All You Need Is Love (8 page)

Mable frowns. “I’m not sure,” she says.

“Yes you are,” I say and lean across the small round table so I’m closer to her. “When I was little. There was a book or a song — way underneath useless factoids in my head I have a special attachment to these flowers. Not just because they’re your favorite.”

Mable turns away from me and stares out the window again. I wonder if she’s wishing she were well enough to be out there or if she’s looking at a certain landmark — Fenway Park, the flashing Citgo sign — and remembering something she doesn’t want to share. “I don’t know what you mean. I can’t remember, either,” she says but her tone is one I know well. It’s the tone she uses only when I ask about my missing mother, or my parents pre-me. Early days. The mystery of it all. Usually she warns me away from these topics, but this time, I’m undeterred.

“Mable, come on,” I say.

“Oh, Love…” she sighs and adjusts in her seat.

I go and crouch next to her, my hands on her knees. “Some day, I’m going to know. All of it. Or if not all of the past, then most of it.”

“Some day isn’t now,” Mable says quietly.

“I think it is,” I say.

“I want to go back to my bed,” Mable says. “Call the nurse.”

I obey her command and pull the help cord by her bed and ask for help. While Mable sits in the chair, sunlight streaming in the glass, the rays illuminate her, making her glow. I sit on her bed, staring at the watercolor of Arabella’s flat. The painting is titled “Arabella (and Love’s) Flat, February”.

“It was a song,” Mable says finally. I don’t even look at her in case she stops talking. “White choral bells upon a slender stalk lilies of the valley deck my garden walk.” She sings the last few words and my eyes fill up immediately with tears. But not about her — not about anything I know — some very odd, empty sad feeling.

She goes on, “There’s more, about wishing you could hear the flowers ring.”

“Oh wait — that just gave me a really weird feeling — I remember thinking that the blossoms really could ring. That they were a fairy flower or something magical.”

Mable looks at the flowers. “They are, kind of, aren’t they?” I nod. “Your mother sang that song to you.”

“When I was a baby?” I cannot fight my intense curiosity.

“Then — and a bit after…”

I close my eyes and rest my face in my palms. Hearing about the years before I knew how to know makes me tired. “When you sang that song, it made me think of a blanket — at least I think it’s a blanket — we had a long, really long time ago.” I open my eyes to describe my mental visual. “It was navy blue, with a sort of viney pattern on it, roses or — no morning glory — on it. I wonder what happened to that blanket.”

Mable looks at me and the nurse comes in to help bring her back to bed. “That I can’t tell you — really, I’m not hiding it — I have no idea what happened to that jacket.”

“Jacket? I thought I said blanket.”

Mable moves slowly, holding onto the nurse for support. She’s supposedly better but still seems so weak. She slides under the stiff hospital sheets and says, “You did. But it wasn’t a blanket. It was a jacket. That much I know.”

“I think she needs to rest now,” the nurse says and Mable gives a small nod.

I give her a kiss and walk to the door. Then I go to the flowers, move them closer to her so she can see them when she wakes up, and take one stalk for myself. It smells like spring; new and sweet and filled with longing.

Dad comes back early, claiming Louisa has an upper respiratory infection but I get the feeling there’s more to his speedy return than just a hacking cough and a fever.

“Squash?” Dad asks.

I pretend not to know what he’s asking. “Noun: a root vegetable.”

“Very funny,” he says. “Want to play?”

I shake my head. “Can I bow out today? I’m tired. I went to see Mable yesterday and worked this whole morning on my video project. I start filming her this week, and I had to get the whole documentary formatting done.”

“I’m sure it’ll be an interesting project. What about all your other papers?”

I smear some Labello on my lips, thankful I still have enough of the Euro-Chapstick to last me until Arabella brings restocks this summer. “Two I’ve completed, one is nearly done, and the other is a ‘creative component’ that has yet to be announced — at least to me. Poppy Massa-Tonclair is sending an email to me this week about it.”

Dad nods like he’s checked off another item on his forever-multiplying list of “things to do.” He stands waiting for me to say something, bouncing his squash racket off his knee.

“Want to come see a place I like to hang out?” I ask suddenly feeling like I haven’t just relaxed with my dad since I got back. Which would really mean in months if you add up the time I was away.

“Will I like this place?” Dad asks.

