Pretending to Dance (35 page)

“It was,” he said, “but I decided to have pie instead, so that's yours if you want it.”

I stuck the plate in the microwave. “Why are you eating pie?” I asked. Maybe he wasn't going to say anything about the night before with Russell there. That would be fine with me.

“Because it's here.” Daddy smiled. “And life is short.”

“It's not good for you to eat sweets for breakfast,” I said, struggling to make conversation.

“Today might not be the best day for you to lecture me, darling daughter,” he said.

Ouch.
His voice, though teasing, had a serious undertone. The corner of Russell's mouth twitched as he lifted the last forkful of pie, and I had the feeling he was trying not to smile.

Daddy swallowed the last bite of pie as I put my plate of eggs and grits on the table.

“Need anything else right now?” Russell asked my father as he got to his feet, picking up the empty pie plate from the table.

“No, thanks, Russ,” Daddy said. “Give us a few minutes, all right?”

Oh no.
I dragged my fork through the grits, my appetite waning as Russell left the room. I felt my father's eyes boring into me.

“So tell me what happened last night,” he asked once we were alone.

“Mom probably told you all of it,” I said.

“I assume Mom doesn't
know
all of it,” he said. “She's pretty sure you were in a bedroom with Chris, though.”

My face felt hot again and I knew my cheeks were red. “I don't want to talk about this,” I said.

“Boys Chris's age have zero self-control,” he said. “They—”

“That's not true!” Chris hadn't forced me to do anything I didn't want to do.

“It's not?” He wore an annoying look of fake surprise. “Well, I'm glad to hear it. But I was young once and I know for a fact that it's tough for a guy to stop, Molly. And he isn't the one who'll pay the consequences if something happens. You need to dial it back, all right? Don't ever go into a bedroom with a boy. Please.”

I was squirming with the memory of the night before, afraid my father could read my mind.

“Stacy has so much freedom.” I pouted as I changed the subject. “Her mother isn't always on her case about everything.”

“She's not as lucky as you are,” Daddy said.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“I agree with Mom,” he said. “You can't see Chris anymore. He's too old for you—he expects things from a girl, and you're not old enough to decide whether that's a good thing for you or not.”

“It's not like he raped me or anything.”

“Good to hear.”

I shivered, remembering lying totally naked with Chris the night before. The way he touched me. I dropped my gaze to my plate. I couldn't look my father in the eye with that memory running through my head.

“It's important you feel able to talk to Mom about stuff like this,” he said.

“Never,” I said. “I could never talk to her about stuff like this. She gets too angry.”

“Why do you think that is?”

I shrugged. “Because she has a short temper?”

“Cop-out answer,” he said. “Why do you think she got angry with you last night?”

“It's not like I lied to her or anything,” I argued. “I honestly didn't know Stacy's mother wasn't going to be there. It's not like we planned it or—”

“Why do you think she got angry?” he asked again. “Close your eyes and put yourself in her place for a minute.”

I stared at him, feeling obstinate.

“Do it, Moll,” he said. “Close your eyes.”

There was no way out of this. I shut my eyes.

“Now you're Mom, showing up at Stacy's last night.”

I resisted putting myself in my mother's shoes, but I felt myself slip inside her anyway. I showed up at Stacy's house to find my daughter there with two boys, probably in a bedroom, with no parent around for an entire night. My stomach clenched at the thought.
What had happened? What had they done? Was my daughter now pregnant?

“How do you feel?” Daddy asked.

“Worried?” I asked, opening my eyes. “Scared?”

“Bingo,” he said.

“Then why did she act so angry?”

“Because fear often comes out as anger. Look at Trevor. He's afraid he's going to lose this big opportunity to make a fortune on the land, so he's mad at me for not selling him our share. And your mom is … she's terrified, Molly, that something bad might happen to you. I am, too, frankly. So I know when you hear us telling you that you can't do this and you can't do that, it pisses you off because it sounds like we're being unfair, but it's just that we're scared for you. We know a little more than you do about how the world operates out there and it's frightening sometimes. All we're trying to do is keep you safe.”

