Chapter Eleven #2
“Harriet,” she says in greeting. “What took you so long to answer?” My eyes slant to the man responsible for the delay, leaning against my sink and observing me with quiet, watchful eyes.
I feel like a wombat in an enclosure at the zoo.
Maybe a particularly distressing art exhibit at the Baltimore Museum of Art.
One of the high schools had a performance of Sweeney Todd a couple of years ago, and everyone in the audience had the same look on their face as Nolan does now.
Trepidation. Concern. A slight hint of entertainment.
I push some of my hair away from my face. “Misplaced my phone,” I lie smoothly. “But I’m here now. What can I do for you?”
“You and that cottage of yours. It’s so cramped. That’s the trouble with surrounding yourself with mess, Harriet. You never can find what you’re looking for.”
My house isn’t a cottage. It’s a historical restoration. And it’s not a mess. It’s cozy and comfortable, with all the things that make me happy. But my mother is nothing if not predictable, and she has perfected the art of roundabout insults.
It doesn’t matter how many times my mother proves she’s disinterested in the life I’ve made for myself, I always hold on to a kernel of hope that this visit, this phone call, this conversation, might be different.
But it’s not. It never is. And if my hopeful heart could learn that lesson, I’d be better for it.
“That’s a good point,” I tell her, and Nolan shifts in my periphery.
His legs are crossed at the ankle, a frown on his face.
I have no idea if enhanced hearing is part of his ghostly superpowers, or if he’s just being a Nosey Nelly.
I give him my back and pace over to the fridge.
“I assume you’re calling about the gala. ”
“So she does remember she has family commitments.”
“I was going to call this afternoon,” I lie again. “Time got away from me.” My time went all the way back to when I was six and she was still rocking shoulder pads. I roll my lips together. “You really need me to RSVP to the gala I attend every year?”
“It’s the polite thing to do,” my mother responds evenly. “Right. Consider me RSVP’d then. I apologize for the delay.” There’s a pause. “You’ll respond in writing, too, of course.”
I stare hard at the envelope attached to my fridge with a dancing strawberry magnet. I never bothered to open it. “Of course,” I answer.
“Wonderful,” my mother says, the word sounding foreign from her mouth. I can’t remember the last time my mother truly thought anything was wonderful. “Thank you. If you could save me another phone call by responding within the appropriate window, that would be helpful. My schedule is very full.”
Suddenly I’m a little kid again, in an uncomfortable red dress and shiny shoes that pinch at my toes.
Why must you make things so difficult for me?
Sixteen and standing outside a banquet hall, trying not to cry.
Don’t make a scene, Harriet. Twenty-five and sitting at a fancy table, staring down at my plate.
How could you do this to us? How could you be so selfish?
I swallow around the sudden thickness in my throat. I’ve always worn my guilt like an itchy sweater. “I understand,” I manage.
“Good. I’ll see you on the eighteenth.” She hangs up without another word, but I keep the phone to my ear, listening to the dial tone. I’m overly aware of Nolan behind me, still leaning against the sink.
“Bye, Mom,” I say into the silence, hoping I sound convincing. “See you soon.”
I drop the phone from my ear and slowly pack away all my prickly, turbulent feelings until I’m calm waters again.
Calmish. Calmish waters.
“So,” Nolan says. “Your mother sounds like a treat.”
I look at him over my shoulder. “How much of that did you hear?” His face is unreadable. “Enough.”
I turn away again, busying myself with the magnets on my fridge. I arrange them in a smiley face, hoping that maybe if I try hard enough, I might feel it, too.
“You shouldn’t have listened,” I chide.
“I’ve visited your past, Harriet. Me listening to a phone call should be the least of your privacy concerns.” I turn and he gives me a look. “Why are you upset about it?”
“Because it’s embarrassing,” I whisper, my voice wobbling at the edges.
“Why?”
Because my mom treats me like I’m an inconvenience. Because the universe or the fates or whoever it is that Nolan answers to isn’t the only one who thinks I’m a bad person.
Because not even the people who are supposed to love me can find a way to do it.
Because I’m so fucking tired of trying, only to come up short. All the time.
“I don’t know,” I answer, unwilling to share those pieces with Nolan after what happened at the shop. “It just is.”
Nolan stares at me for a long time, eyes flicking back and forth. “You’re not the one who should be embarrassed,” he finally says.
He cuts his eyes away, glancing at the colander full of figs in the sink. He plucks one up and takes a bite, like that simple sentence isn’t a balm to over two decades of heartache. “She wanted to confirm your attendance at a party?”
I nod. “My family has a winter gala every holiday season. I usually RSVP by now, but I forgot about it with … everything else going on.”
He takes another bite of his fig. Some juice from the fruit runs over his knuckles. “That sounds formal.”
“It is.” It’s my mother’s yearly opportunity to show off for her friends in the name of altruism. To spend far too much money on a grand display of her success. My presence isn’t demanded out of a desire to see me. It’s my role to play. The ornamental daughter that completes the family portrait.
I’m surprised they still want me there, all things considered.
“You don’t seem happy about it,” Nolan says, finishing his snack and reaching for a towel.
“I’m fine,” I answer automatically. Or I will be. The gala is far enough away for me to still have time to stitch my armor together.
I’ll pull it together in time. I always do. “Let me get changed and you can whisk me away.”
“And where am I whisking you today?”
“I’m sure we’ll find out. I wouldn’t want to delay the haunting agenda.”
I’m still angry and he knows it. Nolan watches me carefully, angled up against my kitchen sink. His stormy eyes crinkle at the corners. “You didn’t let me finish earlier. I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?”
He tosses my kitchen towel on the countertop, folded just the way I like it. “We won’t be visiting your past today.”
“We won’t?”
“I still owe you an apology.” His face melts into something solemn. Honest. Shy. An offering, if I’m brave enough to take it. “I thought today we could take a look at your present.”