Where We Belong (42 page)

My dad clears his throat and starts throwing out all kinds of rambling niceties. “Welcome to St. Louis! Glad you could make it! That was very kind of you to come all this way. Very kind. I know Kirby appreciates it. So do we. Thank you.”

“Thank you for including me,” Marian says to my father. Then she looks at my mother and says, “It was very gracious of all of you.”

I stare at her, thinking that everything about her, from her hair to her clothes to the words from her lips, is smooth and elegant. I notice she is wearing sleek, nude peep-toe heels, in contrast to my mother’s clunky black leather pumps. I don’t know fashion, but feel sure that Marian made the better choice to go with red. It occurs to me that I’d know these things if I were Marian’s daughter—but then I think that I don’t really have any desire to know them. It would probably just have been a whole lot of pressure to be perfect. My parents only want me to try
my
best, a considerably lower bar.

“Marian, what could we get you to drink?” my dad says. “Wine? Beer? A soft drink? Lemonade? Water?”

She hesitates, then says she’d love a glass of wine.

“Great!” my dad says, turning to go, as my mother stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Um, Art. Does she want red or white?” she asks, with a big frozen smile, continuing her streak of not speaking directly to Marian.

“Oh. Whatever you have open,” Marian says. “I like both.”

My dad gives her a befuddled look, unsure what to choose for her, so she says, “White would be wonderful. Thank you.”

My dad nods then looks at my mother. “Honey? For you?”

She tells him she’ll take a white wine, too, then turns stiffly back to Marian, points to the couch, and says, “Won’t you please have a seat?”

“Thank you,” Marian says, as the two sit side by side in their red dresses, a sight that sort of freaks me out. I turn and give Charlotte a look that says
help
as she takes the last chair in the room and begins her usual babble—which has never been more appreciated. She talks about the ceremony, how cute Mr. Tully looked in his cap and gown, how proud she was when I got my diploma. “Did you hear me yell your name?” she asks.

“
Everyone
heard you,” I say, smiling.

Meanwhile, my dad appears, handing out our drinks, then realizing there is nowhere left to sit.

“Here, honey,” my mom says, sliding down toward Marian and patting the sofa next to her. Now the three are in a row, even freakier, as more awkward small talk ensues.

At one point, I glance down at my phone and see a text from Conrad, who I was not able to find in the mayhem following the ceremony.

Great job, drummer girl. Glad I was there to see it.

I frantically text him back:
Where are you?

He fires back:
Some pub in town, having a bite to eat.

My mother clears her throat and says, “Kirby, could you put your phone down, please?”

“It’s kind of important, Mom,” I say.

Then I type back, as fast as I can:
Would love to see you. Stop by if you can. No worries either way.
Then I type my address. In my haste, I massacre the spelling of Eichelberger Street, but figure he’s smart enough to track me down. If he really wants to, that is.

“Sorry,” I say, putting the phone down and exchanging a look with Marian. She raises her eyebrows as if she knows or suspects or hopes and I nod back, to give her a little warning. Just in case.

A minute later, at my mother’s suggestion, we head to the kitchen for lunch, passing by my cake, displayed in all of its glory on the dining room table.

Marian stops to admire it. “What a beautiful cake!” she exclaims, as I wonder if she can tell my mother made it from scratch.

Charlotte says, “Wait till you taste Mom’s frosting!
Sooo
yummy.”

My dad snaps like he forgot something and then says, “We don’t have any candles!”

“We don’t need candles for a graduation cake,” I say as my dad begs to differ, belting out a line of “Happy graduation to you!”

“Ugh. Please. No,” I say.

“Yes. Please, Art,” my mom says, smiling. She turns to Marian and says, “Kirby didn’t get her singing voice from us—that’s for sure!”

It is the first mention of the obvious, and everyone laughs as Marian says, “She didn’t get it from me, either.”

The ice isn’t broken, but it definitely feels a little thawed as we head into the kitchen, sitting around the table, already set for lunch with our best dishes. After a long-winded blessing, my father looks up and says, “I don’t want to get all mushy…”

“Then don’t, Dad,” I mumble.

