MARNIE AND MY FATHER are both in the kitchen when Mrs. Mueller drops me off. Jane is in her high chair, gumming on a teething biscuit.
“How was your sleepover?” my dad says, giving me a clap on the back.
“Fine,” I say.
“I heard you were amazing last night,” Marnie says. She turns to my dad. “What was that word you used, honey? Radiant?”
“Luminous.”
Marnie’s head bobs up and down. “Luminous … that’s right … well, I’m sorry I missed it, Anna. I hope someone took video.”
“Mrs. Mueller did,” I say.
“Great! Will you ask her to email it to me?”
“Uh … sure.”
“Marnie’s muffins were very popular, by the way,” my dad says.
“What?”
“The muffins she baked. For the concession stand.”
Right. I forgot about Marnie’s muffins because she didn’t come to the talent show. My dad delivered them for her.
“Everyone was raving.” My dad puts his arm around Marnie. She looks at him. He squeezes her shoulders.
I’m getting a weird vibe here. I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel like I’m watching a play.
“We should celebrate!” my dad suddenly exclaims. He whips around to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of sparkling cider. “Martinelli’s apple-pear … Rhode Island’s finest!”
That’s when it hits me: I’ve heard these lines before.
It’s like a sucker punch, the feeling. I close my eyes. Fine, I think. It’s going to be fine.
“You okay, kiddo?” my father asks.
I nod.
Marnie is opening the cabinet, taking down wine glasses.
Of course, I think. The puking. The raw chicken … First we’re going to toast the talent show, and then they’re going to tell me she’s pregnant.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I blurt.
My dad smiles and pops off the top. “Can you give us a minute?”
I nod dumbly. I watch him pour the cider. I take the glass he offers me.
Just rip off the Band-Aid, I think. One baby, two babies, does it really matter? I was never going to live here permanently; it was just a place to sleep while my mother was in the hospital. Soon we’ll be back to Wednesday nights and every other weekend. So why do I feel so sad?
“A toast,” my father says, raising his glass. “To my beautiful, talented daughter.”
“Hear, hear,” Marnie says.
We clink glasses.
“I’m proud of you, Anna,” my dad says. “I know this hasn’t been an easy time for you—”
“It’s been fine,” I murmur. “I’m fine.”
“You’re better than fine,” Marnie says. “You’re great. You’ve been a huge help to me—especially these past few weeks…”
“I really have to go to the bathroom,” I choke out. I turn and run out of the kitchen.
“Anna?” my dad calls after me. “You okay?”
“Fine!” I manage to call back. “Just give me a few minutes!” And I sprint, as fast as I can, through the house and out the front door.
* * *
There is only one place I want to be right now, and that is in my own bed, in my own house, and I won’t stop pedaling until I get there.
The key is where it always is, under the loose brick on the patio. You have to wiggle the knob to open the front door. I haven’t forgotten.
I step inside, smell my house smell, see the funky antique hat rack and the gray flannel couch and the framed picture of the three dancing cats on the wall, and immediately start sobbing. I sob and sob, like a little kid. Tears, tears, tears—and it’s not just about another baby. It’s about everything. All the old hurts that led me to this point. I run upstairs and fling myself down on my bed and cry, thinking, Why did my dad leave? Why weren’t we enough? And when I’m all cried out, I close my eyes and sleep.
* * *
I don’t know how it happens, but when I wake up, my mother is sitting on the edge of my bed.
“Hey,” she says softly. “I thought I might find you here.”
Just seeing her face makes me cry all over. She puts her arms around me and doesn’t say a word.
“Marnie’s pregnant,” I say finally, mopping my face with my sleeve. “Again.”
“She is?”
I nod.
“Your father didn’t mention that.”
“You talked to Dad?”
“He was worried about you. He didn’t know where you went. He said you left to go to the bathroom and you never came back.”
“He didn’t tell you about Marnie?”
“No.”
“They were just about to make the big announcement. They had sparkling cider, just like last time … and I couldn’t … I just had to get out of there.”
My mother nods.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“I’m your mom,” she says, smoothing back the hair from my face. “I’ll always know where to find you.” She sits there, looking all maternal, and it suddenly makes me mad.
I pull away from her.
“Are you…” She folds her hands in her lap. “Do you think you’re ready to come home?”
“Are you?”
