Between You and Me (35 page)

“No.”

“I should never have sucked you back in.”

“Yes, you should have,” I say fervently. “You should have. I would have come for anything.”

“Logan, I was fine without you. I’ll be fine.”

“This isn’t fine.”

“And neither was fucking some random in a stairwell.” Her voice hardens as she starts to pedal. “You were a mess when you came out here.”

“Oh, my God, Kelsey, are we really fighting about this?”

She grabs the towel to wipe her eyes.

“You’re crying.”

She doesn’t answer or look at me. “I’m firing you.”

I am standing in her yard, and I don’t know where she’s gone. “If I leave.” My voice breaks. “I won’t have any way of reaching you. They won’t let me.”

She nods, pedaling harder.

“But how will I know you’re okay?” I ask. “This time, how will I know?”

“Because,” she manages, reaching forward for her headphones and fumbling to put them back in, “I’ll know you are.” She turns up the volume, and I hear the tinny thud of Pat Benatar. I take a step toward her, but she lifts herself to crouch over the bars, barreling into the night and willing me to be the one to leave.

I drive out of Los
Angeles, my car filled to the roof light with everything I’ve acquired since I arrived, my boxes making it impossible to look back. I just get on the highway and drive all night and late into the next day, until my head’s heavy and the wheel’s starting to swerve onto the cement grate meant to wake truckers. At dusk, I pull off in search of a motel, but as soon as I lie on the bed, I’m wide awake, restless, wretched.

The outdoor hallway looks over four lanes of speeding traffic to a mall. Taking my wallet, I make my way through the tall grass lining the road, then dodge honking rush-hour drivers. As I near the entrance, I pass a father and his teenage son with a game disk already torn from its packaging. A woman holds the doors for me, and I stand in the wandering flow of shoppers across from an island of dusty fake plants. A fountain littered in pennies. I don’t know what day it is.

Two giggling teens lean their doughy faces into each other as they stroll. I find myself pulled into their wake. They are simultaneously the only two beings in each other’s orbit and completely self-conscious in front of everyone they pass. I drift under brightly lit signs, into the mix of salty/sweet smells at a food court busy with what must be dinner.

One of the teenagers I followed gets in line at the Wok’N’Roll. She starts to sway her hips and mouth a song. I realize it’s “Chemistry Lesson.” And I am just one of the hundreds here at this mall listening to it. The ache breaks across my body, and I realize I am crying, really crying. I look for an exit and push out under the darkened sky. A salesgirl on a smoke break lets me borrow her phone. Then I dig
through my wallet to find a scrap of paper, Fergie’s Stockholm departure time printed on the back.

“Hello?”

“Delia?” I whisper.

“Logan, hi.”

But all I can do is cry.

“Where are you? Your momma’s been lookin’ for you.”

“She wears your picture around her neck, every day.”

Delia is quiet.

“I fucked up everything,” I say, wiping my face. “It was my idea to invite Aaron on tour, my idea that he get a job. And now I’m a character witness. If I had just stayed away—”

“You can’t blame yourself for any of that.”

“I let her down.”

“That girl loves you. She’s always loved you.” She pauses. “You know she paid your tuition.”

“What?”

“Right after you hung up on her. She saw you needed help to make it happen. Told those NYU folk it had to be presented to you like some scholarship and to leave her name off it. She
wanted
you to do your thing. Live your life.”

“So—”

“So live it.”

THE END

Dear Logan,

Thank you so much for your birthday card. I realize now you haven’t gotten my letters. Sending them to Kelsey’s fan club was a long shot, I know. Just please don’t think I didn’t try.

We were so glad to get all your news. Finn sounds like a good guy, a “keeper.” Good luck on your job search. I’m sure you’ll figure out the whos and whats.

The rest of what I have to say I’ve written you many times now. But I have the comfort of knowing this time there’s a good chance it’ll reach you.

I don’t know why I handled it so badly when I found out you were working for them. I don’t know why I handled it so badly when you wanted to be over there all the time as a girl. I think maybe, and I’m embarrassed by this, I was jealous. That you preferred Michelle. That you had somewhere to go outside this house. Everyone always felt so sorry for Michelle, wondering how she managed with Andy. But no one ever asked me how I coped with your father. Ours was a private sadness, wasn’t it, Logan?

Which I see now wasn’t fair. I should’ve been glad for you when you came home talking about some new dance routine of Kelsey’s. But, and I know this may seem silly for a grown woman, I felt left behind.

If I’d stopped judging and sulking, you wouldn’t have had to lie, maybe I’d have been over that night. Maybe I’d have taken you home at bedtime, promising to drive you to Kelsey’s contest the next day. I replay so many what-ifs.

We never meant to lie to you. Saying you were in an accident was the first thing that came to your father’s head, and I’ve never known how to contradict him. It seemed the kinder thing for you to believe. And he felt so much shame about his family.

After they were gone, I stupidly just thought things would be easier—I was relieved—I didn’t understand how sad you must have been.

Then, after that summer, school started, and suddenly you had so many teenage ways to be angry with me—it feels like we just fought straight until you left for New York. This just wasn’t at all how I ever wanted things to be.

I am so sorry I said God sent you to test me. Maybe he did. But if so, I failed, Logan. I failed. I did not protect you. And then, after it happened, I did not look down at the girl in the black lipstick and say, somewhere in there is my baby, and she is hurting because her best friend in the whole world is gone. I did not take you in my arms.

You’re a grown woman now—and it sounds like you’re building an exciting life. A life I’m glad is bigger than this house, this town, or this family. But I want you to know
I
know—despite what everyone may say about that girl—your best friend in the whole world is gone. And I take you in my arms.

The truth of it is, I’ve always been a little in awe of Kelsey—not just her talent but her strength. Even as an itty-bitty thing, you could just tell that girl was made of flint. She will get through this, even if she just has to outlive him to do it.

I know prayer has never brought you comfort. I wish that it could, that I could. I am praying daily that you will give me another chance, Logan. Give me a date, and I will be on the first plane. Tell me about everything—I want to know.

All my love,

Mom

THE END

We are grateful to . . .

The amazing Judith Curr for giving us such a supportive home. Greer Hendricks for her superlative guidance. Sarah Cantin for making every moment at Atria such a freakin’ pleasure. Suzanne Gluck for coaching this little two-person team for a decade! Eve Atterman for greeting our every request with cheer and grace. Alicia Gordon and the entire WMEE Team for taking our calls and trying to make our dreams realities. Sara Bottfeld and Mahzad Babayan for keeping the fires burning. To Marcy Engelman and Dana Fetaya for not being Cheryl. Ken Weinrib and Eric Brown for holding the chair in one hand and the whip in the other while we cower behind you. Tiffany Bartok for making us beautiful with incredible skill and humor. Ted & Honey for our daily muffin and kibbitz.

The women who are persevering and impressing the hell out of us: Evelyn, Anne, Olivia, Joan, Sarah, and Shannon. We love you.

Our families for their unflagging support, enthusiasm, and babysitting. John for always telling Emma to “please fuck it up.” Jordana for making it possible for Emma to write this while providing a humbling amount of joy to her family. Heather, for stepping up to the plate with style. Catherine McKeown, Andrea Shnee, and the incredible women of Carroll Gardens All Day Preschool for being there with heart and mind when Nicki can’t. Our husbands, for sticking around long after the costumes come off. Wiki David for being our L.A. eyes and ears. And finally to our little ones, who have changed our lives in every way for the better, and who already love books—especially eating them.