Summer Snow (23 page)

“Perfect,” I said. Unconsciously, I brought my hand to my neck and rolled the smooth, black pearl between my thumb and forefinger. When her eyes followed the path of my arm, I dropped my hand almost guiltily. But Janice's gaze was warm, inviting.

“I mean it. You are stunning,” she whispered.

The words fought to stay in my throat, but I forced them out before I could lose my nerve to say them entirely. “Thank you.” My recognition came out slow and heavy.

“No need to thank me for stating the simple truth.”

I cleared my throat. “I meant thank you for—”

Janice waved away my costly gratitude and turned toward the door. “You don't have to thank me for anything. Shall we go?”

The hook was set.

She was already mostly gone, and I had no choice but to follow. The night had been launched into motion, and all that it would contain was foggy and uncertain, hovering at the edge of my consciousness like a mist that chilled and clung.

We drove in relative silence, partly because we did not know what to say to each other and partly because I found a jazz station on the radio and turned it up a smidge too loud. I effectively ruined any conversations that Janice feebly tried to start, smiling blandly at her and trying to tap my fingers to the music in a show of my disinterest. I didn't even ask her whether or not she liked jazz, and the truth was that I certainly could not count myself an avid fan. In fact, I could probably number on one hand the times I had even heard a jazz song in my life. But there was something about the off rhythm, the sudden bursts of sound and unpredictability that appealed to me on this indeterminate night.

The restaurant was called Sebastian's, and it boasted a whitewashed exterior that was reminiscent of Greece. But the sunken brick walkways lined with a profusion of potted plants seemed French, and the stone columns and sweeping archways reminded me of a Spanish villa. The whole place had a slightly schizophrenic feel, as if the designer had never actually been to the Mediterranean and merely borrowed from every known cliché to create a far-removed, Midwestern tribute to some southern European ideal. But bewildering design aside, it was a very nice place, resplendent with crisp linen tablecloths and flickering candles on intimately apportioned tables.

It was busy but not so crowded that we had to wait to be seated. When a graceful hostess with earrings that dangled halfway down her long neck led us to a quiet corner in the back, I was both relieved at the privacy and flustered at the proximity that I would have to share with Janice. The night already seemed to be stretching, extending slowly outward as if the hours for this one small nugget of time had been lengthened. If it was true that God had held the sun still in His hands, maybe it was also true that He was lingering along the minutes of our evening, making sure that Janice and I had the time we needed to say those things that had to be said.

Janice ordered hummus as an appetizer with an almost relieved flair. It was obviously a dish she recognized and liked, and suddenly the unfamiliarity of such a night, the foreign, almost alien feel of being together, was minimally less strange. She also studied the wine list intently, squinting over four pages of exotic varieties and vintages with a furrowed brow.

“Have a glass of wine,” I told her because she seemed to need permission. Her hesitancy to order in front of me was an unbearable facade. “I don't care if you drink.”

“Oh no.” She laughed, snapping the leather-bound menu closed and aligning it carefully beside the almost equally extensive dessert menu. “I don't drink.”

Sure,
I thought,
and I'm not pregnant.

“When did you stop smoking?” I blurted out abruptly, shocking even myself. For some reason I could see her bringing a chalky white cigarette to her lips and lighting it, her eyes pressed shut in anticipation. I wondered if she longed for one now.

Janice looked taken aback, and she fumbled to begin. “Well,” she said evenly, “I suppose I haven't touched a cigarette since the day I found out that I was pregnant with Simon.” She held her fingers in front of her, calculating, and I could see that she had recently painted her nails. For tonight? For me? “Simon will be six in October, and it's the beginning of June now. … It's been over six years, I guess.” She laughed self-deprecatingly and shrugged in a show of modest pride.

I nodded. Then, to my utter astonishment, I said, “I used to smoke too.”

