That Summer(36)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“Of course we wouldn’t say it like that,” Lydia said sullenly, and they all got quiet, their minds working this over.

I figured this was the best time of any to come in, so I headed straight across the kitchen, over Ashley in the doorway, and made a quick dash for the stairs.

“Haven?” My mother was already after me. I heard her pushing her chair away from the table, that familiar scrape, and then her footsteps coming down the hallway behind me. “Haven, I have to talk to you.”

I stopped in the middle of the stairs and turned to look down at her. She seemed very small. “What is it?”

“Well,” she said, starting to climb up, step by step, “I got a strange call from Burt Isker. Did you have some sort of problem at work today?”

“No,” I said, turning back around and taking the rest of the stairs, then heading to my room only a few paces away.

“Whatever happened, we can talk about it,” she said quietly, still following me. I felt that stab of guilt, but pushed it away because I was tired of protecting her from my father, forgiving him for leaving us for the pregnant Weather Pet, giving Ashley free reign to hurt me because she was The Bride.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, and even as the words came out I knew the look I’d see if I turned around, the hurt like a slap spreading across her face. But I didn’t turn around, didn’t even stop walking, until I was in my room with my hand on the back of the door, closing it.

“Haven,” my mother said in a louder voice, trying to be stern, “we’re going to talk about this. If you’re accosting the customers and running out on your job, obviously something is going on that we need to discuss. Now I know it’s been hard this summer with the wedding, but this isn’t—”

“It’s not about the wedding. It’s not about the goddamn wedding or Ashley. For once this isn’t about her. It just isn’t,” I said, now looking at her face closely as it changed from authoritative to lost. And then I slammed the door in my mother’s face, so hard it shook the pictures in their frames on the wall of my room. I could hear her breathing on the other side of the door, waiting for me to open it, apologize, pull her close, and save her from everything just like I always did. But I didn’t. Not this time.

A few minutes later, as if conceding defeat, she just said, “Well, don’t forget your father is coming over. You told him you’d go shopping with him for a gift for your sister.” Her voice was soft, and she was trying to sound like she wasn’t upset. She waited another minute, as if this might bring me out, and then I heard her going slowly down the stairs.

I walked to my bed and stretched out across it, symmetrical, with my feet pressed to the bedposts and my head locked against the headboard. I closed my eyes and tried to block it all out, the mall and the bathing-suit woman and my mother’s face as the door swung to close on her. I tried to think about anything to block out the sound from my vent, so clear, and what I knew they’d be saying about me as soon as my mother got back downstairs.

“What’s wrong?” That was Ashley.

“Nothing.” My mother didn’t sound like herself, her voice quiet and even. “Let’s get back to this bridesmaid problem.”

“What did she say to you?” Ashley said, protective now. “God, what is her problem lately? She’s impossible to deal with. I swear, it’s like she’s purposely doing it so close to the wedding just to ruin it….”

“It’s not about the wedding,” my mother said quietly, echoing my own words. “Just leave it alone, Ashley. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

“I just think she could wait to have her nervous breakdown until next week. I mean, it’s not like we don’t have enough on our hands, and it’s pretty selfish, really.”

“Ashley,” my mother said in a louder voice, sounding tired. “Leave it alone.”

I lay there and listened as they talked about Carol, the difficult bridesmaid, who was supposed to fly in that afternoon but apparently had called earlier to say she had broken off her own engagement just this morning and was therefore too hysterical to attend. They went round and round, coming up with plan after plan, none of which would work. I looked at the clock. It was only eleven-fifteen.

And I was still expected to go shopping with my father, to pick out the Perfect Gift for the Perfect Wedding. It was too late to cancel; my father had his faults, but he was always punctual. I went to my bathroom and washed my face, looking at myself under the greenish fluorescent light. I looked sick, haunted, which I felt was appropriate so I just left my face as it was, without applying any makeup or touching my hair. I was still in my work clothes as I crept downstairs, and out onto the porch to wait for him.

I heard the car before I saw it, the purring of the engine as it zipped around the corner and onto my street. He pulled up in front of the house like he always did and then beeped twice. I sat in the swing, watching him without moving. I wasn’t sure if he could see me.

He sat in the car a few minutes longer, fiddling with the radio and smoothing his hand over his new hair. He beeped again. Still I sat there. I wanted him to come up to the house. I wanted him, I realized, to finally approach it and cross that imaginary line that had been drawn the day he packed a suitcase and left while I was at school, taking with him all his sports stuff and clothes and the stereo, which left a big hole on the wall of the living room. I wanted to watch him walk up the front steps, across the lawn he’d kept so neatly mowed all those years, to our front door and to be a man about it, not a coward who sat in his shiny new car at the curb, outside it all. I sat and watched my father, daring him to do it. To come claim me as he’d never done since that day, not lurking on the outskirts of what had once been shared property, waiting for me to cross the line myself, the line I hadn’t even drawn.

He beeped again, and I saw my mother’s face appear in the window beside the door, peering out at him. He backed up and turned the car around in our driveway, his head still craning to see if I’d appear—whoosh—suddenly, like a bouquet of roses from a magician’s hand. My mother held the curtain aside, watching. I watched too, hidden in the shadows of our porch, as he slowly pulled out, coasted by with one last searching look, and then gunned the engine before disappearing. Whoosh.

Chapter Twelve

The first thing I felt when I woke up was that it was hot. Very hot. It was the middle of August and every day was hot, but there was something about that day that made it stand out. I’d napped without covers, having kicked off my light blanket and sheet, but still felt sticky and warm even with my fan pointed right at me. Outside, the sun was still blazing. I’d woken from a bad dream, one of those confusing ones where nobody is who they start out to be. Someone was leading me down my street, showing me things. First it was Lewis, in one of those skinny ties, but then his face changed to Sumner’s. Then, as I turned away and then back, it switched again, to Lydia Catrell‘s, only she was very old and tiny, hunched over, and shrinking before my eyes. I woke up suddenly, confused, and remembered everything that had happened earlier in one great rush of colors and images flying past in a blur. I curled up smaller, pulling my pillow in close, and buried my face. This had been the longest day of my life. Everything was loaded with consequences, the wedding and the weeks to come; I wanted to sleep through it all. But the sun was spilling through the window, shiny and hot, and it was already one o’clock. It felt like forever since I’d climbed into bed after my father drove away, locking my bedroom door and ignoring my mother’s voice as it whispered in the hallway outside. The earlier part of the day was fuzzy and distant, like the dream that was fading quickly from my head.