Page 9 of All Your Life

She calls out to me, asking if I want to get a manicure with her in town, but accepts myno thanks, got a lot work to dowithout nagging. My mother doesn’t expect anything but my default response. And it’s generally not bullshit. Iambogged down with homework and studying, but she also knows I’d rather do just about anything than primp alongside her and the other mom-daughter super duos. She used to try and sweeten the pot with a stop for ice cream afterwards, but when I started ordering double scoops and put on more than a few pounds during my freshman year, she put an end to it. And without my chocolate peanut butter cup incentive, heavy on the sprinkles, I was out.

Once I hear the crunch of gravel underneath tires, I know I’m in the clear. It will be at least an hour before she gets home, if not two, so I take my time. I go through every drawer, feeling like a total creeper when I come across items I amnotmeant to see.

Go Mom, I think to myself, giggling when I come across her vibrator, but my face reddens and I shut my father’s nightstand drawer quick when I unearth a bottle of lube. I should be grateful my parents have a healthy sex life, but I’m sorry, no one wants to envision their parents going at it.

Maybe this would be something kept in my father’s office downstairs, or in my mother’s room off the kitchen. She calls it her office, but as no work gets done in there, I generally refer to it as the sunroom.

Ugh, this house is too damn big for three people. There are too many closets, too many drawers, too many places to stash something you want to keep hidden. I give up when I hear my mother call out that she grabbed dinner from my favorite gourmet shop in town, knowing I’ve only scratched the surface in terms of my search.

It’s nearly a month later when I hit pay dirt. Downstairs in my father’s office one afternoon after school, I find a small envelope tucked inside a folder where copies of my social security card, baptismal record and birth certificate are kept. Such an obvious spot that I only gave it a casual leaf-through the last two times I was in here snooping around. I’d even checked behind each and every picture frame, diploma, and outstanding community service plaque on the damn walls, figuring there had to be some top-secret safe to hold this Pandora’s box.

There’s nothing written on the front. I open it without expectation, sure this is just another dead end, but then come across a picture that stops me dead in my tracks. It’s not that clear. It must have been taken from a distance, or no, with a glass window separating the photographer from the subject—the glare gives it away. My eyes go to the background first, maybe because I can’t take it in just yet. It’s a hospital room, I think. White walls, stark lighting, no décor. There’s a woman on the bed. My mother? No, she’s got brown hair. Long hair. Her face is turned to the side and she’s looking down at the baby she’s holding.

I feel my stomach drop when it starts to settle over me. I sink into the leather desk chair, holding the picture up for closer inspection, but there’s not much else to see. I’m desperate to get a clear look at this woman’s face, to capture the details of her expression. I want to know if I look like her, but I can barely make out anything from this distant, blurry shot.

I go all forensic scientist on it, digging a magnifying glass from the drawer so I can study every millimeter. There has to be some detail I’m overlooking. A marking on her hospital gown, some sign in the background, a date written on the back. But no, there’s nothing to indicate where, when, or why this photograph was taken.

I hear the door open, hear my parents laughing over something as my father takes the one beer he drinks after work from the fridge. I hear the bottle hiss air as he removes the cap, and the clink of the opener as he places it back on the marble countertop. I should just ask them right now, but I don’t.

I don’t know why I hurry to put everything back where it belongs and close the desk drawer. My parents aren’t monsters. They’re reasonable and understanding. They would tell me the truth. Wouldn’t they?

I join them in the kitchen, ask my dad how his day was, ask my mom how she did in her ongoing quest for world pickleball domination. I joke, I laugh, I eat with them. I act as if everything is all right, that nothing has changed. I pretend.

By the time the weekend has rolled around, I’m at loose ends. I’m frustrated that I’ve chickened out, and therefore come up empty. My mother joins me on the couch as I’m doing a detailed study of the photo albums that chronicle my early years.

“You were such a beautiful baby,” she says as she runs her hand over mine and then gives it a gentle squeeze.

“Did I cry when I was born?” My mother fixes her gaze out the window, but in a way that’s wistful. She’s not uncomfortable or avoiding the topic. “Of course you did...You screamed bloody murder!”

