For Keeps (13 page)

Fifteen

THERE’S NO WAY
to tell this story and do it justice. No possible way. But that is what I’m trying to do right now—tell Riggs everything that happened today. Piece it all together for him. Over the phone. At 1:17 a.m.

It’s a terrible hour to call someone, I know. I could have waited to see him at school. I could have e-mailed. But I didn’t think about that when I was lying in bed, reaching for my phone in the dark. I didn’t think at all; I just dialed. Anyway, even though he was asleep when he answered, he sounded glad I called. “Josie,” he says, so sweetly. “Jo-sie. Jo-sie.”

“Matt.”

“Josie.” His voice is thick with sleep. “How
are
you?”

“Good. And . . . well, crazy. It was a crazy day.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“The beginning?”

“Yeah. OK.”

“Or wherever. Start wherever.”

“It’s . . . OK, here are the CliffsNotes: I wake up, go to work, watch my grandfather go into cardiac arrest, call 911. Then, when we get to the ER, I meet my grandmother for the first time, even though she doesn’t know she’s my grandmother yet.
Then
, my
father
, who I’ve never even
seen
except in my mom’s high-school yearbook, shows up with his two brothers. They were all at their ski condo in Waterville Valley, see, when they got the call. That’s how they got here so—”

“Josie.”

“What?”

“Is this fiction or nonfiction?”

I laugh, a tiny croak. All I’ve told Riggs up until this point are the barest essentials about the Tuccis. I think how ludicrous everything must sound right now, how ludicrous it
is
.

“Josie?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I’m not exaggerating, not even for effect?”

He breathes out. “Whoa.”

“Right,” I say. “
Whoa
is right.”

I close my eyes, lie back on the pillow, and cup the phone to my ear like it’s my lifeline—like the hot-water bottles my mom used to give me when I had an ear infection. I start again from the beginning: quietly, calmly, without leaving anything out.

“Oh my God, Matt. You should have seen my mom’s face when she walked into the waiting room and they were all sitting there. Can you imagine, just
running into him
like that? And then, it’s not only him, it’s his whole family? And everyone’s looking from me to my mom to Paul to Jonathan. And
Paul’s
face? It went, like, completely white. I don’t know which of them looked worse. I honestly thought he was going to keel over. And then he’s like, ‘Katie?’ and she’s like, ‘Hello, Paul.’ You could have heard a pin drop in there, I swear to God.”

I take a breath, pulling the phone away from my ear, replaying the scene in my head. I picture the stunned look on my mother’s face—the moment our eyes met, and the way she opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. I remember thinking,
This is it.
I could feel Liv’s hand, warm and strong against mine, as we waited for my mom to say something else.

But nothing came.

Instead, it was Paul who spoke. “Katie . . .” he said. “Is this . . . ?” He was gesturing to me. “Am I . . . ?”

And my mom choked out one word:
Yes.

“Josie is your daughter!” Liv practically sang out the news, like she was announcing the big winner on
Miss America
.

For a second, the waiting room was dead silent again, except for Mrs. Tucci’s sharp intake of breath. Then one of the Tucci brothers, Peter, mumbled, “Jesus Christ.” And the other brother, Patrick, said, “Well, it’s about time.”

Patrick Tucci was slapping Paul Tucci on the back, grinning. He was not following the I-am-completely-shocked protocol. Which could only mean one thing: he already knew. Which was news to
me
.

“Daughter?” Mrs. Tucci spoke slowly, enunciating both syllables. “What do you mean
daughter
?”

And there, right in the middle of the ER waiting room, Paul Tucci said it: “Mom, this is my daughter, Josie.” And then, just in case there was any confusion, he cleared it up in the next breath. “Mine and Kate’s.”

My daughter. Mine and Kate’s. . . .

“Matt?” I say now. “Are you still awake?”

“Yeah.”

“God, Matt, what do you think was going through his head?”

“Paul’s?”

“Yeah. Meeting me—the kid who helped his dad, right? Then, like an hour later, my mom shows up. The girl he used to love. The girl he knocked up, you know? And suddenly, the kid who helped his dad isn’t just the kid who helped his dad, it’s his daughter. . . . I mean, what could he have been
thinking
, in that moment? What was going through his
head
?”