He looks at me, holds up his hand and says, “Just one thing—I promise.”

I roll my eyes and brace myself as he turns to Marian. “Lynn and I just want to thank you for giving us the greatest gift one person can give another. We prayed to God for someone like you. And He brought you—and Kirby—to us.” He starts to get choked up while I pray he won’t actually start bawling. “She and Charlotte are our greatest blessings.”

“Okay, Dad,” I say gently. “Let’s just eat, okay?”

“Yes! That’s all! That’s all!” he says.

Marian takes a deep breath, as if composing an eloquent reply, but then stops and simply says, “You’re welcome. It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, but after meeting you … I know I made the right decision.” She gives me a fleeting glance, but one filled with sadness. “For Kirby’s sake. You have a wonderful family.”

I analyze her words, and know that I will for a long time.
For Kirby’s sake.
So maybe she regrets it for her
own
sake? Or maybe it is just the best possible way of saying she’s glad she gave me away. Either way, I realize that I can’t deny I feel the same way. I would not change my childhood if I could.

A moment later the doorbell rings, and everyone looks toward the door.

“Is Belinda coming?” my dad asks.

I shake my head, knowing she is with her grandparents, as he guesses again. “Philip? What a great kid he is!”

I shake my head again and round the corner toward the foyer, too nervous to answer my dad. Right away, I see a quadrant of Conrad’s face through a stained-glass pane in the front door and feel myself start to relax. I throw open the door and say hello, so happy to see him.

“Hi, you,” he says, stepping forward to give me a warm, easy hug, handing me a small wrapped present that feels like a book. “Congrats.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Just some sheet music. I wrote you a little song … it’s got a great beat and drum solo … so I fully expect you to play it with me this summer.”

“Cool,” I say, smiling so hard my face hurts.

We stare at each other for a second and then I remember to invite him the whole way in. “We’re having lunch … Marian’s here.”

“I figured,” he says. “I won’t stay long. But I did want to meet your folks.”

Feeling more giddy than tense, I lead him to the kitchen, where everyone gets really quiet—except for Charlotte who gasps, “Omi
gah,
is it
him
?” Like he’s an actual rock star. Which he sort of is to me.

I smile at her and nod, then say, “Everyone, this is Conrad.” Then point out my mom, dad, and sister for him.

They all shake hands as I say, “And of course you know Marian.”

Since you two had sex and accidentally made me.

“Hi, Marian,” he says. He’s not at all chummy with her, but all traces of anger are gone.

“Hi, Conrad,” she says, gripping her glass of wine, with that deer in the headlights look she always gets around him, as my father goes to retrieve a chair from the dining room, squeezing it in between me and Charlotte.

“Are you hungry?” my mother asks Conrad, standing. “Let me get you a plate.”

“No, thank you,” he says. “I just ate—and can’t stay long.”

Charlotte says, “We were just talking about Kirby’s singing voice a few minutes ago. She must get it from you. Aren’t you a musician?”

Conrad nods modestly, then says, “Your sister’s got a lot of talent. I wish I could take credit…”

“You
can
take credit,” Marian chimes in. Then she turns to my mother and says, “You should have seen them together on stage.”

Of course, I haven’t told anyone in my family about this, so a long discussion begins of our performance in the bar, Marian leading the charge, telling everyone how brilliant we were together. Her intentions are good, but I wish she hadn’t brought that up as my mother looks sad again, probably because I hadn’t told her myself.

“I was going to tell you,” I say to her. “But the Belinda stuff … things just got hectic.”

My mom nods, like she understands, as my dad heads to the refrigerator, bringing back a cold Budweiser for Conrad. “I don’t know if you like these. But you sorta have to in St. Louis!”

I look at Conrad, holding my breath, hoping he’ll stay, and sure enough, he takes it and says, “I’m always in the mood for a Bud. Thanks, man.”

I exhale, relieved and happy, then start laughing—I don’t know why. I try to stop but can’t.

“What’s so funny?” Charlotte says, looking for the literal joke, as she always does.

I shake my head then say, “Nothing … Just raise your hand if you think this is really,
really
bizarre?”

Everyone raises their hand and the ice is officially broken.

