Diana in Love (Dirty Diana #2)

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

Even as October wears on, Rockgate is hot and humid. I’m at my desk with the air-conditioning on when Allen pops his head in. “Knock, knock.” Just once I wish he’d knock instead of saying “knock, knock.”

“Busy?” he asks but doesn’t care.

“Always happy for a break. Come on in.” My office is so small that any meeting in here feels intimate. I can smell the syrup Allen had on his waffles on his breath. He picks up my framed photo of Emmy at age two and smiles, like he hasn’t seen the photo a million times, then sets it down again. “I trust you’ve seen the latest teardown Oliver is trying to trick someone into buying?”

“I have. Looks promising.”

“Really?” He tips back in his chair. “After the first sale, he’s encouraged, I suppose.”

“He’s good at it. He’s really happy.”

“For now. Let’s see what job he decides to try on next week.”

“Diana”—Talia stands in the doorway—“you have a phone call from Emmy’s school? He says it’s important.”

—

By the time I reach the school, speeding the entire way, Oliver is already sitting outside the principal’s office. He stands when I rush in and immediately I feel calmer—he’s here and so steady and I’m not alone in my worry over Emmy.

“She’s fine, Diana. It’s her…behavior.”

Behavior? Emmy? Every parent-teacher conference since pre-K has started with an ode to how well she listens and follows directions, as if she’s a gift to her teachers.

Principal Vance opens his door to see us. He has an uncanny resemblance to Santa Claus.

“This is just a check-in. Not an emergency.”

“You asked to see us right away.”

“Emmy is not in trouble. And neither are you. I don’t know who gets more nervous in my office—the parents or the kids. But I’ve seen it all.” He laughs and all I can hear is a full-bodied ho ho ho.

I look at Oliver, who is frowning. “We’ve never had this kind of check-in. So. It feels important.”

Principal Vance folds his hands on his desk in front of him. He seems to relish being the only one in the room allowed to be calm, the only one who knows why we’re here. “It’s such a cliché, I know. But I’ve been doing this for decades and I have to ask. Is anything going on at home that I should be aware of?”

“Why?” I ask. “Did something happen? In class?”

Principal Vance opens the red folder in front of him and pulls out an 8 x 11 sheet of paper colored on in crayon, but only black crayon. It’s a picture of a girl and a car. The girl is in pigtails and is hurtling toward the ground, having just been hit by the car.

“Oh,” is all I say.

Oliver holds the drawing in his hands, studies it. “Is that my car?”

I narrow my eyes. “It looks like L’Wren’s.”

“This was the first red flag.”

“There’s more? Like this?” I ask.

“Emmy seems increasingly withdrawn this year. She isn’t playing with her regular friend group and hasn’t been finishing her lunch.”

“She’s not the best eater,” I say. “She never really finishes…”

“So I just wanted to have a check-in. We’re here for Emmy and we want to do everything we can to make sure she is thriving. As you know, I’m retiring next year and I’m not leaving any student behind. Is there anything I should know that could help me help Emmy?”

Still looking at the drawing, Oliver blurts, “We aren’t living with each other anymore. Emmy splits her time between us.”

“Okay. That’s new information.” I catch a tiny, repulsive glimmer of I thought so in his twinkling blue eyes.

“Yes,” I say. Yes, Sherlock, you’ve cracked the case wide open.

“Has Emmy been talking to anyone about this?”

“Like a therapist?”

“We have. But…not Emmy,” Oliver says.

“Fine, fine. Well, we do have some resources.” He opens a green folder this time and hands us a flier. There’s a clip art picture of an ice cream sundae and across the top: Join the Banana Splits! Every Wednesday! For kids whose parents are divorced or getting divorced!! I stare at the double exclamation marks. Of all the after-school activities I’ve pictured for Emmy, this wasn’t on the list.

“It’s a wonderful club, started by a fellow school parent. Do you know Raleigh?”

I don’t have to look at Oliver. I can hear him shift uncomfortably in his chair.

I accept the flier, folding it in half. “Emmy seems fine to us. And we’ve been watching very carefully for any changes.” I feel like a failure even as I say it. Why haven’t I noticed any of these changes? Or have I seen them and not wanted to admit it?

“She presents very well. And I’m sure she is fine. But she could be keeping things inside for your sake. Trying to protect you.” Oh god, Principal Vance sounds like Miriam, and Emmy is me, misguidedly protecting Oliver’s feelings. Now I’m the one shifting in my seat, uncomfortable in my shame.

