Page 35 of Room for Us

“Ugh, Dad, you’re such a dork.”

“I miss you, too. Wait—shouldn’t you be in school right now?”

“I’m in the nurse’s office.” Before I can give voice to my immediate panic, she adds, “Hit in the head with a tetherball. I fell down and messed up my knee, but I’m fine.”

“And they let you have your cell phone?” I ask skeptically.

“Mom’s coming to get me. Head injury protocol or something.”

My panic returns. “How hard did you get hit?” I demand.

“Um, pretty hard. I fell down. I guess I passed out for a few seconds. But I swear I’m fine.”

My fingers tighten on the phone. “Will you please have your mother call me when you’re home?”

She sighs, long and loud. “Anyway, I wanted to know if you booked my tickets yet. For my visit.”

The anticipation and touch of wistfulness in her voice makes me swell with pleasure. She misses me. Crazy. And awesome.

“Not yet, but I’ll do it today after I talk to Janice.”

“She already said yes,” she snaps with maximum defensiveness.

“I know. We just need to iron out some details. Parent stuff.”

“Lame.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

She groans, but I can hear her smile. Through the line I hear Janice’s concerned voice. “Mom’s here. Bye, Dad.”

The call ends before I can tell her I love her, but it’s okay. If there’s one thing I’ve gotten right as a parent, it’s making sure Daphne knows without any iota of doubt that her dad loves her with every molecule inside him.

After sending Janice a text—just in case the little hellion forgets to tell her to call—I chug cold espresso and have some toast, then head upstairs to put in a few hours of plotting. I’m making headway on the book. Not much, and I’m not excited about the ideas I’ve come up with so far, but it’s better than twiddling my thumbs. At least I can tell my agent I’m actually working on something.

When I can’t take the drudgery anymore, I change into running shorts and sneakers. I’d like to say I run long distance to combat my intake of alcohol and nicotine, but the fact is, I run because it’s on a very short list of things I’m good at. You could even say it comes naturally.

I’ve been doing it a long time.

22

My mom keeps her office in town, in a cute converted cottage she shares with two other therapists. The waiting room—formerly living room—is cozy and inviting. I’m sure her patients feel relief when they sink onto the comfy sofa, or partake of the complimentary cucumber water or hot tea.

Ants dance under my skin. My knee bounces spastically even though each movement brings a pulse of pain to the delightful knot on my shin. I should have been wearing work gloves to prevent the handle of the shovel from slipping as my grip progressively weakened, but when I attacked the garden beds at dawn, I wasn’t exactly on a practical-thinking plane. I pushed myself too hard, and now I’m paying for it.

As for the why, that’s what I’m here to figure out. Because I can’t go another day—much less multiple weeks—feeling like this.

“Hey, honey!”

My mom sweeps into the room in a cloud of lavender and wisps of dark hair, a huge smile on her face. I’ve barely made it to my feet when she glues herself to my front, squeezing me so hard I wheeze.

“Hey, Mom. I was hoping you had a few minutes to talk?”

She releases me. “Definitely. Perfect timing, actually. I just finished up with a client and don’t have my next until after lunch. Should we eat?”

“Sure, but, uh, can we talk first?”

Her smile gentles, not quite falling, while her features reassemble into what Zander and I call her Tell Me Where It Hurts expression. I look away from the concern in her eyes.

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