Souvenir (12 page)

Seventeen

S
AVANNAH WAS SURPRISED TO SEE HER DAD’S NEW CAR PULL INTO THE BALL
field parking lot after practice. She couldn’t think of the last time she’d seen him on a weeknight before, say, seven o’clock. She watched him inch the new black BMW through the gravel so that it wouldn’t raise any dust.

When he stopped, she walked up to his window, resisting the urge to scuff her feet. “Where’s Mom?”

“She couldn’t get here in time. Come on, get in—you need to get showered and changed for dinner with Spencer.”

She didn’t have time for dinner at the old folks’ home; she needed to talk to Kyle about Miami ASAP. “That’s
today
?”

“So I’m told.”

“Why didn’t Mom pick me up? Is someone in labor? She’s coming, right?” She couldn’t imagine trying to have dinner with only her dad and Grandpa Spencer. They were like a pair of repelling magnets.

“Yes, she’s coming. Get in,” he urged. “She had an appointment.”

Savannah rounded the car, trailing her aluminum bat in the gravel. Kyle was going to be pissed…. For the entire two-hour practice, she’d tried to think of a way to get to Miami on Monday but couldn’t make anything work.

Inside, the brand-new 740 her dad ordered custom from one of his clients smelled of supple leather and new carpet and something like clean laundry—from an air freshener mounted discreetly near his knee. She buckled her seatbelt and ran her hands over the hand-stitched seat. Her own new car would have leather too, but not like this. Her car, a two-door Honda Accord, would have what her dad considered practical features—including ordinary leather, because it wiped clean so easily, and a GPS system for when she traveled—and was meant to last her until she was out of college. When she graduated, he said, she could choose whatever car she wanted as a reward, a lesson meant to teach her the benefits of working toward long-term goals.

She hardly cared what she drove, now or later. As long as she had wheels, as long as she could set her own agenda, not rely on her mom or her dad or anyone for rides, as long as she could take a day off school and drive down to see Kyle in Naples if she wanted, she’d be satisfied. Her friends chattered about getting better cars: Caitlin had gotten a custom-painted pink Mini for her sixteenth; Holly Showalter, a senior, had been promised a convertible Saab for graduation; Lydia Patel, whose mom was Dr. Manisha, was looking forward to “inheriting” her dad’s three-year-old Mercedes when she turned sixteen in August. They were a privileged crowd, a fact which her Grandpa Spencer never tired of reminding her. Even she, with a brand-new Honda on the way, was far better off than the average kid. She
should
feel lucky. She should feel
grateful.
Her mom sure hadn’t grown up privileged—she’d worked hard to get where she was, something Grandma Anna had said repeatedly. But mostly she felt…stifled. Impatient to get out of the lap of luxury and into the lap of…well, of her own life, whatever it would be—an interesting,
useful
existence that included people who, like her, created and explored and questioned things. Luxury was dull and clean and overrated.

“How was practice?” her dad asked, bringing her out of her reverie.

“Fine.”

“What position do they have you in now?”

“Same as always.”

“Which is…?”

She looked at him, amazed he didn’t remember—though she shouldn’t be surprised, considering how he hadn’t seen her play since she was in sixth grade. “Are you serious?”

“What?”

“I know you’re way too busy to, like, come to a game, but you don’t even know my position?”

He sighed. “I have a lot on my mind, Savannah.”

“Right field,” she lied, choosing what everyone knew was the worst position on the field. Right fielders saw the least action and were usually the weakest players on a team, a fact her dad would know too; after golf, he was a big fan of baseball, having played both sports in high school and college. Was there anything he didn’t do well?

He said, “Oh. Right, sure…” and she took satisfaction in how puzzled he sounded, like he thought
this
was something he would recall, and felt bad that he didn’t. Then he said, “I was thinking, we should get you into a clinic, work on skills—what are you batting so far?”

