42
Harper
“Another family meeting?” Jojo stands at the top of the staircase looking down at me. “Mom,” she groans dramatically. “I just took a shower. I have to blow-dry my hair, otherwise it’ll get all frizzy.” She’s wearing yoga pants, a sweatshirt, and a towel twisted and piled high on her head.
“Dinner and family meeting,” I say firmly. “Five minutes. In the dining room.”
“Dining room?” Another groan. “Must be serious.”
“Tell your sister!”
I find Remy in the dining room lining up cartons of takeout. He went to my favorite Thai place. A peace offering. He stayed over last night, mostly because I think he had to keep vigil over me so I wouldn’t sit outside Georgina’s bedroom door with a shotgun. If we had one. He and I lay in bed most of the night talking. We fell asleep in each other’s arms. Tonight he’s going back to his place, so it’s time to talk to the girls.
I’m overwhelmed. Sad. Tired. But I have the strangest sense that things are going to get better now. Georgina and I actually talked on the way home from the prison yesterday. I think she has a better understanding of my feelings as the woman who gave birth to her. And I understand her better, too. There were no declarations of eternal love. No hugfest. But we both walked into the house, though drained, more aware of where the other was coming from.
Now I just want to get past the Remy detonation. So we can make a plan. So we can figure out what our family is going to look like now because obviously I’m not going to get the nuclear I dreamed of.
“They’ll be down in a minute,” I tell him.
“I poured wine for you.” He points to a glass beside my plate. He’s set the table and though we’re serving out of takeout containers, he’s put out real plates and even dug out cloth napkins. We all have water glasses. There’s a glass of orange juice at Jojo’s place.
I take a sip of wine and exhale through my mouth as if breathing through a labor contraction. I almost smile at the thought. These last months really have been like labor, the longest labor any mother has had to endure.
“It’s going to be okay, baby,” Remy reassures me, reaching for his own glass. He holds it by the stem, turning it, watching the wine swirl. He lifts it to his nose and breathes. “We’ll make this work.”
“She’s going to be heartbroken,” I whisper.
“Not to be unkind or flip, but she’s had a lot of that lately.” He sips. “She’ll be okay. She’s strong. Like her mother.”
When he says that, it occurs to me that Sharon is really more responsible for Georgina’s strength than I am. If I can ever face her, I think I’d like to thank her for that. She probably shouldn’t hold her breath waiting for me in the prison waiting room, though. It’s going to be a while before I go back. A while before Georgina is ready to go back again, too, I think.
I hear footsteps on the staircase. Two sets. I grab a lighter from a drawer in the massive china cabinet and light the three candles on the end of the table. I don’t know why I decided we should eat in this big room, at this big table, huddled down at one end. Maybe because I feel as if we need to huddle together. That we need to form final bonds before others are severed?
Georgina comes in first: jeans, Tulane T-shirt, flip-flops, and bird’s-nest hair. Then Jojo: hair still in a towel, scowl on her face. We all take our seats: Remy at the head of the table, me to his left, the girls to his right and across from me.
I fold my hands, bow my head, and close my eyes. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” Remy and Jojo echo.
I open my eyes in time to see them both cross themselves as I do the same. Georgina has her hands still clasped in prayer, her eyes closed. I have no idea how we’re going to come to terms with her relationship to Judaism, but it makes my heart glad to see her head bowed in prayer. Because He’s the same God, isn’t He? Father Paul reminded me of that when we chatted after choir practice. He also talked about patience. For a priest, he didn’t seem to be that upset by the idea that our daughter doesn’t believe in the Holy Catholic Church or its doctrine. But the fact that he wasn’t worried took some of the worry from me.
“So . . .” I say, reaching for a plate of spring rolls. “We’ve got something important to talk about.”
“We going to go over the rules about visiting people in prison without permission?” Jojo demands.
I cut my eyes at her but before I can speak, she turns to Georgina.
