Chapter 30 Final Decision
Thirty
Final Decision
My mom and I stopped at a Vietnamese restaurant near the movie theater. I got my favorite, shrimp chow fun with baby bok choy. My intestines were going to pay for it, but for now I reveled in the chewy texture of the large, flat noodles.
My mom got a bowl of pho and was sitting across from me, mixing more herbs into the broth.
My brain hummed like I’d put a song on repeat. It kept playing and replaying the tune called “Dallas.” So I decided that now was as good a time as any to tell her about him. I was ready.
Before I could think of the best way to start, she said, “Your dad wanted to come with us tonight.”
I paused and placed my elbows on the table.
“But I told him that he needed to give you some space.”
I stared at her. “He took me to see his lawyer yesterday. Did you know that?”
She nodded and poked at her soup. “Probably not the best way to restart your father-daughter relationship.”
“No.” I picked up my chopsticks and gripped them hard enough, they pinched my fingers. “His lawyer sure had a lot of nerve, asking me to go to the trial like that.”
“Dad said you walked out before you even started eating.”
“I was mad. Really mad. But then Dad caught up to me, and now I’m just confused.”
“He feels bad for putting you in that situation. He wishes he hadn’t.” She tilted her head. “In fact, there are a lot of things he regrets. It seems never-ending…”
I moved the noodles around on my plate and nodded. At least he was trying to show some remorse.
A quiet settled around us. An awkward silence.
I glanced at my mom. Her eyes were glistening, and her nose had turned pink.
“Mom, please don’t cry.”
“I can’t help myself.” She sniffled. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do if your dad is sent to prison.”
“I doubt he’ll go to prison,” I said.
“But you said it yourself. Five counts. Maximum sentence for each is ten years.”
“I’ve done some research since that night I gave you those pamphlets. In the cases I’ve found of college athletic bribery, the coaches got two, maybe three months tops and a year or two of probation.”
“I suppose that makes me feel a little better.” Mom’s voice went back to being as steady as she could make it.
She stirred her soup and blew on it. “Your dad said you’re not going to come to the trial next week. You haven’t changed your mind?”
I didn’t say a word. Mostly because I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t going. That decision was final. Actually, it had never even been a decision. It was a nonnegotiable given.
Finally, I said, “It’s true. I’m not going. It could jeopardize my situation at school. Where I am Adriana Blankin and not Adriana Bianchini.”
Mom nodded. Seconds later, she whispered, “Okay.”
I breathed in, but my lungs wouldn’t fill all the way.
Mom hadn’t yelled at me or reprimanded me for it, and Dad had accepted it. They were treating me like the adult I was. Yet still my chest was heavy with the burden.