Dear Diary,
Whenever I heard the phrase dark night of the soul, I used to imagine Christmas Eve, when you’re too excited to sleep.
Now I know better.
M.P.M.
heels sinking into the wet grass. The street, when I darted across it, was slick with sleet, but I managed to stay upright long enough to reach my house. Shivering, I hurried up the steps and through the front door.
I stood on the rug in the entryway, arms limp at my sides, aware of nothing but my own misery and the hot streaks coursing down my cheeks. After several minutes of this, the increasingly urgent need for a tissue forced me to move. I’d taken a few steps toward the downstairs bathroom when I noticed the soft jazz wafting from the living room. A glance in that direction revealed flickering candlelight, empty wineglasses—and my parents.
I stared at them in horror. They looked back at me with equal dismay. On top of everything else, I’d interrupted date night.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked, pulling her legs from my father’s lap and leaping to her feet. She crossed the room to wrap an arm around me.
“Nothing,” I said thickly, wiping my nose and cheeks with the back of my hand. “It’s raining.”
They exchanged a look, silently debating whether to call me on the world’s most transparent falsehood.
“Come sit down,” Dad said, patting the couch cushion.
“That’s okay.” I tried to sound stoic. “I just want to go to bed.”
Mom led me to the couch. “What happened?”
I shrugged as I settled between them. It was easier not to cry if I kept my mouth closed.
“Mary.” She lifted my chin to get a better look at my face. “You’re worrying us.”
“I did something ba-ad.” A hiccupping sob split the last word before I managed to clamp my lips together. Mom’s hand tightened on my shoulder. I caught a flicker of panic in her eyes before she schooled her expression.
“Talk to us,” Mom said. Dad pulled the afghan off the back of the couch and draped it around my shoulders, as if that would help.
Strangely, it did. I let out a shuddering breath. “I was at the dance,” I began, not sure how much backstory to give them. “And there was this guy—Alex.”
Dad scratched his chin. “The one you spoke to at Trivia Night?”
I blinked at him in surprise before nodding.
“Handsome fellow,” he observed. For a second I lost control of my face, mouth wobbling as my eyes wrinkled into teary slits.
“Why don’t you make us some tea?” Mom suggested, patting Dad’s knee.
He looked from her to me. “That might be for the best.”
Mom waited until the kitchen door swung closed behind him. “First of all,” she said, pressing my limp hand between both of hers, “there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I gave a sputter of disbelief.
“The early stirrings of love can be confusing, particularly in their physical manifestations. But as long as both partners share a mutual respect and consideration . . . ” She trailed off, jaw tightening. “It was, wasn’t it?”
She’d lost me. “What?”
“A joint decision.” She enunciated the words carefully, watching my face. “You didn’t feel compelled, or coerced, to do anything you weren’t ready for?”
I stared back at her with mounting dread. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about whatever you want to talk about. In a spirit of openness and acceptance.”
“I kissed him, Mom. That’s it.”
“Oh, thank God.” She covered her eyes with one hand. “You’re much too young. I was trying to be broad-minded, but I don’t think either of us is ready for that.” Leaning forward, she yelled, “You can come back. It’s not about sex.”
I closed my eyes as the last word reverberated through the house.
Dad stuck his head through the doorway. “It’s not?”
“Just a kiss,” Mom assured him.
The kettle whistled. “I’ll be right there,” Dad promised, ducking back into the kitchen.
Mom patted my hand. “We’ve been meaning to have the Talk with you, but to be honest we assumed we’d have more time. Or that you’d ask one of your sisters,” she added hopefully.
“It’s not about that. I mean, it is, but it’s not.” Could I even form a sentence anymore? I closed my eyes to stop another gush of tears.
Dad bustled into the room, setting a steaming mug on the coffee table in front of me before handing one to Mom. “What did I miss?”
“It is and also isn’t about the kiss,” Mom recapped.
I wrapped my hands around the hot mug, pulling it close to my face. The steam eased some of the stiffness. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Because?” Dad said leadingly.
“Because I told everyone he was a bad person. But now I think maybe—” I drew a ragged breath, “I’m the bad one.”
Once I started talking, the words poured out. From Alex liking Terry and how I’d kept them apart, somehow kicking off three wonderful friendships, to our vexed efforts in the dating arena, including the misguided setup with Jeff.
“Your friends encouraged you to pursue your sister’s boyfriend?” Dad interrupted.
“That was before we realized. And now I think maybe Terry likes Cam too. And Miles and Arden broke up because of something I said! It’s a catastrophe.”
“It is a bit melodramatic,” Dad agreed, which did not strike me as a helpful observation.
The tears flowed anew. “I ruined everything. They’ll never want to be friends with me again.”
Mom’s brows drew together. “Because you kissed the boy your friend wasn’t dating?”
“No! Because it makes everything I ever told them look like a tissue of lies!” Part of me hoped they would argue the point, but that wasn’t my parents’ style. They took their time mulling my words, making contemplative sounds—a lingering hmm in Mom’s case; head scratching for Dad.
“Can’t you tell your friends what happened?” Dad asked at last.
I shook my head violently. How was I supposed to explain to them when I didn’t understand it myself? It was as though I’d discovered a hidden door inside my own home, one that led to a dank and cobwebbed basement I’d never known about. Only the door was in my head, and the basement was a side of me I’d never seen—a selfish, sneaky crawl space.