“Sorry,” she says, her tone actually contrite. “That wasn’t nice.” She lifts her gaze to meet her sister’s. “I don’t know why I say mean things sometimes.”
Georgina lifts her shoulder, lets it fall. “It’s okay,” she answers quietly. “We’re good, Jojo.”
“Chili sauce for your spring rolls?” I pass a plastic packet to Georgina because I know she likes it. “We’ve got pad Thai noodles.” I point to two cartons with my chopsticks. “Green curry, seafood preaw wan, oh, and rice. White and brown.” I indicate the other cartons.
Remy reaches for one of the boxes of pad Thai. “We’re just going to get right down to this, girls.”
He takes a breath and I realize he’s nervous. I don’t know why, but somehow that makes me feel better. Not because he’s uncomfortable or in emotional pain, but because I appreciate that he really does understand the ramifications of his actions. And he still believes this is best for our family.
He looks at me, then starts pulling pad Thai noodles out of the carton, onto his plate, with chopsticks. “I’ve decided to move back to my place.”
Georgina is dipping a spring roll into chili sauce she’s squeezed onto her plate. She freezes, turning her gaze to him. “You’re leaving us?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No, I’m not leaving you.” He sets the carton down on the table, glancing at me, then at Georgina. “I—” He exhales. “Honey, this is really between your mother and me. It’s difficult to explain—”
“So you’re moving out, but you think that’s not leaving us?” Georgina practically throws her spring roll onto her plate.
He looks at me.
I sit forward in my chair. She has every right to be angry with him. We all do. “Your dad’s not going to sleep here anymore, but he’s not leaving us. He’s not cutting us out of his life. Georgina, you’re going to see plenty of your father. He’ll eat here most nights with us, he can still go to temple with you on Saturdays, and . . . he—” I take a breath. “I know this living arrangement sounds unconventional, but you’re going to have to trust us. We made this work before.”
Jojo’s put two spring rolls on her plate and is now munching away, saying nothing. She doesn’t look in the least bit upset, but she already knew this was the plan. And she already knows that we really can make it work. And that her father isn’t abandoning her.
“It’s difficult to explain, honey,” Remy says again. “Relationships between husband and wife are complicated.”
Georgina shakes her head. “Not good enough, Dad. You want to leave us. Okay, so explain it. I know you-all were doing things this way before I got here, but I don’t care about that. You can’t just change things up on me and not give me an explanation. Why can’t you live here with us?” She glances at me. “Why can’t you be married to her? She’s a nice person and she tries really hard.”
He shifts in his chair and my heart goes out to him, because I know he loves us. And I know this is hard for him. Maybe even harder for him than me because I realize, from talking last night, that he feels like a failure. A failure as a father and as a husband. And maybe he is. But he’s doing his best and I love him for that. I’ll always love him for that.
He opens his hands and then closes them into fists. Trying to find the right words. “I don’t know how to explain it, except to tell you that I can’t be a husband to your mother all the time. Not the way she deserves. And I . . . I can’t be a father to you girls 24/7.” His voice cracks. “I’ve tried and I can’t. I need space. I need time to myself. In order to be who I want to be for you.” He looks from one of us to the next. Even Jojo has lifted her head to meet his gaze.
“So, your dad is going to move out and the three of us will stay here, but very little is going to change,” I start to explain. “Your father—”
“If he’s going, I’m going,” Georgina declares.
I stare at her, shocked.
“Lilla,” Remy says gently.
Georgina shakes her head. “No . . . no! If you don’t have to stay here, I don’t have to stay here. I want to go with you, Dad.” She looks at me, her eyes filling with tears. “I want to go with him,” she tells me.
And I feel as if I’m free falling. I never saw this coming. How did I not see it coming?
I look to Remy, pleading. For what, I don’t know. For him to stay. For him to tell her she has to stay. For him to save me.