“I think so. Yeah. I’m shooting for next weekend. What do you say?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble.
There’s an expression on her face I can’t exactly read. Sadness mixed with disappointment mixed with something else.
“I understand,” she says softly.
“It’s just … you look better now. You’re saying all the right things now … but what happens when we come back here? What happens in a week? What happens in a month? Am I going to wake up in the middle of the night and find you cleaning the kitchen with Q-tips? Or, worse…” I look around the room, throw my arms in the air. “Hanging from a ceiling fan?”
She doesn’t answer at first. I watch her blink and swallow. “What do you want me to do, Anna?”
“I can’t find you like that again. Don’t put me in that position. I can’t be worrying all the time that my mother is going to kill herself.” The words are tumbling out of my mouth like hot coals, burning my tongue. “It’s not my job to worry about you. It’s your job … you’re the parent … you can’t … you need to stay on your medication, because if you go off … you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”
“I know,” she says, looking down at her hands.
I’m sorry, I almost say. I’m sorry I said that. Except I’m not sorry. I meant every word.
“I haven’t been a perfect mother, but I swear, Anna, I’m trying.”
“I know, Mom.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
“Will you at least think about what I said?” Her eyes soften as she looks at me. “About moving back?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you.”
I let her hug me for a minute. Then I pull away.
“I should go, though, okay? If Dad’s worried.”
She nods. “I’ll walk you out.”
* * *
By the time I get back, it’s dark, and I hope that my father and Marnie are upstairs in bed. But no such luck. My father is on the porch, sitting on the top step.
Crap, I think, leaning Marnie’s bike against the side of the house. Crap, crap, crap. I walk slowly up the front walk.
“Anna,” my father says.
“Congratulations,” I mumble, but I can’t look at him. I focus my attention on the bottom step.
“Honey, it’s not—”
I hold up my hand. “Please don’t say anything. I figured it out. And I’m sorry I took off, but I just couldn’t—”
“Marnie’s not pregnant.”
I look up. “What?”
“Your mother called. She said you told her Marnie was pregnant. And I’m telling you she’s not.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Marnie’s not pregnant?”
“No.”
“So, what—?”
“She’s starting her own business. That’s what we were going to tell you. Marnie’s Muffins.”
“Marnie’s Muffins,” I repeat.
“Healthy versions of your favorite baked goods. Delivered right to your door.”
“Oh,” I say. “Oh.”
“She said she got the idea from you. From some show you were watching together?”
“Cupcake Wars,” I murmur. I’m still staring at the bottom step.
“Come here,” my father says. He pats the space beside him and I sit. My heart is thudding in my chest. I don’t know if it’s from shock or relief.
We’re quiet for a minute. Both of us looking out at the yard, listening to the stillness.
“I fainted when you were born,” my dad says. “Did I ever tell you that? The second I saw your face, I passed out cold.”
I shake my head. “You never told me.”
“You were so beautiful I couldn’t breathe. Technicolor. Covered in slime … the loudest cry I ever heard … I looked at you and time stopped.”
“Please.”
“It’s true.”
I roll my eyes.
“You can ask your mother,” my dad says. “After I came to, I held you in my arms and I said, My life will never be the same. I’m a dad.”
“Stop it,” I say.
“You think I’m making this up,” my father says. “I’m not. Nothing changes a person more than becoming a parent … You, Anna Sophia Collette, changed everything.”
I look down at my shoes. “I did?”
“You did. And so did Jane. And, if Marnie were to get pregnant again, which she is not, but if she were, that baby would change everything, too.”
“Well,” I say, trying not to sound like a snotty teenager, “that’ll be great. Then you can give the new baby my room.”
My dad looks at me, frowning. “Who said anything about giving up your room?”
“No one. I just assume, if there’s ever a new baby…”
“Anna. You really think I would kick you out of your room? I told you the day we moved in, that room is yours.”
“Yeah, well, you only have three bedrooms.”
“So?”
“What about Marnie’s business?”
“What about it?”
“Won’t she need a space?”
“She’ll have the kitchen. And she can share my office if she needs to. We’ll manage, okay?”
I nod.
“Okay?” he says again.
“Okay.”
“Come on.” He stands up, turns toward the house. “There are some strange-looking muffins sitting on the kitchen counter. I’ll warm one up for you.”