—

Oliver walks me to my car and I try not to cry until I get in, but I can’t help it—tears spill before I can unlock the door. Oliver pulls me into a hug. “We totally messed her up,” I say into his shoulder. “She’s barely eating.”

“Diana.” He pulls back and offers me his baby-blue monogrammed handkerchief. It’s one of the old-fashioned things about him that I miss. “She had like three bowls of Cheerios at my place this morning. That guy is a cheap Santa impersonator who barely knows our daughter.”

“You saw it too?”

“Of course I did. He totally leans in. A red vest in this heat? Come on.”

I laugh and blow my nose all at once. But my levity is short-lived. Principal Vance has just reinforced my greatest fear. Our damage has damaged Emmy.

“Emmy loves her friends. Why isn’t she playing with them?”

“Who knows? Maybe she’s sick of them—she has some pretty needy ones. That girl Addie is intense, with her endless annoying names for her stuffed animals.”

“You mean Pinkie Pie Sugar Puss?”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

“But she must be feeling this. We are. It feels huge. Like this massive tsunami that’s crashing down on us. Imagine how that feels for a seven-year-old.”

“I didn’t know that it still felt like a tsunami for you.”

“Of course it does. It’s awful.”

“It is. Awful.”

“What if she never has a healthy relationship because of us?”

“Can I tell you one sad thing?”

“What?”

“Don’t let it freak you out. I’m only telling you because it was sweet but also kind of heartbreaking.”

“Tell me.”

“When she was eating her Cheerios this morning—her second bowl, by the way—she ate two Cheerios at a time. Every spoonful was milk and two Cheerios. Each time.”

“Why?”

“She said she didn’t want them to be alone in her stomach.”

“Ohmigod.”

“It took her forever, but she did eat three bowls like that.”

“God. We couldn’t even throw her a therapist of her own. We’re leaving her to work through her pain with a bowl of cereal.”

“I’ll find someone today.”

“We cannot mess her up. She’s the best thing we’ve done.”

“She’s not messed up. She’s perfect. And interesting. She will get through this and be stronger for it.”

“And what if she’s not? What if all this leaves a scar we can’t heal?”

“I don’t know. But I’m in it with you. You don’t have to feel alone in this.”

Oliver looks at me—long and meaningful—it’s too close, too intense, too tempting to let him comfort me like he used to. I break eye contact. “I have to go. I have to get back to the office.”

“Don’t go. Not today.”

“I have to, Oliver.”

“Let’s pull Emmy from school. Both of us, right now. We can go to Buc-ee’s and then the water park in Waco. To hell with this school. Our daughter is great.”

—

The entire way to Buc-ee’s we are accosted by signs telling us we are almost to Buc-ee’s. Emmy reads each sign out loud and has done more reading than she has the entire school year. “ Meat Good. Jerky Better ! ” “ My Overbite Is Sexy ! ” “The Top Two Reasons To Stop at Buc-ees: #1 and #2 .”

“What does that one mean?” she asks.

“I think they’re talking about the clean bathrooms. You know, what you would do in a clean bathroom…”

“Gross.”

“You know what sign you don’t see?” Oliver offers. “Buc-ee’s. Keepin’ it classy.”

Judging by the packed parking lot, half of Texas has to go #1 and #2. But the bathrooms are clean and the AC blows cold. And everyone greets us with a smile and a pulled-pork sandwich.

Emmy is already running down the aisles, admiring everything from the Buc-ee’s saltshakers to the beaver pool floats. “Ahhh. Look at this Buc-ee’s lunch box. Can I have it? For school?” As if adding “for school” justifies any purchase.

“Let’s look around first, Emmy. There is a lot to see.” We leave with three pulled-pork sandwiches, frozen cookie dough that comes in bite-size pieces, extralarge sodas, vintage bottle cap candy, two Buc-ee’s stuffies, and a waffle maker.

“I want to stop here again on the way home,” Emmy says, guzzling her 110-ounce jug of Fanta.

—

Forty minutes later I panic that we’ve missed the exit. The drive is barren and dusty and it’s feeling less and less like there is a surf oasis in the middle of…Waco? But our GPS tells us to exit so we do. There’s not even a stoplight, just a sign.

Apparently surfers from all over the world fly to Waco for the surf park. Is this it? Right in the middle of…nothing?

A sign reads Follow the Arrow and we do, along a dusty road surrounded by farmland and water towers.