“I don’t know,” Riggs says.

“Well, yeah,” I say. “How could you?”

“Want to know what’s going through
my
head?”

“What?”

“You.”

I smile in the dark. “That’s sweet.”

“
You’re
sweet.” He lowers his voice. “What are you wearing right now?”

“What?”

“Nightgown or PJs? . . . Something lacy?” He’s using his sexy voice—his hook-up voice. Suddenly, all the sweetness has been sucked right out of this conversation.

“Who cares what I’m wearing?”

“I do,” he says. “I want to be able to picture you when you’re talking.”

“I’m trying to tell you something important.”

“And I’m trying to tell
you
something important,” he says, soft and teasing. “I can’t stop thinking about the other night. You, next to me . . .”

“Matt.”

“Your skin is amazing . . . so warm . . . I just want to—”

“Matt, God! Is that all you can think about?”

It’s clear to me now. Everything I’ve been saying for the past half hour—about my day, about my dad—has gone in one ear and out the other. Suddenly, I’m too mad to talk anymore.

“Look,” I say. “I have to go.” I hang up without saying good-bye, without having to hear another word.

I’m so mad, I’m hot all over. It takes me forever to fall asleep.

When I wake up, I remember everything that happened yesterday—Paul Tucci, Matt, all of it—and a tidal wave of feeling crashes over me: disbelief, mixed with nausea.

I find myself standing outside my mother’s door, knocking.

“Come in,” she says.

So I do.

I expect to find her in a lump under the covers, because it’s so early. But she’s not. She’s sitting up in bed, her bangs in a clip, holding the Paul Tucci yearbook in her lap.

“How did you sleep?” she asks.

I shrug. “Not great.”

“That makes two of us,” she says, casually sliding the yearbook off her lap, onto the side of the bed farthest from me.

I raise my eyebrows, smirk.

“What?” my mom says.

“You don’t have to pretend you weren’t looking at his picture.”

She waves a hand through the air, like it’s no big deal. It’s no big deal that the love of her life—the guy who dumped us for another girl—just showed up out of nowhere after sixteen years, finally admitting he’s my father.

“Didn’t you want to just slap him in the face, right there in front of everyone?”

My mom shakes her head slowly.

“Why
not
?”

“Because . . .” She hesitates. “That’s not how I feel.”

“Well, how
do
you feel?”

It’s the first time I’ve gotten to ask this question. I wasn’t about to open my mouth yesterday, in front of Jonathan, who
of course
was glued to my mother’s hip the entire time at the hospital, and who
of course
was waiting in the parking lot when my mom and I came out of the hospital, and who
of course
stayed at our house until God knows what hour last night, until I finally heard the front door slam and his Subaru peel out of the driveway.

Now I am waiting for my mother to tell me how she feels. About Paul Tucci announcing I was his daughter. About seeing him again.

“Honestly?” she says. “My head is pounding. . . . I need coffee.”

I give her my blankest stare. Here I am, asking the question to end all questions, wanting to hear the answer to end all answers, and this is what I get.
My head is pounding. I need coffee
.

“
I
know!” my mother says, leaping onto the floor, like lightning just struck the bed. “Let’s go out for breakfast!”

“Out for breakfast,” I repeat.

“In fact . . .” She grabs the pair of jeans that’s been lying in a clump on the rug. “Let’s take the whole day off! . . . We haven’t had a mother-daughter day in a while. . . . You don’t have a game today, do you? Or a test? . . . I’ll call in sick to work. . . .”

“Are you OK?” I ask, looking for signs of mental collapse. She’s standing in front of the mirror, yanking a brush through her hair. . . . Now she’s rifling through her dresser . . . smoothing on a layer of lipstick (she
never
wears lipstick) . . . mascara (ditto).

Finally, she whips around, smiling. “I’ll even let you drive!”

OK, it’s official. My mother is completely off her nut. Since I got my permit, she has taken me driving exactly five times, and each of those five times she has suffered a small heart attack. Which is why she has left my driving instruction exclusively up to Pops and Dodd, who are so busy teaching Liv, they don’t have time for me.

