35

Lilla

I sit in the kitchen at the island, my book in front of me, but I’m not reading. I’m looking at the house phone in front of me. Then the time on the kitchen stove, then the phone again.

Everything fell into place today. Jojo is still with her friend; she’s not coming home until tomorrow night, Ash Wednesday. Olivia’s mom doesn’t want to drive in Mardi Gras traffic. Dad went to work this morning. Harper Mom went to work.

Last night, there was a ten-minute discussion over dinner about me staying home alone today. All day. Even though I’ve stayed home alone several times, it wasn’t all day. That was Harper Mom’s issue. Dad said it was fine. I think that, in the end, Harper Mom gave in, trying to make up for the blowup Sunday night.

Sunday night . . . I was so mad when I found out they were divorced. I hollered at both of them. What’s with that living room? What’s with me, shouting at adults? At my parents?

“You’re divorced?” I hollered at them.

“Georgina, come in and sit down with us,” Harper Mom said.

The lights were out; the TV was on, so the lighting was weird. Shadows kept moving across their faces, making them look creepy.

“Come sit on the couch and let’s talk about this,” she said. “Let us explain.”

“You’re not married anymore and you didn’t think I should know that?” I direct that to Dad, who’s just standing there, looking upset. “You lied to me. You both lied to me,” I accused.

“We didn’t lie,” Harper Mom said.

I folded my hands over my chest. I was so angry, I was shaking. It had already been a rough day. The whole parade thing, and then to find out . . . I just lost it. I was so furious, I wanted to walk out of the house.

But where was I going to go? Our house in Bayou St. John has been rented out again. I went last week on the streetcar when I was supposed to be getting my English muffin bread. I saw a flowered wreath hanging on the door and a kid’s bike on the porch. Nobody here knew I went there instead of the bakery. I just lied when I got back and told Harper Mom they were out of the bread. So now I have nowhere to live but here because there’s no way I’m living under the bridge at Claiborne under I-10. Not even in a tent. I have to make it work here on Exhibition Drive.

“Omission of the truth, it’s a lie,” I told Dad, because for some reason I was angrier with him than with Harper Mom. She treats me as if I’m a child most of the time, but he treats me like an adult. I expected more from him.

“Georgina, please,” Harper Mom said. She looked like she was going to cry.

“Just say it,” I told them. “Say you lied to me. Deceived me.” I kept shaking my head. “I can’t believe you let me think I was coming here to my parents. To this perfect little family.” I said it in a mean tone because I was so mad. “When were you going to tell me?” I asked.

Dad just stood there.

Mom took a step toward me. “Georgina, I’m sorry. We’re sorry. You’re right. We should have told you from the beginning, but . . .”

She waited like I was going to say, “Oh, okay, you were going to tell me. No problem.” But when I didn’t say that, when I didn’t say anything, she went on.

“Our marriage is complicated. Most are, hon. We divorced three years ago because—”

“Because it wasn’t working out,” Dad said, coming to stand next to his ex-wife. He paused and then went on. “Honestly, Lilla, we don’t really owe you an explanation as to why we divorced. It’s personal. Between your mom and me. Had you been here, you wouldn’t have been consulted; Jojo wasn’t. What I can tell you is that for us, it actually improved our relationship.” He looked at her. “I think, in a lot of ways, I was a better husband. I was certainly a better father to Jojo.”

I just stood there, listening. Still not able to wrap my head around what he was saying. Remy and Harper divorced. They weren’t married. That’s all I could think of. My parents aren’t married. And everybody knows it but me.

Mom kept looking at me like she thought I was going to implode. . . or shatter. Did she really think I wouldn’t be able to bear this of all things, after all that’s happened to me in the last two months? I don’t know them well enough to care if they’re married or not. I was just pissed that they were dishonest with me.

“We divorced,” Harper Mom said, “and your dad moved to an apartment a couple of blocks from here. But we saw him almost every day. He had dinner here, we visited Granddad together. I know it sounds odd but—”

I threw up my hand, interrupting her. “That’s where you keep your car,” I said to Dad. He showed up with a car a couple of weeks ago and when I asked him where he kept it, his answer didn’t really make sense. Now I see why. He hadn’t been hiding the fact that he had a car, he’d been hiding the fact that he had an apartment where he kept it. “I’m such an idiot.”

Dad ran his hand over his head as if he was tired. Or didn’t want to be here. Which made two of us.

“Even before we found you, your dad and I had talked about trying again. Trying to live together, trying to rekindle what we’d lost. And then when we found out you were coming home,” Harper Mom said, “we thought it might be easier if the family unit looked the same as it did when you . . .”

“When she took me,” I finished for her. “Like you thought I was going to remember you two?”

When I said that, Harper Mom’s eyes got teary.

“We’re sorry,” Dad said quietly. “We screwed up, Lilla, and we’re sorry. But we didn’t know what we were doing here. We’ve never done this before, just like you haven’t.” He paused and then went on. “Parents make decisions every day and sometimes they’re the right ones. Sometimes they’re not.”

I walked out of the living room and went upstairs.

Before they went to bed, they both came in to speak to me. Separately. What they said made sense, I guess. And I get that people screw up. But the idea that they were divorced and hadn’t been living together really messed with my head. I didn’t ask either of them what the plan for the future was. Were they married now, for good? Was he planning to go back to his apartment? I can’t imagine living here without Dad, but I can only handle so many problems at a time, and right now, Sharon’s a bigger problem than the state of my parents’ marriage. Or divorce. Or whatever.