“Could I see Chris here?” I asked. “Like, with you and Mom around?” Would Chris want that? If he loved me, would he do that for me? I was having trouble picturing it.

But Daddy shook his head. “No, sweetheart,” he said. “Chris has burned his bridges. I'm sorry.”

“It wasn't his fault nobody was home at—”

“No,”
he said, and this time he said it with such uncharacteristic force that I clamped my mouth shut.

“You
may
still see Stacy,” he said, “but it has to be here, not at her house.”

“All right,” I said, as if I was giving in, but I knew I wasn't. I would see Chris again. Somehow. Some way. I would see him.

 

45

 

When I showed up at Amalia's for my dance lesson the following day, I was surprised to find Daddy in her living room.

“Hi, Moll,” he said when I walked in. He sat in his wheelchair by the glass wall, the sunlight catching the blue of his eyes. Amalia sat on one of the Papasan chairs in her long purple dance skirt, her legs tucked beneath her, her hair curling softly over her left breast. Through the open doorway of the kitchen, I saw Russell pour himself a cup of coffee.

“Hi,” I said to my father from inside the front door. “What are you doing here?”

“Just chatting,” he said.

“Stay for our lesson?” Amalia asked him.

I sat down on the edge of the second Papasan chair to take off my shoes, hoping he would say no. I wouldn't feel as free with him and Russell there.

“We've got to get back,” he said. “Some paperwork to tidy up.”

Russell leaned against the doorjamb between the living room and the kitchen and raised his cup to his lips. He looked relaxed and at ease, in no hurry to take my father home. The colors from the stained glass in the windows lit up his pale blue shirt.

Amalia turned her attention to me. “That New Kids concert is next Wednesday night, isn't it?” she asked. “You must be excited.”

“I can't wait,” I said. I looked at Amalia's stereo system instead of at anyone in the room, hoping they didn't hear the flatness in my voice. I felt all their eyes on me. The New Kids on the Block simply weren't on my mind, and the thought of a long car trip with Daddy and Russell, when Stacy and I would be together but unable to talk openly with each other, was unbearable. Chris was all I could think about. My whole body shivered every time I remembered the way he'd touched me. I was pretty sure he'd tried calling a couple of times the night before, but each time my mother beat me to the phone. When she answered, no one was there.

“Amalia and Mom are going to Atlanta with us,” Daddy said now, and I turned my gaze back to him in surprise.

“Really?” I said. “Cool.” I had to process this. I had the feeling Mom was going with us to keep her eagle eye on Stacy and me, but I had no idea why Amalia would be going as well. Really weird. Our van would be packed, which meant Stacy and I would be crammed into the seats in the rear for the nearly four-hour trip. There was a benefit to that, though, I thought. We could talk back there without being easily overheard.

“What will you all do while we're at the concert?” I asked.

“We'll just chill,” Amalia said. “Have dinner out someplace. Check into the hotel.”

“Mom booked four rooms for us,” Daddy said. “We're taking over the Hyatt.”

“Stacy and I get our own room?”

“Of course,” he said. “No one would want to share with you two, anyway. You'll be up all night talking about Joey and Jordan and … whatever the rest of their names are.”

“Donnie and Jonathan and Danny.” I smiled. I knew right then that he missed the girl I'd been a few weeks ago. The girl who lived in a teenybopper fantasy bubble. I suddenly missed her myself. Her life had been a whole lot simpler.

“Right,” Daddy said. He glanced at Amalia, then looked at me. “Listen, darling,” he said, “the Saturday after we get back from the concert, we're going to have another family meeting, and—”

“Another?”
I asked. I'd thought Uncle Trevor had backed down and everything was settled.

He smiled. “This will be the last one,” he said. “Promise. Anyway, Nanny's sitting this one out, too, so she said you should stay overnight with her. How's that sound?”