“.145,” she lied, again, just to get him going. He was as predictable as her mom, though in a different way. Her mom didn’t care whether she was the best student or softball player or singer or composer. Her mom didn’t care if she made a C in geometry or sang like a caterwauling animal—which never happened, but Savannah knew it wouldn’t freak her out if she did. In fact, she wasn’t sure her mom would even notice, as busy as she always was. Her dad, by contrast, cared about how everything
appeared
, even if the appearance didn’t match reality. If his kid was stuck in right field and was only batting .145, he looked bad by association and was compelled to
do something
about it, show what a good father he was, so
concerned.
So
involved.
If she weren’t already self-motivated, the pressure of his expectations, his “help,” would weigh her down like wet cement.

“You’ll need to raise your average in a hurry,” he said. “Hey, I know one of the batting coaches for the Marlins—why don’t I give him a call and set up some Saturday practices?”

“What’s the big deal?” she snapped. “Why don’t you ever think I’m good enough just like I am?”

Her vehemence surprised him, she could tell. Well, too bad. He never accepted her for
her
, and she was tired of it.

He said, “I just want to encourage you to be your personal best.”

“What if .145 is already as good as I am?”

“But it’s not. Look, it’s like I’ve told you about choosing your profession: make the most of the abilities you were born with. You’re a gifted child—”

“I’m not a
child
.”

“You’re a gifted
young woman
,” he said, “and to do less with your gifts—to go into biology, for example—is to shortchange yourself. But about your batting—”

“Why?” she interrupted him. “I’m shortchanging myself just because I want to keep manatees from becoming extinct? What’s wrong with that, besides it not paying as much as
you
think I should make?”

“You could help
people—and
be well paid. Let me set you up to intern with me this summer; you’ll see how fulfilling it is to help people keep their money instead of forking it all over to the government.”

Savannah glared at him. He didn’t have a
clue
.

They rode the rest of the way home without talking.

As soon as she got into her bedroom, she tried Kyle’s cell phone but got voice mail. Though it took a lot of effort to shake off her bad mood, she left a short, upbeat message saying she was
so
sorry, but she couldn’t make it to Miami Monday after all, and asking him to either call her later or chat with her online at nine. “Maybe we can work something out for the weekend after,” she said, sounding deliberately suggestive.
Please, God,
she thought,
don’t let him decide I’m not worth his time.

S
AVANNAH, HER PARENTS, AND HER
G
RANDPA
S
PENCER SAT AT A TABLE FOR
four in Horizon’s dining room, a place that reminded her of the dining room on a cruise ship they’d been on when she was small. Everyone on the ship had seemed ancient, just like everyone here, and the décor in both places was what her grandpa called the “timeless senility” style: pale pastel wallpaper, tablecloths, floor tile. “Nothing to excite the senses,” he said, “which, in a place like this, is a wise choice.”

He was one of the younger residents—only in his early seventies—and seemed to be having a good time making fun of some of his older neighbors. But Savannah noticed her mom wasn’t paying much attention, leaving the rest of them to hold up the conversation in whatever ways they could. Her dad had barely spoken to anyone except the people who kept calling his cell; he left to take calls three times before they’d even finished touring Horizon’s apartment wing. Which meant she was carrying most of the load; so far, she’d talked about softball and school and how to upload songs onto her iPod, a system that fascinated her grandpa. “Damn, I wish I’d had a knack for all that computer jazz. Those Apple boys’ll get Bill Gates yet!” he said.

He was now in the midst of describing a trio of men who stalked the nurses and the old women by following them in their wheelchairs and whispering to one another in the hallways. “Now you do realize, Vannah, that none of these geezers I’m talking about is in my section. They house ’em over there,” he pointed toward the far side of the dining room, “in the assisted-living wing. I go over there sometimes just for the entertainment. And across the parking lot’s the nursing home, for the ones who’re as good as dead.”

“Grandpa.”

He waved his hand and said, “Don’t ‘Grandpa’ me. When you’re as old as I am, you’ll see how it is. Life is for the living; the rest’re just a waste of money and oxygen someone else could be using. Isn’t that right, Meggie?”

When her mom didn’t answer, Savannah nudged her with her foot.

“Hmm?”

“Grandpa’s talking to you,” she said.

“What’s that, Dad? I’m sorry, I was thinking about something else.”

“Don’t we all know it. I said, there’s no use in people hanging around when they got no life left, like most of them over in the nursing home. It’s pitiful. Don’t you think?”

“What
I
think is that we should all have dessert.”

