Live to Tell - Lisa Gardner [35]
Michael and Chelsea left the next day. It’s been me and Evan ever since.
“How’s school?” I ask.
She shrugs. I have to honor the mood, so I reach across the table for the cup filled with crayons. I flip over my place mat and start drawing a picture. After a moment, Chelsea does the same. We color a bit in silence, and I tell myself it’s enough.
The waitress comes. I order a garden salad. Chelsea goes with chicken fingers.
We color some more.
“I get to be the flower girl,” Chelsea says abruptly.
I pause, force myself to find yellow, add to my gardenscape. Wedding? The divorce was only finalized six months ago. I knew Michael was seeing someone, but this … It seems undignified somehow. A gross display in the middle of a funeral.
“You get to be a flower girl?” I ask.
“In Daddy and Melinda’s wedding. It will be during Christmas. I get to wear green velvet.”
“You’ll … you’ll look beautiful.”
“Daddy says Melinda will be my new Mommy.” Chelsea’s not coloring anymore. She’s staring at me.
“She’ll become your stepmom. You’ll have a stepmom and a mom after the wedding.”
“Do stepmoms like to eat at Friendly’s?”
I can’t do it. I put down the crayon, stare hard at the tabletop. “I love you, Chelsea.”
She picks up her crayon and returns to coloring. “I’m mad,” she says, almost conversationally. “I don’t want a new mom. Sarah has one, and she says stepmoms are no fun. And I don’t like green velvet. It’s hot. The dress is ugly.”
I say nothing.
“I want to rip the dress,” she continues. “I want to get scissors and cut it up. Cut, cut, cut. Or maybe I could drip paint all over it. Drip, drip, drip. Then I wouldn’t have to wear it.” She looks up again. “Mommy, am I turning into Evan?”
My heart twists. I take her hand. There are so many things I’d like to say to her. That she’s special, unique, beautiful. That I have loved her since the moment she was born. That none of this is her fault, not her brother’s illness and certainly not the Sophie’s Choice made by her mother every day.
“You’re not your brother, Chelsea. Evan … Evan has things in his head no one else has. His brain works differently. That’s why he gets so mad he can’t control himself. You’re not like that. Your brain isn’t his brain. You are you. And it’s okay if you get mad. Sometimes, we all get mad.”
“I don’t like Melinda,” Chelsea says, more plaintive now. “Daddy’s always at work. He’s no fun anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Weddings are stupid. Stepmoms are stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why can’t Evan go away? Daddy says that if Evan would just go away …”
I don’t answer. This is where Michael and I diverge. He wants his children to be fixable, whereas I’ve come to accept that our son has an illness no doctor can currently cure. Evan’s still our child, however, and just because he’s troubled is no reason to throw him away.
The waitress arrives with our food. She slides two oval plates onto the table. I rearrange my salad. Chelsea pokes at her french fries.
“Evan misses you,” I say after a moment. “He wishes you could both go to the park.”
Chelsea nods. There were times she and Evan were close. When he was calmer, in his sweet, charming mode. He would play dress-up with Chelsea, even let her do his hair. They’d play hide-and-seek, or form a rock band using all the kitchen pans. Those times, he was amazing and I imagine she misses that big brother. I also imagine there are plenty of other incidents she wishes to forget.
Chelsea is why Michael left me. He claimed my inability to institutionalize Evan was putting our daughter’s life at risk. Is he right? Am I right? How will we ever know? The world doesn’t give us perfect choices, and I couldn’t figure out how to sacrifice my son, not even for my daughter.
So here I am and