“Fine,” I said with a shrug.

Daddy looked as though he wanted to say something else, then changed his mind. He turned toward Russell instead. “You ready?” he asked.

Russell nodded, then took another sip of his coffee and walked back into the kitchen, where I saw him wash out his cup and set it on the wooden rack to dry. Daddy and Amalia and I talked about the music we'd dance to today while we waited. Back in the living room, Russell took the handles of my father's chair and pushed him toward the door.

“See you later,” Daddy said to me.

Amalia stood up and stretched, her hands high over her head. “Find some Ennio Morricone, Molly,” she said to me, gesturing toward the CD shelves. “That will be an interesting change.” Then she followed them outside, shutting the door behind her.

I stood up to walk to the CD shelves, but through the open window I saw the three of them on the dirt road in front of the house. I could hear their voices, and I held still, listening.

Amalia touched her eye as she looked down at my father. “How bad is it now, really?” she asked.

“Just about gone in the right,” Daddy said, so quietly I could barely hear him. “And going in the left.”

I caught my breath. His vision? He'd never said anything to me about losing his vision.

My father said something else that Amalia needed to lean close to hear. She nodded, then kissed him on the temple. “I know, baby,” she said. “I understand.” Then she looked at Russell, reaching up to touch his shoulder, and some wordless communication seemed to pass between them that I wasn't close enough to understand.

Amalia turned to walk back to the house and I moved quickly to her CDs, hunting for the Morricone music.

*   *   *

Amalia was not herself. She suggested the same exercise to me moments after I'd already done it, and she didn't watch me while I danced. Instead, she kept looking toward the window as though she could still see my father and Russell out there. I followed her gaze to the dirt road but saw nothing other than the forest and my bike, where it leaned against the tree stump that had been carved into a chair.

I knew I wasn't acting like myself, either. My mind was too full to let my body feel the music, and I finally stopped dancing and stood still in the middle of the room, ignoring the music pouring from the stereo. It took Amalia a few seconds to realize I wasn't moving. She looked at me quizzically.

“I heard you ask Daddy about his eyes,” I said. “What's wrong?”

She stared at me, her mouth open a little in surprise, and I thought she was trying to decide whether to answer me or not. She walked over to the stereo and turned the music down low. “Do you want some iced tea?” she asked. “It's peach. So good.”

I hated when she did this and she did it a lot. She gave me whiplash sometimes, the way she'd veer away from my questions. It was like a game we had to play for me to be able to get the information I needed.

“Okay,” I said, and I followed her into the kitchen.

“It happens with MS sometimes,” she said, reaching into the refrigerator for the jug of tea. I took two glasses out of the cabinet near the sink and dropped a couple of ice cubes into each of them. I was operating on autopilot. My chest felt tight as I waited for her to tell me more. “It's an off and on thing, and it's been going on quite a while now,” she said, as she started to pour.

“Why didn't he
tell
me?” How could this ever be a good summer for him if he was going blind?

“Oh, you know your father.” She leaned against the counter and took a sip from her glass. “He doesn't like to worry anyone.”

“Does Mom know?” I asked. It seemed I was asking that question all the time lately.

She nodded. “Yes,” she said.

I'd often tried to imagine how it felt for my father to be unable to move his body. Not to be able to scratch his cheek or roll over in bed or eat or even pee on his own. But the thought of being locked in darkness was worse. I held the glass to my lips but knew I'd never get the tea past the lump in my throat. I set it down again.

“Why can't they do something to
help
him?” I asked angrily.

She set down her own glass and reached for me with both arms, pulling me into a hug. “It's a terrible feeling, isn't it,” she said, holding me close, stroking my hair. “So hard, knowing there's nothing we can do to change what's happening to him.”

“I hate that stupid disease!” I said. My arms were wrapped around her waist and I hung on to her tightly, my eyes squeezed shut. “Is there anything else going wrong with him I don't know about?” I asked.