That night I texted Jojo and asked why she didn’t tell me they were divorced. Because I knew she knew. Obviously she knew. She texted back:

Figured you’d figure it out

Then, Sorry

I texted her back, No worries, because it wasn’t her fault. I know they didn’t consult her. And she’s got her own crap to deal with. Me, for one thing. I keep thinking about the sterling silver framed photo of me in the living room, with the candle. The shrine, Jojo calls it. That had to be hard for her seeing that all those years.

I check the clock on the stove for the one-millionth time. She should be calling soon. This is what time she called both times. I reach for my glass of water. My throat’s dry. What am I going to say? I don’t know what I’m going to say.

And then it rings. And instead of staring at it like I did before, I snatch up the phone, hit the button, and say, “Hello,” all breathless.

“Hello,” says the same recorded lady’s voice. “This is a collect call from . . . Sharon Kohen . . . an inmate at Louisiana Correctional Institute. If you would like to accept the collect call, please press one.”

I push the numeral one and put the phone back to my ear.

“Lilla, thank you,” my mother gushes. She’s crying. “Thank you for picking up. I was so afraid you wouldn’t pick up. My attorney said not to contact you, but I just had to—” She takes a shuddering breath. I’ve never heard her this way. Sobbing like this. But I guess I never really knew her, did I?

“I had to know you were all right,” she says.

My eyes fill with tears. I had this whole thing planned. What I was going to say to her. I was going to tell her she ruined my life. I was going to tell her I hated her. I was going to yell at her like I yelled at Dad and at Harper Mom. Because none of this is even their fault and they’re the ones I’m yelling at. They’re the only ones I have to yell at. And that’s not fair. Someone should yell at Sharon for doing this to me. We should all yell at her. But at least me. I should get first dibs.

That was my plan, but now . . .

“Mama Bear?” I say, my voice cracking.

“Lilla, I’m so sorry. Bubbeleh, I never meant for this to happen,” she cries. “I never meant to hurt you.”

I bite down on my lip until it hurts. She never meant to hurt me? What about Harper Mom, or Dad, or Jojo? That’s what I want to scream at her. Did you not mean to hurt me, but you meant to hurt them? If you lost your baby, if your baby died, wouldn’t you understand the pain you were going to bring to the people whose baby you kidnapped?

But I don’t say those things. Because those aren’t the kinds of things you say over the phone. You need to say things like that in person.

I wasn’t sure of this, but now I am. “I . . . I want to come see you,” I manage, fighting not to turn into a blubbering mess like her. My nose is running and I reach for the dish towel on the counter and wipe it. I feel as if I’m liquefying, as if I’m just going to melt into a puddle on the pretty hand-painted-tile floor.

“They’ll bring you?” Now she’s almost laughing.

Doesn’t she know what a stupid question that is? Of course they aren’t going to bring me to prison to see her!

“How does this work?” I ask, ignoring her question. I’ve already started coming up with a plan, how to get out of here and get a head start before they know I’m missing. Harper Mom is scheduled to work for a couple of hours in the morning. Dad will go to work. Jojo will still be out of town. I can even text Harper Mom and tell her I went somewhere, to give me some more time. By the time Harper Mom realizes I’m gone, I’ll be long gone. “I think I can come tomorrow,” I tell Sharon.

“Oh, bubbeleh, tomorrow won’t work.”

I panic. “What do you mean? Tomorrow is when I can come. I . . . there’s no school. I—”

“Lilla,” she interrupts gently. “There are specific visiting days. Visiting hours. You can only come on weekends. Can you come Saturday? Saturday is the day my block has visiting privileges. I’m in the women’s correctional facility in St. Gabriel.”

I get up off the stool and pace. “I don’t know. I don’t know,” I tell her, pressing my hand to my forehead. I had it all planned. Tomorrow would be the perfect day: no school, the parents working, Jojo gone. But if tomorrow won’t work—“I’ll figure out a way,” I tell her.

“Oh, bubbeleh, I can’t wait to see you. Hug you.” She gets quiet. “Are they coming? Because . . . I don’t know if I can face them. Not yet, at least. I thought maybe they would come when I appeared in court, but they didn’t. When I have my actual sentencing hearing, maybe—”

“They’re not coming,” I say quietly. Then, “I have to go. Before they hear me on the phone.” It worries me that I’m beginning to lie like this. I never used to lie about anything. To anyone.

“They don’t know you’re talking to me? Lilla, I don’t know that that’s—”

“Saturday,” I interrupt. “I’ll be there Saturday.”

“O . . . okay,” she says. Probably because she’s sitting in jail and knows she doesn’t get to make decisions about me anymore.

“I think visiting is nine to two, but you have to be here by one fifteen. Or they won’t process you. And you need a picture ID,” she adds.

“Got it.” I’m glad she told me that; it wouldn’t have occurred to me that I needed an ID. I can use my old driver’s license. I still have it because we haven’t really discussed me getting a new one. With my real name on it. With everything going on, I just haven’t gotten into my driving again. We’ve only talked about it a little bit.

“Okay,” I say. “I have to go.”

“I’ll see you Saturday.” She starts to cry again.

I hang up.