“It’s not a bar, not a strip club, not a…”

“Oh, quick, shield my eyes!” Dad makes a face, dubious. “I don’t know, Love…”

I poke him in the shoulder in indignation. “Dad? Come on — it’s not like I’m a wild child.”

Dad tilts his head side to side like he’s considering my choice of names for myself. “You didn’t used to be.”

Then I see that Dad’s only partially kidding. “You see kids every day who have issues. Big time issues. The look at me.” I stand in front of him dramatically so he can see me. “And I’m not like that.”

“No,” Dad agrees, his voice quiet. “You’re not. But you’re not the same, either.”

I don’t know what to say to this, so I say nothing. I just pull him by the sleeve like I used to do as a child when I wanted to change locations at the playground — an lead him to where I want to go.

In light of my inappropriate jesting about my “hang out” place, Dad is thrilled beyond words to find that the place to which I was referring is the pole vaulting mat.

“What’s so great about this place?” he asks as we stand at the edge of the thick, blue cushion.

“Come on — can’t you see the intrinsic value?”

“I’m too old,” Dad says.

“Your loss, then,” I say, knowing Dad will follow me. I take a running jump and do a silly snow-angel in midair form leap and land on my back, protected by the matt. Dad pauses then does the same, landing on his back, upside from me and laughing. We lie there for a minute laughing, and then look up at the blue sky.

“Another year,” Dad says, still looking skyward.

My head is almost touching his head, and I reach up so I can take his hand. We watch the clouds move, shouting out their shapes like we did when I was a kid.

“A thimble!” he says.

“A unicorn!” I point and then blush — maybe I’m still a fifth grade girl if I’m still seeing flying horses in the sky. Then flying horses makes me think of the antique carousel on Martha’s Vineyard.

“The state of Idaho,” Dad says.

“Am I lame that I don’t even know what that looks like?” I ask. “Oh — hey — there’s a turtle with a top hat!”

“Oh, I see that!” Dad says and we’re both very excited that we see the same cloud images. We pause for a minute. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen with Mable.”

I don’t move or try to get a look at Dad’s face because I can tell he’s crying. “You mean you don’t know if she’s really better? I thought you just said we should be hopeful.”

“Better is a loaded word, Love.”

“So what’re you saying?” I squeeze his hand and wish we could go back to looking for thimbles or unicorns or Ferris wheels in the sky.

“I’m saying let’s really enjoy what we have now,” he says and sobs hard enough that the mat shakes underneath us. After being quiet for a minute, the feelings start to overtake me and I cry, too. It’s so sad to see or hear a parent cry, especially when you feel the same sadness they do. It’s like the person who is supposed to reassure me can’t and we both know it.

We stay like that for a few minutes until we’ve both gotten the tears out of our systems for now.

“Here,” Dad says as we sit up. He hands me a granola bar.

“Do you always travel with food?” I ask, my voice still shaky from the cryfest. I accept his oaty hand-out.

“Actually, I do,” he says. “It’s an old habit. Once, your…” He pauses. “Once I was on a road trip and ran out of gas and had to walk nearly ten miles to a station. What bugged be most wasn’t the walk — I…I had good company. But I was so hungry. Since then I always carry a little snack with me. Even just a tiny thing…”

“So that’s one of your life lessons to hand down? Always bring food?” I smile. First, Dad nods. Then he thinks of something and his face changes. “What?”

“Nothing — it’s not the time.”

“Dad — if there’s an issue or whatever, you should tell me. I mean, I know we’re having father-daughter time here but just say it.” I nudge him with my toe. “I know you’ve had something bothering you since I got back, you might as well tell me.” I’ve noticed that Dad’s been stoping himself from saying something — completing a thought during some of our discussions. Like right before we came to the track, he was on the verge of letting me in — but then he stopped.

We reposition ourselves so that Dad is in the center of the mat, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He sits up looking at me while I sit on the edge of the mat with my legs dangling off, feet resting on the sandy grass below. It probably looks like I’m trying to escape.

“Is there anything about which you feel you haven’t been up front with me?” Dad asks.

