26

Harper

Walking out of the bathroom in my robe, I pick up my cell. I’m smiling. I can’t stop smiling. I ring Ann.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.” I adjust my microfiber towel on my head with one hand, holding my cell to my ear with the other.

“How was your day?” she asks. It’s what we do. When Remy left and he wasn’t here in the evening to ask me how my day was, Ann took his place. Funny thing is, he doesn’t ask me how my day went anymore. Even now that he’s here again. Probably because he doesn’t like to hear about cranky clients or bowel obstructions.

My grin widens. “It was good, Annie. It was . . .” I sit down on the edge of the bed. “I think it was my best since Georgina came home.”

“Harper, honey, that’s great news.”

I bob my head, getting a little teary. “She never said a word all the way to school this morning.”

“Well, it is a five-minute ride from my house to Ursuline’s front door,” she points out.

“Right, but I had her in the car alone this afternoon. And she talked to me.” I wipe under one eye and then the other with the corner of my towel. “Annie, she talked to me. I found out that her favorite ice cream is mint chocolate chip—”

“Like you.”

“Like me!” I’m laughing so I don’t cry. “And she likes The Great Gatsby. The book, not the movie. I don’t even know if she’s ever seen the movie. I’ll have to ask her.” I circle back around. “They’re reading it in English. She’s read it before, but she likes it. She’s writing a paper that compares Daisy and Zelda. She’s really smart. I think she’s really smart.”

Now Ann is laughing. “Of course she’s smart. How could she not be smart with you two for parents?”

“Funny you should bring that up . . .” I pull the towel off my head and fluff my hair. It’s getting thinner. How in heaven’s name can it be getting thinner already? My grandmother had thin hair, but she was in her seventies by then. “I read something the other day—Huffington Post, I think—that geneticists have found evidence that suggests intelligence may come more from the female than the male.”

“I suppose anything is possible.”

We both take a breath. Even on the phone, we feel a connection with each other.

“I think maybe we’re going to be okay.” I whisper the words because I’m afraid to speak them out loud.

Okay seems like such a middle-of-the-road word, but the width and breadth of it is almost overwhelming for me. We’re going to be okay; I’m not going to have a nervous breakdown. We’re going to be okay; Georgina is home to stay. We’re going to be okay; Remy isn’t going to leave us for an adjunct professor half my age. We’re going to be okay; Jojo isn’t going to demand that Ann and George adopt her. Or run away to join the circus or appear on a reality show on MTV.

“Of course you’re going to be okay,” Ann says firmly. But her voice is kind. “You were always going to be okay, Harper. No matter what happened. Even if she didn’t come back, I knew you were going to be okay.”

Tears run down my cheeks. “It’s the fifty-four-day rosary novena. I told you they work. And I haven’t even finished it.”

“I don’t know about that, but I’m happy for you, Harper. I’m so happy for you.”

“I definitely think we’ve turned a corner.” I get off the bed. I need to get dressed and go down and have my coffee with Georgina. Maybe we’ll talk some more. Maybe she’ll even want some help with her paper, even if it’s just to read it for typos. I’m a great proofreader. “Georgina and Jojo have stopped acting like they’re strangers. This morning they argued over who got the last of the granola; sisters do that kind of thing. And Georgina has taken a real interest in Dad. She wants to go to the nursing home alone. She wants to Uber.” I chuckle without humor. “Like I’m going to let her get in a car alone with a stranger.”

“Uber is pretty safe,” Ann injects. “Of course if you let her start driving—”

“Okay, enough, Annie. Baby steps. Baby steps.”

She laughs. With me, at me, it doesn’t matter.

“I better go,” I tell her. “She’s making me coffee. I just wanted to tell you I had a good day.”

As we hang up, Remy comes through the bedroom door. Closes it behind him.

“You’re home early.” I toss my phone on the bed and go over to give him a kiss.

He stands there, arms at his sides. His pants are wet. He must have ridden his scooter home in the rain. I wonder why he didn’t come home in his little Fiat; it’s parked at his place. I haven’t seen him in it in weeks. He likes the scooter, though. I think it makes him feel young and carefree and not saddled with a wife and two children.

He lets me kiss him, but there’s no pucker back. I rest my hand on his chest, looking at him. I know that face. My laid-back husband isn’t always laid-back. “Bad day?”

“It was fine.” His tone suggests it wasn’t.

“Is Peter giving you a hard time about the endowment you—”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I just came home because I forgot my gym bag. I’m headed for the gym.” He walks away from me. Goes to his giant antique chifforobe, one of the two in the bedroom. His parents once used them and his grandparents before them. The house wasn’t built with closets. He pulls open one of the double doors and pokes around. “It’s not here, either.” He shuts the door. Hard. “I guess I left it at the apartment.”

