Things I Want My Daughters to Know_ A Novel - Elizabeth Noble [100]
“It’s only February.”
“It’ll be tough to top. It must have cost her parents a fortune.”
“Don’t go getting any ideas….”
“What, you mean you won’t be letting me have a live band, plus a disco, plus chocolate fountains…and look—goodie bags!”
She held up a small pink stiff cardboard bag.
“You haven’t had one of those since you were ten! What’s in it? Bubbles and a balloon for later?”
“Lip gloss, and a Starbucks card. Ruby’s dad works for Starbucks. How cool is that?”
“Beyond cool. I’m overcome with how cool.”
“Shut up, Dad.”
Mark looked at his daughter. She looked so happy.
“What’s the grin for?”
“I met a boy.”
“You did?”
“I did.”
FUNNY—HE HADN’T THOUGHT ABOUT HIS OLD GIRLFRIEND KATE in years, and now he’d thought about her twice in one evening. Hannah was almost the age she had been. That thought process, he knew, opened the door to a whole new ball game, and one he was far too wrung out tonight to play.
He closed the dishwasher, leaving the cooking pans and utensils where they sat. They could wait until the morning. Walking around to where Hannah sat, he laid an arm across her shoulders.
“Tell me all about him tomorrow?”
“Get lost!”
“Good night, gorgeous.” He kissed her forehead. He smelled cigarette smoke on her hair. She pulled away too quickly. He didn’t have the energy to open the topic.
“Night, Dad. Love you.”
“I love you, too, Hannah. Very much.”
Upstairs, behind closed doors, he kicked off his shoes and lay down across the mattress, with all his clothes still on, and closed his eyes. For a moment he thought he might cry, but he was too tired for that, too. He was acutely aware of Jennifer, asleep—or awake—just across the hall, and he didn’t like the new, uncomfortable feeling. Christ, she must be unhappy. That poison must have been festering inside her for years. He felt more disconnected from her than ever before. With a huge effort, he sat up, and pulled his sweater and the shirt beneath over his head, dropping them to the floor next to him. He unbuckled his trousers, pulling the leather belt out in a single movement, and let them, too, pool into creases on the floor. On the bedside table beside him was his favorite picture of Barbara. It had been taken just before Hannah was born. She was in profile, sat ramrod straight, like Whistler’s Mother. She’d had such backaches late in the pregnancy. That had been the only way she’d been comfortable. She was watching television, her hands resting on top of her bump. He loved the curve of her belly. He loved the shape of her nose, and her chin. He loved her glorious hair, normally thick, but then at its most lustrous and glossy, swinging easily across her shoulders. He loved everything about the picture, and he’d loved everything about her. He always had. And he still did. He opened his bedside drawer and took out the letter she’d written for him before she died.
My darling Mark,
What can I write to you? We had a card once, in the shop, that I loved. It was meant to be from parents to their kids, I think. It said that their job—the parents—had been to give them—the children—two things, roots and wings. But I always thought of you that way. That’s what you’ve given to me. The simple things and the extraordinary ones. I don’t know which one love is. I think, when it’s good, it can be both. And ours has been good, hasn’t it, sweetheart? It’s breaking my heart to leave you, so I guess it’s breaking yours, too, and I’m so, so sorry to be going too soon. Please carry my love for you with you forever. But don’t let that be all. Our capacity to love is vast—all of us. My daughters taught me that. There is room.
Barbara
In the morning, his head hurt. He lay in bed, willing the return of sleep, until nine, when he admitted defeat and shuffled downstairs to make tea. Jennifer must have already left. Her car wasn’t in the drive. She’d been very early, or very silent. She’d left a note for him, propped up against the fruit bowl, sealed in a brown envelope she must have found in a drawer in the kitchen.
Mark
I’m more sorry than I can say. I hate myself for