Janice's eyes got wide as she regarded me. She obviously didn't know how to respond, and I couldn't find fault with her delay. What did I hope to gain by divulging such a useless bit of information? But before the moment became awkward, Janice erupted in a giggle, hitting the table lightly as if I had just told a marvelous joke. “You are absolutely kidding me!”

Embarrassed, I shook my head.

“I can't believe it. I would have never,
never
guessed.”

Her response shamed me somehow and I chastised myself, wondering what I had hoped to accomplish with such a senseless statement, such an unnecessary and unasked-for revelation. Why was I making small talk with her? Was I trying to earn her approval? Or did I hope to shock her? Did I want to prove to her that we had something, any small thing, in common? We had
nothing
in common.

“It was a stupid phase,” I muttered.
It was only a handful of times
, I thought.

“Oh yes.” Janice nodded, serious now. “Smoking is so stupid. Such a nasty habit and so bad for you. Good thing we both quit.”

“Good thing,” I echoed mindlessly, wishing that I had kept my big mouth shut.

Janice was looking at me differently now. I could tell that in her mind we were even on this one score, and it was a start. My confession had served as an olive branch, a small but stable corner of common ground where I had stepped aside to make room for her. She leaned in toward the table, visibly relaxing and ready for more of this counterfeit intimacy. “You know, Julia, this is exactly what I hoped for tonight.”

“Confessions?” I asked, trying to be obtuse. I would have loved to hear a few of her confessions. Or maybe that was exactly what I feared.

“No, of course not,” she assured me quickly, unaware that I was intentionally being pert. “I just wanted a chance for us to get to know each other a bit.” She swallowed, and I could see that she wanted to say more but didn't know if she dared. When I had watched her expectantly long enough to make the hush uncomfortable, she added tentatively, “You are my daughter, and I barely know you. I want to know you.”

So she had the nerve to say it. She called me
daughter
and almost brought herself to admit in the very same breath that she had failed me, that she was no mother.
“I barely know you,”
she had said, but we both knew that it was her own fault, that she had ruined anything good between us. That she had left.

I was about to remind her of this, to set it free into the tense air surrounding us so we could stop tiptoeing around the issue, pretending that everything was okay.

But our waiter appeared just then, bearing a square, turquoise plate with gold-filigreed edges overflowing with an assortment of crisp vegetables and seasoned triangles of toasted pita bread. The hummus was thick and fragrant, nestled in a curved leaf of iceberg lettuce, and after we had ordered dinner—roast leg of lamb for Janice and paella minus the shellfish for me—we ate and sampled and Janice filled the space between bites with nervous, mindless chatter.

“Yummy,” she said eventually, crunching a spear of green pepper. “Do you like it?” she asked, pointing at me with the half-curled end of the slender vegetable.

“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled, subdued, though I did indeed like it very much.

“Ben loved hummus.” Janice smiled a private little smile and dug into the dip.

I stared at her, stunned that she would have the audacity to mention the name of another man to me. I was the daughter of the man she should have been faithful to forever. We were not friends; we were not confidantes. I did not want to hear about her exploits. My displeasure must have been tangible because Janice suddenly looked up and her eyes were startled, maybe a little afraid.

“Who's Ben?” I inquired nonchalantly, trying to sound casual and disinterested in spite of the hard edge in my voice. “Don't forget that I hardly know you either.”

Janice groaned softly and threw her hands up in entreaty. “I am so bad at this. You have to give me one freebie, one chance to erase something dumb that I never should have said in the first place.”

“I have to?”

Her eyes dropped. “I would like you to.”

“Who's Ben?” I asked again.

Instead of answering me, Janice said, “I knew this wouldn't be easy, but I didn't know it would be this hard.”

Much to my consternation, I actually enjoyed her discomfort. How could she bring out such cruelty in me? “It doesn't have to be this hard.” I sighed. “But we have got to stop pretending. Either you are totally, completely,
brutally
honest with me, and I'm the same with you, or we might as well waste the night asking each other about our favorite colors.”

“Pink,” Janice offered almost shyly. “You?”

“Yellow, but that's not the point.”