“Seriously?” I say. “I can drive?”

“Sure!” My mom is still smiling. There’s lipstick on her tooth, a crazy hot-pink smear.

We’ve had our Egg McMuffins, and we’re back in the car. I know I should be practicing three-point turns and hill starts, but right now I’m just cruising along the back roads between Elmherst and North Haven. My mom is in the passenger seat with coffee in hand. Also, with foot on the invisible brake in front of her, which she presses every thirty seconds.

“Maybe you should downshift, J-Bear?” she says, glancing sideways at me.

I shake my head. “I’m going forty-five. I need to be in fourth.”

“Uh-huh.” She nods, takes a sip of coffee. “OK. . . . You’re doing great.”

“I know,” I say.

I feel a rush of adrenaline. Riding in a car is so different when you’re behind the wheel.
Freeing
. The last place I want to be right now is school, stuck behind a desk, conjugating French verbs. I’m also glad not to have to deal with the Riggs situation. What is he thinking right now, I wonder. Does he feel bad about last night? A small, mean part of me hopes that he is suffering—wants him to be waiting at my locker between every class period today, panicked over my absence, worried that he’s about to be dumped. I’m not
planning
on dumping him. But I don’t mind letting him sweat a little. . . .

“Josie!” My mother lets out a shriek, as I swerve to avoid a crossing squirrel.

“Relax,” I say, downshifting to third.

“I’m
trying
.”

We’re both trying. All morning, we have been. Since leaving the house, neither of us has acknowledged what happened yesterday, but you can feel it all around us. A big gray cloud of Tucci is gathering in the air above our heads, growing bigger by the second, filling up the car. We can pretend that the tension is about my driving, but it’s not.

“Josie!” My mother slams on her invisi-brake. “Shift!”

“I
am
!” Does she think I can’t anticipate a simple stop sign?
Sheesh. . . .
I downshift to second, then first. I flip on my blinker and turn—quite smoothly, I might add—onto Campbell Road.

I glance over at my mom, cocking an eyebrow at her.
See?I rock.
But she isn’t looking at me; she’s looking at the rearview mirror, frowning. “Crap.”

“What,” I say. But she doesn’t have to answer because I can see for myself—the swirling strobe of blue light behind us.

Before I can ask what I did wrong, my mother orders me to pull over. Like I’m a moron. Like I’ve never seen a police car before.

“I
know
,” I say, disguising my panic with annoyance.

It is exactly how you would imagine it: Cop, stepping out of his cruiser, one shiny black boot at a time. Swaggering over, slowly, belly first, to intimidate you; hoisting up his gun belt with one hand and lowering his Ray-Bans with the other. Glaring into your open window with thick jet-black eyebrows. “You do realize that was a stop sign back there.”

I clear my throat. “Yes, sir.”

“You do realize you rolled through it.”

Um . . . no.

Big, heavy sigh. “License and registration.”

Nodding, I reach into the back pocket of my jeans for my learner’s permit, which thank God I remembered to bring, then awkwardly across to the glove box, to dig out the registration card. I wouldn’t have to do this if my mother would help. But no. She is slouched down in her seat, gazing out the opposite window, refusing to even look at me.

Thanks for the support, Kate.

“Here you go,” I say, handing over the paperwork, polite as can be.

Officer Eyebrows grunts, looks down at my permit. Then he looks up again. “You need to be accompanied by a licensed driver age twenty-one or over.”

I hesitate, then say, “I am. That’s my mom.”

He pokes his bristly, flattopped head through the window. “Ma’am?” Then, because my mother doesn’t respond, he says it again, louder. “
Ma’am?
I need to see your driver’s license.”

Somehow my mother manages to duck between her legs and come up with her license but keep her head down, like she’s suddenly morphed into one of those double-jointed circus performers.

“Mom,”
I say.
“God.”

I hand over her license, while she remains in pretzel position. Like a complete freak.

“Katharine Gardner?” Officer Eyebrows says.

“Yes?” The word floats up, but the head stays down.

“Uh, ma’am? . . . I need to see your face. . . .”

My own face burns. What the
hell
is she doing? As if getting pulled over isn’t humiliating enough, my mother has to go all—