I nod. I didn’t even know he’d been to the apartment since Georgina came home. We haven’t really discussed what he was going to do with it. The lease isn’t up for at least six months, so it hasn’t been a priority. And of course we haven’t discussed the obvious question of whether or not he’s staying here. I’ve been sticking to the see how it goes plan he proposed and praying. I watch him, wondering what he was doing there that he might have left his bag. I sense this isn’t the time to ask. “Just grab another pair of shorts and a tee, hon. You’ll find it.”

“My good sneakers are in the bag. My gym sneakers.”

I’m still in my robe. “We could do something else for exercise,” I suggest, giving what I hope is a sexy smile.

He just stands there, looking at me. “I really wanted to go to the gym.”

Which is a not-so-subtle no-thank-you to my offer of an afternoon quickie. I decide not to let my feelings get hurt. I’m in too good a mood.

He turns back to the chifforobe, staring at it as if the doors are going to fly open and his gym bag is going to fly out.

I pick up the towel from my hair off the bed and walk toward the bathroom. “Maybe it’s in my car. You took it to the gym the other day.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“I had a nice talk with Georgina today, on the ride home from school.” I grab a pair of panties out of the top drawer of my dresser and step into them. “I feel as if we’re starting to connect. Maybe not the way you two are, but—”

“Harper, we’re not going to get into this right now. I feel like we’ve discussed it ad nauseam. It makes sense that it’s more difficult for her to relate to you because she already had a mother. She has no expectations for a father.”

And you’re so cool, who wouldn’t want you for their dad? I want to say. But I don’t. Because everything isn’t about me in our marriage. It can’t be. I know that.

I grab my jeans from the day before and pull them on. Then I turn my back to him to put on a sports bra. I’m not going anywhere else today; no underwires required. I pull on an old long-sleeved T-shirt some drug rep gave me. I’m now a walking billboard for a topical flea-and-tick medication.

“I wasn’t complaining, Remy. I was trying to tell you that we had a good conversation.”

“I guess I’ll check your car.” He walks to the door.

I’m disappointed that he doesn’t want to talk about my conversation with Georgina. And I genuinely want to know why he’s in a bad mood. In the past, I would have persisted at this point. I would have insisted he tell me what was going on. But I know the right thing is to just let Remy go right now. Talk about it later.

“You’ll be home for dinner?” I call after him as he goes out the door.

“Yeah. No . . . I don’t know. I might go back to the office after I work out. I’ll text you,” he calls when he’s out of sight.

I stand there for a minute wondering if I said something wrong. If I could have been more supportive. When Remy left, that was one of his reasons. He said I was so wrapped up in myself that I was never available emotionally for him. And he was absolutely right. The funny thing is that after he left, my ability to support him actually improved. Which makes no sense.

But I’m not going to worry about it today. I grab my phone and step into my sheepskin slippers. Today I’m going to bask in the joy of the chat I had with my daughter and I’m going to go downstairs and have a cup of coffee with her.

Only she’s not in the kitchen when I get there. There are two cups of coffee made, sitting on the counter, but no Georgina.

Maybe she went to the bathroom. Or to change her clothes. I take a sip of coffee. It’s good. I go to the refrigerator to dig around to see what I can make for dinner. Maybe noodle bowls. Georgina and Jojo both like that. It’s not great heated up, though. I close the refrigerator door. Maybe I’ll wait to see if Remy is coming home to eat with us or will be late.

I sit down at the island to wait for Georgina. I’m halfway through my cup of coffee when I begin to wonder where she is. But I don’t panic. And my heartbeat doesn’t increase. I glance around the kitchen. Her yogurt is sitting on the counter unopened. And a pear. She didn’t run away.

But I don’t see her backpack.

She didn’t run away. I’m being paranoid. She must have gone to her room. But if she left the yogurt out, she must have intended to come back down. I finish my cup of coffee as I wait. When she’s still a no-show, I go upstairs.

Her bedroom door is closed.

I knock. “Georgina?” I glance down the hall. The bathroom door is open; the light’s off. I tap again, lightly. “Are you coming back down?” I try not to sound needy.

“Doing my homework,” comes her muffled voice from behind the door.

Something in her voice doesn’t sound right and I debate knocking again and asking if I can come in. I resist. “You okay?” I keep my tone light.

She doesn’t answer.

“Georgina?”

“I’m fine. I . . . I have a headache. I might lie down for a few minutes. Then do my homework.”

“Okay.” I rest my palm on the door as if I can somehow touch her through the solid wood. Something in her voice sounds off. I don’t know how . . . almost as if she’s afraid. Upset. Something.

I turn away. Did I push her too hard in the car? Did I misinterpret what seemed like a conversation that was going well? I turn back. “I’ll call you for dinner when Jojo gets home.”

“Okay.”

I walk down the stairs slowly. Georgina’s a teenage girl, I tell myself. One who’s been through a hell of a lot in the last six weeks. She has a right to mood swings. And teenage girls hide in their bedrooms. It’s in their DNA.

And it’s in a mother’s DNA to worry about her cubs.