*   *   *

Sometime after we eat my mom’s cake (and my dad makes everyone sing and pose for photos), we all head to the family room, including Conrad who is on his second beer and has stopped looking at his watch. When my dad turns on the Cards game, the two start talking baseball (Conrad is a White Sox fan) and really seem to hit it off—which is great except that it highlights the fact that my mom and Marian have nothing to say to each other. They’ve exhausted all the surface topics and it is clear that they have nothing much in common. And that’s when Charlotte busts out with the family photo albums.

“Wanna see some pictures of Kirby when she was little?” Charlotte asks Marian, handing her three huge albums.

“Charlotte!” I protest. “Those are so boring!”

But I’m secretly pleased when Marian lights up and tells my sister it is an excellent idea, she’d love to see some photos. She opens the first album and freezes, staring down at my earliest baby pictures, including ones taken on the very day she gave me away. I see my mom watching Marian with a tense, almost pissed-off, look on her face, and I start wishing she would hurry up, turn the page, and get to my toddler days. But she doesn’t. She just keeps lingering there at the beginning, looking sort of sad, until she finally says, “Conrad. C’mere. Baby pictures of Kirby.”

He nods, gets up from his chair and walks over to her, looking down over her shoulder, then sitting on the couch next to her. “That’s one good-looking baby,” he says to no one in particular.

I can’t help feeling proud, because
he
looks proud, but I still say, “Okay. Guys. Move it along. You have eighteen years to cover.”

Marian finally turns the page as my mom works her way over to the couch and begins to narrate over Conrad’s shoulder. That was the day I first smiled, rolled over, ate solid foods, pulled myself up in my crib. As the pages keep turning, my mom finally sits on the other side of Marian, loosening up, telling stories about me—and Charlotte—some of them funny, but most of them pretty dull. Conrad and Marian look far from bored, though, and ask my mom lots of questions. She answers, and my dad and Charlotte fill in with occasional color commentary.

When they get to my first drum kit, and my mom starts telling the story about how I slept with it next to my bed, I get this funny feeling inside and then realize what it is. It’s the feeling of belonging. Right here where I am. In this house. With my parents and Charlotte. The people who know all my stories, from the beginning. The people who know
me.

“And that’s when Art and I got our first earplugs,” my mom says, with a laugh. “Not that Kirby wasn’t talented from the start. Just very,
very
loud and talented.”

She looks over at me and smiles. And I smile back at her because I can tell she knows what I’m thinking and feeling. Even better, I can tell she’s feeling the same way.

*   *   *

Sometime after seven, when we all start to yawn, Conrad says he’s going to hit the road. My dad says he is welcome to stay for the night, but he politely declines, insisting that he loves night driving.

Marian says she should go, too, then asks my dad if he wouldn’t mind calling her a cab.

“I can take you,” Conrad quietly offers.

“Are you sure?” Marian says, looking surprised.

“Yeah. No problem,” he says with a shrug.

Everyone says their good-byes as Marian gathers her purse and my father writes down directions back to the hotel. I walk to the foyer, waiting for them, hoping nobody else follows. Nobody does, and a moment later, I’m outside with them, standing next to Conrad’s car. It is not yet dark, but it looks like a storm might be coming, thunder rumbling in the far distance.

“Well,” Marian says after a few quiet seconds pass. “Thank you for having us.”

“Yeah. Thank you, Kirby,” Conrad says.

“It was a really nice ceremony. And day,” she says.

I nod, feeling a lump in my throat. There are so many things I want to say, yet my mind goes blank and all I can do is
feel.

“I’m glad you were both here,” I finally manage, thinking how strange it is to be standing with the two people who
made
you, something most kids take for granted every day of their lives, but something I never really believed would happen. And certainly not like this—on such a big, important day.

“We’re proud of you,” Marian says.

Conrad nods his agreement, accepting her “we,” and even adds, “We wish we could take credit.”

I smile, then take a deep breath and give them both a hug, first Marian, then Conrad—which sort of turns into a fleeting, awkward three-way hug. I fight back tears that seem to come from nowhere, and then say a quick, final good-bye. Only this time, I know it’s not really final.