The music coming from CeCe’s room is loud enough that I can almost make out the lyrics from behind my own closed door across the hall. I wonder if this would be any easier if we could be sad together instead of alone.
It’s been like this all week. Her postperformance glow faded as soon as we broke the news about our change of summer plans. Even the flowers we’d given her had wilted, like they, too, had caught her sorrow.
I knock softly at first, afraid to bother her.
I’m not sure when this power shift between us happened, but I don’t like it one bit. I’m not the enemy here; cancer is. And she can resent me all she wants for working hard, but one day, she’ll appreciate the fact that I was providing a good example for her. Not to mention a roof over her head.
I knock a little louder. Still no answer. I lift my hand, prepared to knock again, when she opens the door. I start to say something but stop at the sight of her looking so small and helpless, swimming in one of her dad’s old T-shirts. Behind her, I notice that her suitcase is sitting empty on the floor; she doesn’t want to go tomorrow, either.
“What?” CeCe glares at me. The sudden movement causes her thick black glasses to slip down her nose. When she lifts her hand to push them back up, I notice the purple polish has almost chipped off her nails, the edges ragged where she’s apparently started biting them again.
I smile in spite of myself, happy to have one problem I can actually solve.
CECE TAKES THE salon chair next to mine and hands a bottle of polish to the manicurist. I don’t have to look to know that it’s a shade of purple.
It hadn’t been as hard as I thought to convince her that a little pampering would do us both some good. And I’m sure she was as grateful as I was to have a reason to get out of the house.
“Daughter?” the manicurist asks, nodding toward CeCe.
I nod and smile in response, and again, I don’t have to look to know CeCe is scowling. I used to take offense at how much she hated the fact that we look so much alike, but Tommy was almost able to convince me that it wasn’t so much about our looks as it was wanting to establish her own identity, or some other shrink talk.
I glance over at CeCe, admiring her posture. I square my shoulders and sit up a little straighter myself. She looks over and gives me a small smile, an unexpected gift I wish I could tuck in my pocket to save for later.
Afraid to spoil the moment, I rack my brain for a safe topic. School is over and anything acting-related will come back around to the fact that she had to drop out of theater camp. I have a feeling she and Sofia had a falling-out, and I don’t think either of us is ready to talk about whatever is going on between her and Liam. I’m about to make a comment about the weather when her manicurist asks her a question about her favorite subject in school.
There’s something carefree and easy about the way CeCe answers the woman’s question. I close my eyes and relax, half listening to their friendly banter. CeCe is charming, something I’d like to think she got from me, and thoughtful in the questions she asks in return, something I know she got from Tommy.
“Right, Mom?” CeCe asks.
I open my eyes, surprised to see the manicurist is applying the last layer of my OPI Cajun Shrimp nail polish.
“What’s that?” I ask, not sure how long I’d zoned out.
“Grandma and Grandpa are in Thailand?”
I nod and CeCe goes back to their conversation, something about street food and curry. Since my dad retired last fall, he and my mom have been traveling the world, adding stamps to their passports as if they were frequent-diners cards. Based on the pictures they post on Facebook, it looks like they’re enjoying their golden years together—but I know they barely smile at, much less talk to, each other when the camera isn’t out and no one else is around. They’re both just using each other to get what they want, or what they want other people to think they have.
They were in Cambodia when I finally got up the nerve to tell them what was going on with Tommy. I used the thirteen-hour time difference as an excuse, but the truth is, I didn’t want to have to explain that Tommy had given up. I knew they would respond the way they responded to almost everything, throwing money at the problem. Which they did.
My dad offered to pay whatever it took, hire the best doctor, find the best specialist; they would fly us to the moon if that’s what they needed to do to make sure I could keep my family of three intact.
In the end, I thanked them and said I would let them know if there was anything they could do, but there wasn’t.
“Ten minutes over here,” the manicurist says as she pulls out a chair at the nail drying station. I take a seat and close my eyes as she steps behind me for the complimentary shoulder massage.
“A lot of tension,” she says as she digs her palm into my right shoulder.
“You have no idea,” I tell her. It hurts in a good way and I drop my head, letting the tension leave my body. I consider asking her to keep going for an extra tip when CeCe pulls out the chair beside me.
“How do they look?” I ask.
She holds up her predictably purple nails, a soft shade somewhere in the lavender family.
“Beautiful.” My compliment brings a quick smile to CeCe’s face. “Perfect beach-nails for Destin.”
Her face falls and I curse myself for bringing up one of the very things we’re here to forget. I wish I could tell her that I don’t want to go, either, but I know that won’t help anything.
Since we’re already on the topic, I figure it can’t hurt to keep talking about it. Maybe it will even help, since avoiding the subject won’t change the fact that we’re leaving first thing in the morning.
“Have you started packing yet?” I ask, even though I know she hasn’t.
CeCe shakes her head.
“I can help you when we get home,” I offer.
“I’m not a baby,” she snaps. I sit back abruptly, wishing I could rewind the clock and never bring up the D-word. It’s just as bad as the C-word.
“I’m just trying to help,” I say, fully aware that I’m doing anything but.
“If you really want to help,” she says, “you can convince Dad we should stay here this summer.”
“You used to love spending summers in Destin,” I remind her.
“I was a baby then,” CeCe says, her tone getting snarkier with each syllable. “How I spend my summers matters now that I’m in high school. Don’t you want me to get into a good college?”
How anyone spends the summer between freshman and sophomore year is about as important to colleges as the grade they get in gym class. But I know better than to tell her that—especially in a public place where I’d like to be able to show my face again.
“We’ll talk about this later,” I say, lowering my voice.
“You don’t get it,” CeCe says, not bothering to be quiet. I can feel the eyes of everyone in the salon staring, ears perked, listening to what should be a private conversation. “You don’t understand how important acting is to me.”
“Is it more important than your dad?”
CeCe leans as far away from me as she can get without taking her hands out from under the dryer. “Of course not,” she hisses.
“Theater camp will be here next year,” I tell her. And before I can stop myself, I add, “Your father won’t be.”
I watch my daughter’s eyes, which look like my eyes, get wide and shiny behind her glasses. She opens her mouth but closes it without saying anything, which is exactly what I should have done.
“I’m sorry.” I pull my hands from under the dryer and reach out to touch her arm, but she is out of her chair before I can stop her. The chime on the front door rings loud, breaking the awkward silence left in her wake.
I quickly pay at the front desk, leaving a larger tip than necessary, before I follow CeCe outside. So much for mother-daughter bonding.