say my bit. Put it all out there. Talk to them the way Savvy told me I should, the way I haven’t, really, since Poppy died and everything felt like too much of a mess to untangle from the outside.

But it’s one thing to finally have the resolve. It’s another thing entirely to find the words.

“I think I was—surprised, is all.” I clear my throat. “And mad, maybe.”

They nod, in sync the way they always are. I wait for one of them to say something, to give me an out so I don’t have to dig any deeper than that, but neither do.

So I dig.

“There was this big, giant secret that I didn’t see coming. And I know there were good reasons for why everything shook out the way it did, but it rattled me.” I look away so I don’t lose my nerve. “And I know you don’t think of me as—a replacement. But the other thing that I can’t stop thinking about is how Savvy’s kind of—well. She would have been a lot easier to handle than me.”

My dad almost starts to laugh, but when I look up sharply and meet his eye, he blows out air instead. “Why would you think that?”

It feels pathetic to say it out loud—worse, maybe, that I have to explain it to them. My parents and I have barely even discussed Savvy’s existence, so the jump from “I found out I had a sister” to “I might have a complex about how inadequate I sometimes feel compared to my sister” is justifiably more jarring to them than it is for me, having had a full month to marinate in it. But I feel like it’s something I have to say now, in one of these rare moments when there’s nothing to interrupt us, and real life seems suspended somewhere outside the rainy windows.

“She’s a lot more—on track than I am, I guess. And sometimes with everything the way it’s gotten … the tutoring, and the extra prep courses, and everything being so intense … it kind of feels like you don’t think I’m on one.” I think I’m finished, but the last part slips out unbidden: “Like I’m letting you down.”

Neither of them jumps in right away, and I feel my face burn. I don’t want to accuse them of anything, or blow this out of proportion. People have worse problems than their parents harping on them about their grades.

But it feels bigger than that. Like it’s not rooted in my grades, but something deeper—the way Savvy’s parents and their worries about her health were. And when my parents exchange this pointed glance, like they’re trying to decide which one is going to answer me, I’m pretty sure that hunch is right.

“First of all,” says my dad, “we’ve never felt like you’re letting us down. Everyone needs extra help sometimes.”

I fidget, shifting my weight on the seat and working up the nerve to keep meeting their eyes.

“I’m just not sure if I … need that help.”

I straighten my spine, channeling my inner Savvy. Channeling something that I must have been born with too and am only just figuring how to use. “Honestly, it just made things worse. I’ve been so busy that I don’t even have time to catch up after all the tutoring. And like, here—we had all this time. Free time. And I kept up with everything. I’m actually doing well.”

They don’t seem wholly convinced of my theory, but receptive. Enough that my dad says, “Victoria mentioned that.”

“She did?” I wasn’t aware that I was on her radar for anything other than gum smuggling and sneaking out before sunrise.

My dad adds, “She also mentioned you’d made a lot of friends here.”

“I have.”

It’s not an attempt to stay. All things considered—the lying, the broken wrist, the still very confusing aftermath we all have to navigate—I’m lucky to be having a conversation this calm at all. I’m not going to try to take advantage of it by angling to go back.

“And that’s been great, too. I don’t think I’ve made a lot of friends outside of Leo and Connie for … a while, really,” I say. My throat tightens, thinking of them both, but that is its own volcano of issues that I am not touching with a ten-foot pole tonight. “It made me feel—I don’t know. Excited for what comes after high school. I don’t think I’ve really even thought about it much, but it was nice, to meet new people. See new things. And I think … I want more time to do that. Not just when senior year is over.”

They consider this, my dad more actively than my mom, whose gaze is on the table between us. “So you want to just—full stop, on the tutoring?” he asks.

I press my lips together. “I mean, yeah?” I glance at them. “Is that a … trick question?”

“I’m not saying we’re going to stop caring about your grades.” My dad’s voice is wry. “We do need you to graduate.”

My ears burn. “Yeah, well. That I can do.”

“And you know,” he adds, taking care to take some of the defensiveness out of it, “you could have talked to us about this before.”