“I hate questions like this,” I say. The wind picks up — it’s one of those soft pre-summer breezes that call to mind the beach not the running track in the midst of a confrontation. I wish I were already on the Vineyard. With Arabella. Or just Mable. Or just by myself. I could be doing that moody girl on a beach with a journal thing, scripting songs and enjoying the dunes. Briefly I indulge my vision — somehow I’m in jeans but not too hot, or in shorts but not getting burned and my pen is fluid on the page. And then in the distance, a boy…but I can’t make out whom it is — Asher? Nice posh Henry? Or that other Vineyard boy, Charlie. Boat boy Charlie who might be penniless but certainly is endowed with many a stunning trait — ditching me at dinner notwithstanding.

“Are you even listening to anything I’m saying?” Dad moves closer. “I’m trying here, Love, I really am. But it’s very frustrating when you won’t communicate.”

“Sorry, Dad, I tuned out for a minute.”

“You tuned out a long time ago,” Dad says. “You used to share so much with me…”

“I still do — you have no idea how much I tell you compared with other people. Do you think Chris is on the phone telling his mother his innermost thoughts? Come on, Dad, at least be fair. As far as teenage-parental conversing goes, you get a lot from me. We’re as close as we can be.”

“And I hope you get a lot from me, too,” Dad says sounding wounded.

“Plus, it’s not like you’ve been around all the time. You have Louisa and that’s great but you can’t expect me to talk to you when you’re off doing goaty things.”

Dad nods. Maybe I’m not in trouble. He just wanted a heart to heart. “We’re getting off track here.”

“I’m on the track,” I say and point to my feet that are grounded on the running track. Dad smirks but doesn’t offer me a full smile. Maybe my feet aren’t the only things that will be grounded — though for the life of me I can’t figure out what trouble I’m in — it’s just a feeling.

“When I spoke about being up front I meant before now — this past term.”

“You mean when I was away?” I look at my hands. I’m surprised to find my fingers shaking slightly.

“Yes.” Dad doesn’t elaborate. It’s one of his head principal tricks that he does to get people to talk — the more he lets students ramble, the more likely they are to admit to doing something they shouldn’t.

“No, I don’t think so,” I say. Of course I realize I’m lying and that maybe Dad knows this. So I offer up a little admission so that he’ll know I’m trying. “People drink sometimes there — they do here, too, and I’m sure you know about that what with Lindsay Parrish’s blood alcohol level on high alert last fall…”

“This isn’t about Lindsay Parrish.”

Of course I know this but I’m trying to divert the attention by bringing up anything it could be before he explodes. “And yes, you were right before — Arabella swears all the time — it’s just her thing and I picked it up and I’ll try not to.”

“I don’t really care about the swearing — I’m sure you’ll figure out how to speak appropriately.”

“I had some wine,” I admit.

“I figured as much,” Dad says. I wait for him to ask something like did I get in a car with someone who’d been drinking or if I had sex — oh my god, this is about sex. My dad wants to know if I had sex.

I blush and stammer then regain my composure. “I know about condoms,” I say.

Dad wrinkles his brow. “Great. Good for you.”

Oops, wrong answer. “Is this about sex?”

Dad sighs. “Ah, no.” Then he reconsiders. “Unless you want to talk about sex — you know you always can with me — or with Mable and you know how important those decisions are. Once you do something you can’t take it back…”

“I get it, Dad. Sex is not like an exchange at The Gap.”

Dad coughs and scoots over so that he’s sitting next to me. “I’ll be very blunt now so we can save any further guessing at your wrong-doing…”

“So I did do something wrong?”

“You sure did,” Dad says. “When you signed off for a term to LADAM you were under strict orders to act under their jurisdiction.”

I hold my hands up, confused. “I did…”

“You went to class as commanded, adhered to the rules set by that administration…”

“Yes,” I say, my voice adamant (not to be confused with Adam Ant, a rock star from the eighties who once signed Mable’s bare midriff — tasty!).

“And as part of this you lived at the LADAM dorms?” Dad stares at me, eyebrows in fully raised, anti-bullshit position.

“Yeah,” I say. Mostly. For that first part.

“I spoke with Angus Piece…”

“You called Arabella’s parents? Why?”

“I was in the process of making arrangements for Arabella’s flight over here,” Dad starts. “But when he casually mentioned that she was at her flat packing up the last of your things it dawned on me that you hadn’t complained about the dorm conditions in a long time. Plus, it puts into context the water color in Mable’s hospital room.”