When we arrive at the water park, we immediately get it. It’s got that lazy seventies feel mixed with an aloha spirit. Everyone shares the same goal: to surf the perfect wave. There’s a large man-made sandy shore and an enormous surf “lake” churning out perfect wave after perfect wave. There are food trucks that serve pizza and snow cones. Cabanas line the shore. And set farther back, A-frame surf cabins to rent for the night.

“What’s up, little grommet?” A lanky surfer in hot-pink shorts nudges Emmy.

“I think that’s you,” says Oliver.

“I’m Pops,” the young surfer says. “So, who’s getting in the water today?”

“Oh, no. We’re just watching. We might go in the lazy river.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You see people get into the lazy river but you don’t see people get out of the lazy river. You know what I mean?”

“What do you mean?” Emmy asks.

“I think he means no one stops at Buc-ee’s.”

“Exactly,” he says. “There’s a ton of pee in that thing. But a spot just opened up if she wants to surf the beginner sesh?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, she’s never surfed before,” I say, worrying Emmy might get hurt.

“No problem. I’ll be out there if she needs help. She can totally surf the white wash if she wants.”

Emmy sticks out her hand and Pops takes it and they walk off together toward the enormous wave pool.

“We should stop her, right?”

“Does Pops really work here?”

But Emmy looks truly happy. Are these her people? Pops leads a quick and dirty ten-minute beginners course and everyone lies on their stomach and pops up at the same time. Emmy takes to it immediately and the group heads toward the water. Emmy looks back at us, unsure, and it takes everything in my power to give her a shaky thumbs-up.

“Are we really letting her do this?”

“I think so.”

And now Emmy is being led face-first into a massive wave-pumping machine. She paddles out to wait in line for the first wave. She’s so tiny we can barely see her. The wave machine starts to churn out what seem to be surprisingly large waves, and my stomach lurches. A balding man is pushed into the first set and wipes out three seconds later, his board flying into the air, landing inches from Pops. The second man in line is unable to get up at all, and at this point I get in the water, prepared to rescue Emmy if I have to.

“This is insane. She’s not ready for this.”

One of a group of bachelorettes in front of Emmy loses her top on her first wave and I officially panic. They can’t just expect Emmy to stand up…

But there she goes. Hopping up on her board with two feet, knees bent, riding the wave like she’s been doing it her entire life. My mouth opens in disbelief. Oliver cheers. Soon we are jumping up and down, holding each other like Emmy just took home a gold medal.

Instead of joining us to celebrate, Emmy paddles back out to get in line for the next wave and we watch her surf the entire hour-long session. My phone has three thousand blurry photos of a teeny tiny Emmy with a huge smile on her face.

“Should we move to Hawaii?” Oliver asks. “So she can train?”

“Clearly.”

Pops comes out of the water grinning from ear to ear. “She killed it! Totally shredded.” He gives Emmy a high five as I scoop her into my arms.

“What is the highest level?” she asks me, wiping her nose.

“What do you mean?”

“The hardest one.”

“Pro. Professional level, I think.”

“Sign me up for that one next time,” she says and hops out of my arms, walking ahead to get in line for a snow cone.

“Did she just drop the mic?”

“I think so.”

Oliver and I smile at each other, basking in the glow of the feeling—our child excelled at something incredibly hard. Her strong legs. Amazing balance. I wish I were so brave.

Emmy doesn’t want to leave the resort. She’s promised to clean her room and brush her teeth every day and night without ever being told and never lie again for the rest of her life if we can stay one night. Pops gets us the last available cabin, right in front of the lake, and we settle in. Our neighbors in the next cabin share their hot dogs and s’mores. They drove all the way from Florida and are thankful for the company. Their sixteen-year-old son Jackson is practicing popping up on his stationary surfboard and graciously gives Emmy a few tips. I watch my daughter, her expression somewhere between glee and concentration.

—

After dinner, we stand on the shore of the man-made lake looking toward the tiny island in the center that the locals have coined “Lemur Island.” Years ago, one abandoned lemur on the island turned to two and multiplied from there.

Jackson shouts out to us from his porch. “They answer you if you call them! Watch!”

He makes an exaggerated lemur call and is met with tiny calls in return.

Emmy all but explodes.

“I want to do it!” She does her best imitation of Jackson’s lemur call, crying out into the night, but is met with only silence.

“More guttural. Like this!” Jackson’s father calls. The vocalization is impossible to replicate, filled with trills, shrieks, and clicks. The lemurs excitedly reply.

Oliver and I both try but are ignored. Emmy tries again. Only silence.

“Maybe they’re sleeping,” Oliver offers.

“But they were awake for Jackson!”

“A little louder, Emmy.”