And there it is. That deeper root I thought I was pulling on, finally brought up to the surface. It isn’t one I would have touched a few weeks ago, but I’m a long way from the Abby I was then.

“It just seemed like it mattered to you guys a lot,” I say carefully. “And honestly … things were so nuts after Poppy died, I didn’t want to make it any worse. I didn’t want to be a problem.”

“Honey, you’ve never been a problem—”

I don’t mean to cut my mom off with the look I give her, but it stops her in her tracks.

“I feel like I have,” I say, trying to soften it. “I mean, you guys have to drive me all over for tutoring. And before that I was getting in the way of you working full-time, and before that I was getting in the way of school…”

“Abby, those were our problems. Not yours. You understand?”

My mom doesn’t say anything for a few moments, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s not sure how to say it or if she should say it at all. But it’s almost like we’re shaking something loose, something we’ve all been walking around with for a long time, and it doesn’t make sense to leave the weight of any of it on us now.

“We knew it would be hard, having you during law school, but that was our decision,” says my mom. “And a huge part of why we were able to do that was knowing that your grandpa wanted to help. I don’t know if you ever realized how much that meant to him, having you—he’d been so quiet after we lost my mom, but after you were born everything changed. He couldn’t wait to take you places and teach you things. It was like watching him come back to life.”

I nod, only because my throat feels too thick to say much else.

My mom smiles sadly. “And I know you and Poppy were always close because of that. And we were there whenever we could be, but it seemed like we … missed out on some stuff. It felt like sometimes we weren’t giving you your best shot.”

“Like maybe we’d been selfish, having you when we did. Instead of waiting until we could have given you more,” says my dad.

The idea of this is so ridiculous to me that I’m not even sure how to react. I’m so used to being the one they’ve had to soothe or reassure—now that the script has flipped it turns out I’m total crap at it.

“I’ve never wanted more,” I say. “I mean, sheesh. I got ten years of you all to myself.”

My mom smiles. “Well, things got calmer after the first few years of work, and we were around more,” she says. “And the feeling went away. The fear that we were letting you down.”

I bunch my fingers into my shorts, wishing I could find the words to tell them that they didn’t. That to me it’s always felt the other way around.

“Then, when your brothers were born … obviously things got hectic,” my mom continues. “And it was like the pattern repeated. You were older, and more independent, and we still had your Poppy to keep an eye on you.”

I nod, and they pause. I wonder why, until I feel a tear burn down my cheek, falling onto my bare knee. My mom’s already crossed the distance to me before I fully realize what’s happening, wrapping me up in her arms and letting me snot into her shoulder.

Usually I’m not sad when people bring up Poppy, because I’m already thinking about him most of the time. He’s in the weight of his old camera strapped to my shoulder, in the periphery of every photo I take, squinting at the same views and humming his approval. He’s the person I talk to in my head, when I need an imaginary person to help me think things through.

I was lucky to have him to myself as a kid, and luckier still to go on the adventures we took after my brothers were born. But those adventures are over, and I’ve been too busy to really think about how scary it is that I’ll have to choose the next adventures on my own.

“I miss him,” I say.

It’s something we’ve all said a hundred times to each other, but this time it’s different. It’s like I opened up part of myself to make room for so much—a first love. A sister. A past that half belongs to me and half doesn’t. And it cracked me open just wide enough that I can feel all the parts of me still aching for Poppy, which are still adjusting to a world where he doesn’t exist.

“I know,” says my mom, squeezing me one more time before she lets go. “Me too.”

“I miss the things we used to do together. I miss … I miss having time to shoot. I feel like I can still kind of be with him when I do, and with all this tutoring, there’s just … no time.”

“I think maybe we thought the tutoring would be a cushion,” says my dad. “Something we could help you with even when we couldn’t be there ourselves.”

“What we’re trying to say is that sometimes—there’s just this sense—” My mom looks at my dad, who nods. “This sense that we still want to give you everything we can. Set you up for success. Like we can be there when we can’t always be there.”

“Guys,” I blurt, “you’re always there. I mean like—in the stuff that counts. Aggressively there.”

My mom is mirroring me, bunching her fingers in her cotton skirt. “We try to be.”

