How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [119]
She rolls her eyes. “For God’s sake. It was years ago.”
“But we’re talking about what happened years ago.” I lean forward and say again, “What did I do then that I need to be forgiven for? Tell me and I’ll make amends.”
“You always get whatever you want, with a snap of your fingers. You just sail through everything, and everyone loves Ramona.”
I blink. “Sail through? Through what? Through being pregnant at fifteen? Through—”
“You always go back to that, like you’re the only person who had big problems as a teenager. Everybody does. Get over it.”
For a minute I want to storm away. Instead, I stand my ground. Quietly. Firmly. “You said I sailed through everything. I don’t see it that way. I think I’ve had kind of a challenging path.”
“No more challenging than anyone else.”
I lean back against the ugly green leather banquette. Maybe that’s true. “I don’t know how to atone for that. Can you forgive me for sailing through everything? For not having a harder road?” I frown. “I don’t think any of that is what this war is about.”
“Don’t call it war,” she says, and taps her stack of papers crisply against the table. “I just get tired of you being the center of everything. Plain and simple.”
“Talk to me.”
She meets my eyes. “Too late.” She swings her legs out of the booth and stands. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Before she walks away, I say, “Well, thanks for that, anyway. And if you need any help bringing the Erin into this century, I can probably help.”
She only glares over her shoulder and clip-clops into the kitchen.
Heading back to my car, I think, At least I gave it a shot. Maybe it will be like water against stone, but it is a beginning.
Because it’s that kind of a day, Katie is still in her room sulking when I get home. “Hey,” I say, knocking on the threshold. “You about ready to go to Jonah’s for Sunday-night supper?”
“I know you guys want to be alone,” she says, barely looking up from her thick book. Merlin sprawls on the floor of the screened-in balcony, panting hard.
“I love your company,” I say. “And maybe your dog would like to get out of this oven, hmmm?”
She glances over the top of her book. “We’ll go outside.”
“No, you should come with me. Jonah’s making his fish tacos, and you really loved them last time.”
“I don’t want to go, Ramona!” One foot is crossed over the top of her knee, and the foot wiggles furiously.
I wait.
“Did any of you ever think that I might want to see my dad? I mean, he is my dad, and I can be very helpful.” Tears glitter at the corners of her eyes. “Why didn’t Lily even ask me if I wanted to go with her?”
If living with my family, especially my mother, has taught me anything, it is to take a deep breath when a teenager flings an accusatory question on the table. It writhes between us like a rattlesnake, tail wiggling dangerously. “It would be terrible for you there, Katie. Sofia is in the hospital all the time, and there wouldn’t be anything to do. You would spend time in the room with your dad, but that would get old fast. He’s not well. He wouldn’t be talking to you—”
“I know that! I’m not a baby.”
My temper flares. “Well, you sure have been acting like one. Everyone is bending over backward to give you a better life, and you—”
“Nobody asked me if I wanted a better life!”
“No, because sometimes you have to trust adults to make good decisions on your behalf.”
“But I can’t act like a baby?”
In that instant I remember how illogical Sofia could be at this age, given to circular arguments and emotional pleas that didn’t follow any rules I could discern. Putting my hand on her knee, I say, “You can if you want to. You can sulk up here as long as you like, too, but please take care of your dog.” Merlin has come over to the side of the bed, panting, and I stroke his head. “I’m going to Jonah’s.