There’s a lock of hair in my baby book. I question it, ask my mother whose hair it is. She cocks a brow when she looks at me smiling. “What do you mean? It’s yours.”

“It’s so dark,” I say absently as I rub the short strands between my fingers.

She smiles as she reaches a hand over to touch my ponytail. “You had a tuft of black hair. It was the oddest thing. I never saw a baby born with so much hair.”

“Did I look like Dad when I was first born?”

I notice she turns away again before answering me. “The hair, I guess. But who can really tell?” She gets up from the couch and heads to the kitchen. “You can ask Parker if he wants to come for dinner tonight. I’m making salmon.”

I shake my head. “Not tonight…I’ve got homework.”

She pauses from taking items from the fridge and turns to me. “It’s spring semester of senior year. Can’t you ease up a little?” When I don’t answer, she presses, “Don’t you want to let loose and have some fun with your friends?”

Audrey isn’t the total antithesis of motherhood that I’m making her out to be. If I was dabbling in drugs or blowing off school entirely, she’d intervene in a big way. I know that. But her subtle yet relentlesssuggestionsgrate on my nerves. She wants me to be who she was: the homecoming queen, theitgirl, the subject of every boy’s desire. Take that back. She’d be satisfied if I at least gave off the vibe that I was devoted to Parker the way he seems to be devoted to me.

He’s been better this past month. Since that night at Tatiana’s party and what passes for a fight between the two of us, he’s been true to his word. He hasn’t pressured me, and the subject of sex in general has been dropped. In fact, he hasn’t laid a hand on me. Quick make-out sessions when we’re hanging out at my house or his, or in the car before he drops me home—nothing more. And I’ve wondered on more than one occasion what’s wrong with me, because I’m nothing but relieved.

Prom is in a few months. It’s a milestone, but that’s not the night where people tend to lose their virginity anymore. For the vast majority of girls I know, that ship has long sailed. I wouldn’t want it to be that night anyway. There’s too much lead up, drama and expectation. Maybe I should just get it over with now.

But shouldn’t it be just a little bit special? Maybe somethingiswrong with me, because I haven’t even given the logistics of the big event much thought. And it’s not like I’m in a bubble or anything. No, I am faced with witnessing and hearing about everyone else’s escapades on a regular basis.

There are only a few bona fide couples in my graduating class—make that my entire high school. Everyone else is just hooking up. Tatiana, for example, is worldly in every way. She spends nearly every school break in some part of Europe, coming back in September to dish about her summer romances. It was Alejandro last summer, Matteo the year before. She has a romantic yet casual attitude towards sex. And while she’ll barely give any of the guys in our school the time of day, she’s fearless when it comes to going after more mature conquests. I’m too much of a wimp to brave a fraternity party, but I swear, I think half of the Princeton campus would be shocked to know that Tatiana is still sweating out her AP classes in high school. And don’t get me started on the obscene flirtation she’s got going on with her nutritionist. When I asked if it bothered her that he was married, she scoffed before muttering something about Americans and sexual repression. Did I mention she was born and raised right here in New Jersey?

But one of the couples, they hold my attention. They’re both juniors. Her name is Anne. I know her father passed away when she was a freshman, and James, he’s a star pitcher on the baseball team. That’s all I know for sure, but I daydream up details to fill in the blanks. I see them walk through the hallways holding hands, Anne looking up to him and laughing when he says something funny. Or sometimes I’ll spot James waiting at her locker, and I can’t look away until I see him smile wide once he catches sight of her. They hang out with a crowd, but there’s a bond that is strong and unbreakable between just those two. I imagine she consoles him after a disappointing game, and that he fills a void by tossing a ball around with her younger brothers when they hang out at her house. He could be an abusive monster for all I know, but I can’t imagine anything but love and perfection when they have my attention.

Parker holds my hand, he laughs with me and we goof off together, but it’s different. I’m playing a role and I suspect he is too. One thing is for certain: I’m not Anne and he’s not James.

“Hi.”

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