“You are.” Even when they shouldn’t have the time, they make it—whether it’s nights spent awake helping me with essay drafts, or the sleepovers they hosted for me and Connie and Leo when we were little, or the long car ride talks about whatever’s been on my mind, ones where sometimes we just circled the block so I could keep on talking. “I’m … I just think maybe you could be a little, uh, less there with the tutoring and stuff.”

“We can try that,” says my dad. “Well, right after summer school.”

Woof. I’d almost forgotten. “Yeah,” I say, the cringe every bit as much in my voice as my face. “After that whole thing.”

He peers at me, and I wonder what flavor this lecture is going to take, knowing full well there is one overdue. “Why didn’t you tell us about that?”

“I wanted—well, part of it was Savvy. I really did want to get to know her.”

Or at least, back then, understand her. It seems unthinkable that only a month ago she was worse than a stranger to me and I could barely find any common ground with her at all. It’s hard to apologize for the lie that got me here, when my friendship with Savvy is what happened because of it.

“But the other part was … I knew if summer school happened it was going to snowball into more tutoring, and I’d never have time for photography. I guess this was a way to steal the time back before anyone found out.” My voice is sheepish when I add, only half meaning it, “But I am sorry for lying.”

“I’m not even sure how you did it,” says my dad. “All the different things you hacked into—I’m honestly a little impressed—”

“Uh, maybe we don’t encourage her,” my mom cuts in.

My dad smirks. “I have a feeling it wouldn’t stop her either way.” He leans in and says the thing I’ve been waiting to hear most. “Abby, we’ve always known you’re a talented photographer. Your grandpa was showing your photos to us even when you weren’t, and they speak for themselves. I guess we just thought it was something the two of you did for fun. You were always so shy about your work—I don’t think either of us realized how serious you are about pursuing it.”

My face flushes, but I’m not as embarrassed as I thought I’d be. So I’m not surprised by my answer, so much as how firmly I deliver it. “I really am.”

“Well—I’m glad,” he says. “If there’s anything we can help with on our end, we want to. Keep us in the loop, kiddo. Tell us what’s going on before you duck out the door every once in a while.”

“Yeah. I will.”

It sinks in, then, that this lack of communication is every bit as much my fault as it is theirs. Maybe more. They’ve been busy, but I’ve been—well. Lazy is the wrong word, maybe. But less than proactive, for sure.

“Maybe if there’s some shots you guys looked at from the past few months—I mean, if you like them, and think it wouldn’t look too weird—maybe we could put some up at Bean Well, like you guys planned? Before it sells and all.”

Their faces fall, but even then, with every context clue in the damn galaxy, I have no idea what they’re going to say before my dad says it.

“Abby, the thing is—the realtor called. We had a buyer last night. Offered a lot more than what we were asking.”

I forgot to anticipate this. I’ve been so worried about everything else that the possibility slipped my radar, too quiet under the noise of the past few weeks for me to even think about it. It comes at me sideways, makes me feel uneven though I’m fully seated in the chair.

“We’re sorry, hon,” says my mom.

“No—of course. This is—that’s a good thing, right?” I manage. I ball my fingers into fists and flex them back out, letting them go loose. “That means someone cares about the space a lot. They’re gonna turn it into something good.”

My mom’s eyes are watering. She’s thinking of Poppy, and not the shop. But to me they were always kind of the same thing.

“I sure hope so.”

My dad gets up to join us, and they both wordlessly squeeze me, turning me into an Abby sandwich. The hug goes on so long that it feels like it could make me invincible, as if all the things outside it can’t do anything to me while we’re here. It makes me feel small, and everything around us even smaller. I wonder if there will ever come a day that I’m old enough not to feel like the center of my universe is this.

“For the record,” I say, “I’m really glad I’m your kid.”

“For the record, we wouldn’t change one thing about you,” says my mom.

My dad waits three full seconds before adding, “Except we might have gotten accident insurance on all your screens a little sooner.”

We laugh, my dad’s warm and low, my mom cackling the same cackle she did with Pietra, me barely managing not to snort. Nothing changes when we break apart, the way nothing really did before we came together—not anything important, anyway. Maybe just the view.