Though Savannah wanted to watch her weight so that when Kyle saw her—whenever that might be—she was as thin as possible, she jumped at the chance to liven things up. “Oh yeah, ice cream for dessert. Where’s that self-serve machine, Grandpa?”

“There, by the doors to the kitchen—see it?”

Two bent old men were jostling each other to use it first. She said, “Yep. C’mon, Mom, let’s try it out.”

“How about you get some for me? It’s been a long day.”

“I had a long day too,” she said, standing. “You don’t hear me whining about it.”

“Girl’s got a point,” her grandpa said.

“Really, Dad, I’d rather stay put.” Her mom’s sharp voice cut into Savannah’s conscience. What was making her so edgy?

Just then, her dad’s cell phone began to buzz again. He checked the display and started to stand in order to take the call outside.

“For God’s sake, Brian!” her mom said. “Why can’t you turn that thing off?”

Everyone froze. Savannah looked from her mom’s angry face to her dad’s startled one as he silenced the call and sat down. His brows knitted and he said, very quietly, “Let’s act like civilized people, why don’t we?”

“
Civilized people
don’t answer their phone during dinner with their family, which you would know if you ever had dinner with yours.”

“That’s enough, Meg.”

“How do you know what’s ‘enough’? As far as I can tell,
nothing
is ever enough for you.”

Savannah couldn’t believe her mom was making a scene. Her parents
never
fought.

Her dad stood up and said, “I don’t know what your problem is tonight, but I don’t need this grief. We can talk about it later, when you can act like an adult.”

“Sure, leave,
that’s
mature,” her mom said, though her dad was still standing there. He looked unsure, a look Savannah couldn’t ever recall seeing on his face.

Her grandpa reached over and put his hand on her mom’s. “Let him go, Meggie—I didn’t give Bruce all that money for nothing. You don’t have to take any crap from Mr. Big Shot here anymore.”

“
What
are you talking about?”

“The money.
You
know.” He cocked his head toward Savannah, making her frown. What money, and what did it have to do with her?

Her mom looked confused too, but then understanding replaced the confusion and she said, “You gave Bruce money
when
?”

“Now I’m sure I told you—”

“No, Dad, I’d remember…. Brian?”

“I am
not
talking about this in front of Savannah.” He glanced at her, then turned his back on all of them and left.

“God damn it,” her mom said. Then she rubbed her face and said, “I’m sorry, both of you. I’m in a rotten mood tonight—we should have rescheduled.”

Savannah shrugged. She wanted to know what they were all talking about, and what it was that put her mom in the rotten mood to begin with, but she was reluctant to ask and bring the wrath down on herself, too. All she needed was to get in trouble and be grounded from her computer or phone—grounded, in effect, from Kyle.

Her mom said, “You know, Dad, I think we’re going to call it a night. I’ll check in with you tomorrow, okay? Here, Savannah.” She handed over her keys. “Why don’t you drive us home.”

They said good-bye and left without having tried the ice cream machine, a fact that oddly saddened Savannah, even though she hadn’t much cared about it in the first place.

K
YLE WASN’T ONLINE WHEN SHE LOGGED ON AT NINE, AND NOT AT FIVE
after or ten after or nine-fifteen, which troubled her more than anything her parents had going on. She sat on her bed, ignoring the IMs from Rachel, wondering if Kyle had heard her message and changed his mind. A guy his age, looking like he did, could have his pick of willing women. He didn’t have to settle for someone who couldn’t even remember when May Day was.

She put her earbuds in and pulled up the songs she’d uploaded from her mom’s old Carson McKay CD. Sometimes the old ballads—his and other bands’—really spoke to her. The melodic songs, with lyrics that often shared her worries and sorrows, helped her feel better at times when it seemed like nothing was going to come out right in her life. Leaning back against her stupid purple pillows, she closed her eyes and listened to Carson singing about a guy lost in a snowstorm, who thought he might freeze to death and never again see the woman he loved.
Buried Alive
was the title; she remembered hearing it at their old house in Gainesville, where they lived until her mom finished her medical residency. The memory was just a flash: she was maybe four years old, being held up on her mom’s hip while they waltzed around the living room. This rare recollection of a shared afternoon pleased her; there had been so few of those.