“Now, now,” Dad said as I began sniffling again. “I’m sure things aren’t as dire as they appear. Friendships have survived worse.”
I couldn’t tell him that in my world, friendships were brittle things that could be shattered with a few words. How lowering to think I’d alienated all my friends for the second time in the span of a few months. Not to mention Alex.
“There’s something else,” I said. “Someone else.”
I felt Mom stiffen beside me. “Another boy?”
“The same one,” I sighed. “Alex. I kind of . . . threw him to the wolves.”
“How so?” Dad asked.
“I let my friends think it was his fault. The kissing. Like I was just an innocent bystander.”
For several endless moments, the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock. “That was unfortunate,” Mom said at last.
“I know! And I feel terrible about it.” I raised my head far enough to glance hopefully at my parents. “I sort of confessed the truth on the way home.”
“To your friends,” Mom clarified. I nodded.
“And your fellow?” Dad asked.
I shook my head, not bothering to point out that he certainly wasn’t my fellow anymore—if he ever had been.
Mom took a meditative sip of tea. “You know, Mary, there is no version of this story where you don’t make mistakes.”
“What story?” I rubbed my forehead to smooth the lines I could feel forming. I’d probably wake up with gray hair, too. “My first dance, you mean?”
“Your life,” she corrected. “It’s the nature of existence. To err is human. We screw up, and then screw up some more.”
“But I don’t like being in the wrong.” I jabbed a hand at my midsection. “This is the worst feeling in the world. I hate it.” Dad’s warm hand landed on the back of my head. I took a deep breath before continuing. “I tried really hard not to do all the dumb things you’re not supposed to do, and I still messed everything up. It’s not fair.”
“We all have to face our fallibility at some point,” Mom said. “If we didn’t, it would be too easy to turn into sociopaths.” Dad cleared his throat, their private shorthand for take it down a notch.
She took a deep breath before continuing. “Remorse forces us to take a hard look at ourselves. It gives us the strength to grow, and the courage to do the right thing next time—or at least try. Speaking of which.” Mom sat forward, smacking the arm of the sofa with an open palm. “I think you know what you have to do now.”
I scowled at her. Unlike my mother, I couldn’t flip the switch from despair to resolve at the drop of a hat.
“Sometimes we have to admit our mistakes,” she went on, brimming with conviction. “However painful that may be.”
Dad and I gave her matching come again? looks.
“What?” she asked. “It’s good advice.”
“Yes,” Dad agreed. “Although a bit . . . mmm.”
“If you have something to say, I wish you’d say it.”
He coughed. “I suppose I was thinking . . . ‘physician, heal thyself.’”
Mom started to puff herself up like a turkey.
“It’s true,” I said quickly, relieved to be discussing someone else’s flaws. “Apologies are not your strong suit.” We all knew when she was sorry; there was a very particular look her face got, sort of chastened and uncomfortable. But it was always implicit. She wasn’t one to say the words.
“Nonsense.” Mom made a shooing motion with her hand. “I’m woman enough to admit when I’m wrong. It just doesn’t happen very often.”
“Or ever,” Dad said, not quite under his breath.
“That’s ridiculous. You just don’t recall.” Dad’s faulty memory had long been her argumentative ace in the hole.
He set down his mug. “By all means, refresh my memory.”
“I can think of one right now.” She gave him a smug look. “On our second sabbatical in England, when we took that side trip to Yorkshire.”
“I remember the trip,” Dad said. “We carried the twins in packs on our backs.”
“Then you should also remember the argument we had about visiting Haworth. I said it was too late in the day to set out and we’d never make it in time, because it was the off-season and they were sure to be closing early. You insisted we go anyway.” Mom crossed her arms. “The rest is history.”
“I’m afraid I don’t recall the argument,” Dad said mildly. “It was a lovely afternoon, though. Didn’t we stop for a cream tea afterward?”
“Exactly.” Mom inclined her head. “Because you were right, and I was wrong.”
His brow furrowed. “And you acknowledged that fact, in so many words?”
“Of course!” She gestured at me. “Mary heard me.”
“I wasn’t born then,” I reminded them.
Mom cast her eyes to the ceiling. “I’m talking about right now. I believe my exact words were ‘you were right, and I was wrong.’”
“Just to be sure I’m following,” Dad said, “you mean to tell us that this evening you apologized for something that happened twenty years ago?”
“More like eighteen,” she corrected. “I was pregnant with Cam at the time. Which is probably why I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Dad nodded slowly, lips pressed together as he tried not to laugh.
“There’s no need to be petty,” Mom huffed.
“Certainly not,” he agreed.
“You see, Mary, it’s never too late to put things right.” Mom smoothed the hair at my temples. “Finish your tea, take a nice bath, and get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”
I sincerely doubted that. Then again, the thought of waiting two decades for the situation to right itself was not particularly appealing.
The phone rang in the front hall. After a quick look at me, Mom rose to answer. “Yes,” I heard her murmur. “She’s here. No. It’s fine.”
I held my breath as she walked back into the living room. “That was Cam,” she said. “Making sure you got home safely.”
The last ember of hope died. Of course it was my sister. Who else would be calling me, ever again?