The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [40]
Her mother led the way up the narrow steps from the garage, high heels jabbing the bare planks, the hem of her coat jerking with each step. Inside the house she turned to Phoebe. “Sweetheart …” she said.
Phoebe moved toward her. They stood for some time on the dark landing, hugging in silence. Phoebe breathed her mother’s lemony perfume, her powder, the warmth of her skin.
“What I said about your father,” her mother said, still holding Phoebe, “I’m sorry I said that.”
“You mean it’s not true?”
Her mother hesitated, and Phoebe’s arms loosened around her. “You’re not sorry,” she said.
They withdrew from each other, but slowly. In the darkness Phoebe saw only the whispery outline of her mother’s face.
“The apology is for telling you something you didn’t need to hear, because I was angry,” her mother said, hanging her coat over the banister. “But I’m not going to stand here and lie to you, Phoebe. Frankly, at eighteen years old I think you’re better off knowing your father was not a talented painter than believing he was some kind of martyr. I promise you, if the man had stayed a bachelor to his dying day, he’d have ended up an engineer. Because that—that!—was what he really did well.”
She climbed the stairs to the second floor, Phoebe clambering behind her. “You don’t know that for sure,” she cried. “For all you know, if he’d stayed a bachelor, he might still be alive!”
“Now what in God’s name is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means!”
They faced each other in the upstairs hall. Light fell at one end from her mother’s bedroom where Phoebe had left it on after borrowing stockings. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” her mother said. “Tell me.”
“Because IBM made him sick,” Phoebe said, angry at the quaver in her voice.
Her mother snorted, turning on her heel. “That’s ludicrous,” she said, heading for her bedroom.
Phoebe charged after her. She felt crazed. How could it be ludicrous? That was the story of her father. With every move, every gesture—for years—her mother had confirmed it. “Mom,” she pleaded, “I can’t believe what you’re saying.”
“I can’t believe what you’re saying,” her mother replied. “You’re telling me your father got leukemia, a blood disease, from working as a manager at IBM? What, from chemicals or something? What are you saying?”
“No! You know!” Phoebe was shouting. “Everyone knew, because he—” Explaining felt useless. “Not chemicals, but—”
“What? Radiation?”
“No, no! Because he hated working there.”
“Oh please,” her mother said. “Spare me.”
Phoebe felt as if she’d been struck. Her mother sat on the bed and pulled off her pumps. She set them side by side on the polished floor.
“This is crazy,” Phoebe said. “Everyone knew. Dad knew it, Faith totally knew …”
“What Faith knew is meaningless,” her mother said with a sad, bitter laugh. “She believed whatever he wanted her to, poor thing.”
She rose from the bed and hung her shoes on a rack inside the closet door.
“Faith did not,” Phoebe said, “believe everything.”
“Oh, I’m not blaming her,” her mother said, unzipping the side of her dress, “not for a second. Children always think their parents are gods—what else do they know? It’s our job to keep the truth in perspective, otherwise you end up loving your kids because of how they make you feel about yourself. And that’s not love, that’s egotism, pure and simple.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m saying your father used Faith to bolster all kinds of myths about himself—it was her main function in his life.”
Phoebe stared at her mother. She was aware of the two of them sliding, drifting somewhere dangerous. She was lost, yet each unfamiliar step had its own eerie logic, and against it Phoebe felt powerless. “Dad loved her more than anything,” she said, shaking her head.
“No question. But if he’d loved her less, he’d have been a better parent.”
“Why?”
“He made her responsible