Jojo just sits there, shaking her head. “You know, it makes sense,” she says, her voice stark in the silent room. “The two of them living in one place, us in another.”
I look at my youngest daughter, feeling as if she’s betrayed me. But the tears in her eyes tell me she hasn’t. They’re telling me she’s being truthful.
“Look,” Jojo says. “What’s the big shocker here? Dad can’t be a full-time husband or dad. Not even for you, Mom. We already know that. So, maybe it’s the same thing with Lilla.” She reaches for a carton of rice. “You want her to be your full-time daughter, Mom, but a couple of months ago”—she hooks her thumb over her shoulder—“she was someone else’s daughter.”
I reach for my napkin, fighting tears. “Jojo—”
“No, let her speak,” Remy says, covering my hand with his.
“You’re asking a lot, Mom. Maybe if Georgina lives with Dad for a while, she can get used to things. Maybe she won’t feel so overwhelmed. And she can come here for dinners and stuff, just like Dad did . . . like he does.” Jojo meets my gaze, suddenly seeming a lot older than fourteen to me. “Mom, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I liked it when Dad lived in his apartment. You and I got along just fine. And things were better. You and he didn’t argue. You laughed a lot. You liked each other again.”
Now I’m the one shaking my head. “No, absolutely not. You are not leaving here, Georgina.” I look to Remy. “You’re not taking her from me.”
“Dad, don’t you want me?” Georgina’s voice is raw with emotion.
“Of course I . . . I want you.” He looks to me. “But I don’t know if . . . I . . .”
Jojo groans. “Come on. It’s not like you’re going to have to keep an eye on her all the time, Dad. She was practically on her own before she came here.”
Remy looks at Georgina. “I do want you to live with me. I think it might be good for both of us,” he says, obviously choosing his words carefully. He returns his gaze to me. “But this has to be up to your mother.”
I hear Georgina’s chair scrape on the hardwood floor. She gets up.
“Lilla,” Remy says.
“Georgina,” I call after her.
But she’s already out of the dining room.
I look to Remy, stunned. “You have to fix this,” I say in a small, frightened voice. “You can’t take her from me. You can’t do it.”
He grabs my hand. He’s teary, too. “I won’t. You know I won’t. Not without you agreeing to it. But, baby . . . think about what she’s asking. Think about what Jojo is saying.”
“I’m going to go see if she’s okay,” Jojo says and gets up.
I just sit there, feeling the warmth of Remy’s hand.
“Just consider it. Temporarily . . . it might be a good idea,” he says. “It might be easier for her to make the transition.”
“But I want her here with me.” Tears run down my cheeks.
He gets out of his chair and comes to me. He squats beside me. “I know you do,” he says softly, looking up at me. “But what is our goal here? What’s your goal?” When I don’t answer, he goes on. “I think our goal is to integrate Lilla into our family. To make her one of us.”
I wring my napkin in my hands. “But she is.”
“To us she is, but not to her.”
I close my eyes. I’m trembling.
“You want to be her mother, but right now, in her head, Sharon is her mother and you’re just a . . . usurper.”
The word makes me take a shuddering breath. The thing is, Georgina said the same thing in the car yesterday. She just said it with more kindness.
“Maybe you two need some space. So neither of you feels so much pressure,” Remy goes on. “Because right now you’re struggling to be her mother and she’s struggling to be your daughter, Harper. And . . . we have to take into account her being old enough and mature enough to make choices like this. If we were divorcing right now, a judge might ask her who she wanted to live with.”
“But how can I let her go when I’ve waited so long to have her again with me?”
He takes my hand and kisses it. “You wouldn’t be letting her go. You’d just be letting her live with her father. Baby, half the kids in this country live with just one biological parent and most of them don’t get to live a few blocks from the other parent.”
I close my eyes. I want to get down on the floor and curl up in a ball and just . . . disappear.
Remy rests his cheek on my hand. “Harper,” he whispers. “I think we need to do this. For our daughter.”