We all cry out at once, standing in a line at the water’s edge, as a family. A combination of grunts and barks, growing more desperate. Please wake up, lemurs! Just as I’m about to play a YouTube recording of a lemur on my phone we get a call back.

Rrrrr clickclickclick erkerkerkerk hooooooooo!

“They heard us!”

“Try again!”

Emmy perfects the sound and this time she’s met with a loud chorus of callbacks.

“There you go!”

It feels like we’ve won. Standing there in a line, our skin still warm from the sun, bellies full of hot dogs, we can pretend to be a family again. All our problems can stay in Rockgate for one more night.

—

There are two queen beds inside the room, so Emmy and I take one and Oliver takes the other. We use our fingers to brush our teeth with borrowed toothpaste and play a very short round of “Finish the Story.” Emmy doesn’t even make it to her turn, she’s asleep in seconds. Outside, the crickets’ singing is loud, and I can hear laughing from a campfire two cabins over. Beside me, Emmy kicks the sheet off her legs and breathes deep and steady and Oliver doesn’t make a sound. The AC is working overtime, constantly stopping and starting as if struggling to find its rhythm. It’s too hot to sleep.

I creep into the bathroom, careful not to wake either of them, and lie down in the empty bathtub. It’s old and heavy, with tiny cracks along the bottom, but its white porcelain is cool against my skin. I pull off my T-shirt and shorts and lie in my bra and underwear, pressing as much of my naked skin against the tub as I can—feeling my temperature drop.

“We could go outside?” Oliver’s voice startles me. He stands in the doorway.

“Too many mosquitoes. I just want to lie in this cold tub.”

“Can I get in?”

“No way. I don’t want your body heat.”

“Move over.” He climbs in.

For a moment, I think of pulling on my T-shirt, but I’m too hot and tired and he’s seen it all before.

He settles in next to me, his head at my feet. “It was a good day.”

“We fixed her.” I smile.

“She’s a happy kid, D. Whatever happens.”

“She is happy. And on her way to becoming a professional surfer.”

“Right?” We both laugh. Outside, there’s a loud clap of thunder and in an instant the humidity that’s hung so heavy in the air all day gives in to raindrops. They fall fast, loud, and heavy against the roof. We both instinctually keep an ear out for Emmy, listening for her to stir from the bed, but she stays asleep. I lean back and rest my eyes, listening to the rain.

“So,” Oliver says, “how’s the guy in your life?”

“What?” I tip my head up, enough to see how he’s tried to arrange his face in a casual expression.

“I know you’re seeing someone.”

“Not really.”

“Oh, sorry. Want to talk about it?”

“ No. We haven’t had enough therapy to talk about that.”

Oliver laughs.

“And the baroness? How is she doing? She seems great.”

“Yes. Turns out I’m not so good at juggling more than one woman.”

“But all the sex.”

“I admit I went overboard after I moved out.”

“And now?”

“Much simpler. Being with one person.”

“Do you tie her to the bathroom sink?”

Oliver smiles. “Come on.”

“Do you?” I raise my eyebrows.

“No. That was my fantasy for you.”

Something passes between us—and we both look away, briefly. The rain is lighter now.

“Well, I hope she’s enjoying the new and improved Oliver.”

“Am I? Improved?”

“Yes.”

“You want to take him out for a spin? The new me?”

“What?”

“I’m kidding.” But he doesn’t look like he is, at all. His eyes look suddenly very tired. “It’s sad,” he finally says. “Our divorce.”

His words wash over us both. I stay quiet. Oliver takes a deep breath. “Some days I don’t know if I’ll survive it.”

“Oliver.” I try to keep my voice light as I poke his chest with my bare toes. “I’m a recently single lady again. Emmy is drawing car wreck pictures. I need you to tell me it’s going to be okay.”

Oliver holds my foot in his hand, rubbing it gently. The way he used to do for so many years—especially when I was pregnant with Emmy. His hands are strong and familiar.

When he finally meets my gaze, his eyes are wet with tears. And when he smiles, the tears spill down his cheeks. It occurs to me that I haven’t seen Oliver cry in years—not since he called his parents to tell them Emmy was here “and she’s perfect.”

“Oliver?”

He fixes me with his bright blue-green eyes and smiles. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”

Still holding on to me, he leans back, resting his head against the tub and watching the slow, lazy turn of the bathroom’s ceiling fan. “Your turn,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

The rain has stopped, the cicadas are singing, the humidity rolling back in as if it’d never been disturbed.

“We’re going to be okay.”