“Food?”

I narrowed my eyes at her but acquiesced. “Watermelon.”

“A hamburger, medium rare, with everything on it. And extra onions if it's a red onion. I don't like Vidalias. Sport?”

“I'm not athletic,” I muttered.

“I used to play volleyball, but that was years ago. I like to watch football.”

We studied each other with nothing more than the table between  us. But hovering and invisible above the wavering heat of  the lone candle, there were ghosts. Ten years of conversations that should have been, experiences we should have shared, rose  and lingered and reminded. Taunted us with what we could have had.

The hint of a smile played at the corners of Janice's mouth. “Who was your first kiss?” she dared me, breaking into territory that smacked of motherly affection.

Although I didn't want to play her little game, I was learning things about her that I had only imagined as a child. My mother, a stranger, was taking shape before my very eyes. I cooperated. “A boy named Brandon. You?”

Janice bit her bottom lip. “Your father,” she admitted, and the two words were measured and timid.

I couldn't go there. I couldn't talk about Dad with her. Not now, maybe not ever. I clung to the name that had incensed me only moments ago. “Who is Ben?” I demanded.

“Simon's father.”

And it was released. There was an almost soundless puff, a sniper's bullet loosed at some well-defined target, and though I waited for the slashing pain, there was none. Instead I felt a rush like relief. We were actually getting somewhere. Yet beneath my subtle relief, disappointment swam just below the surface—she had lied to Simon. “He's not dead,” I stated dully. “Simon said—”

“I know what Simon said,” Janice interrupted. “I know I shouldn't have … I shouldn't have told him that. But what would you have me tell him? How can you explain …
that
to a little boy?”

I didn't know what she meant by
that
, nor did I necessarily want to know. Apparently Ben wasn't very excited about being a parent. Something he and Janice had in common. What was different this time around? Why did Janice try to be a mother again when she had failed so miserably the first time?

But Simon's story was his to uncover. I wanted to learn more about mine. Shoving thoughts of my wronged little brother aside, I pressed on. “Did you leave us for Ben?”

Janice laughed. “Absolutely not. I didn't meet Ben until much, much later.”

“Was he the first?”

It was a bit of an ambiguous question, but Janice knew exactly what I meant. I was being bold, maybe too bold. But she gave me a hard, unreadable look and finally admitted, “No. He was the  last.”

I didn't even want to know how many had come before. Obviously Ben had been different. He had meant something to Janice; he was more than just one of the many names that had paraded in and out of her life. I needed to know if he was still a part of her and how he would affect Simon and, in some mysterious way,
us
. I pushed forward, though I almost wanted to end the conversation right there and talk about safer, less risky things. But she was answering my questions, and I couldn't bring myself to stop now. Even if the answers were wild, unexpected things, things that could bite even as I tried to tame them. “Were you married to him?”

“No.”

“Is he an architect like Simon said?”

Janice pursed her lips as if it pained her to admit the truth. “He's a construction worker.” Watching me carefully, she went on, adding information in a growing pile of words like they were a collection of small gifts that she could extend to me. An extra helping. A little understanding. “He has a thick accent. Ben is a nickname. His real name is Benret or Benmet or something else that I can never remember.”

I nodded, a reporter merely collecting the facts as analytically and impassively as possible. I detached myself from the conversation and plodded on. “Why did you leave him?”

The stranger across from me opened her hands on the table, palms up, as if she had hidden the answer inside. “He left me.” Her voice splintered on those three short words.

I felt no pity for her. “Kind of like you left Dad and me?”

Janice didn't answer.

The question hung like a threat in the air between us, and at that exact, inopportune moment our food arrived. I wanted to scream. Janice looked shell-shocked, and her hands were still gaping, prostrate and ready to accept the proffered plate as if she had seen our waiter coming from a long way off. But it wasn't food that she was waiting for. Janice flushed and looked up at the waiter's starchy white shirt and black tie with a sheepish, down-turned mouth.