Things We Didn't Say_ A Novel - Kristina Riggle [107]
“Did you make that?” I ask Jewel, as if it could be anyone else. She wrinkles her nose under her glasses and beams like a twinkling star.
At dinner, we all try not to watch Angel eat, because from what I hear, nothing sets her off more. There’s not much on her plate, but the food actually does seem to be disappearing. Michael told me that after a fraught, high-volume argument Angel agreed to talk to the school counselor, a young woman she’s always liked, about why she doesn’t want to eat. That, along with her triumphant performance in The Miracle Worker, seemed to allow Angel to relax a little. Michael had been quick to add, “Not that I can take my hands off the wheel. Not for a minute.”
When Dr. Turner asks Michael how the writing is going, I stop with lasagna melting off my fork to stare between them, to see if Dr. Turner will approve of his son’s answer, or judge him lacking in ambition, perhaps.
Michael begins explaining about this online magazine he’s started, applying his old-school newsman training, but with stories that are more snarky, more fun. He’s getting that off the ground with all of them living here, with his parents, something that would have pained him before, and his dad would have held it over him.
But now Dr. Turner just listens, nodding, twirling cheese around his fork.
I’m sure he’s not delighted with the plan, but he’s keeping his criticism to himself. That’s something.
Michael’s also in line for a teaching job at the community college, and substitute teaching at high schools when he can.
“Any offers on the house yet, Dad?” Michael asks, now.
“Nothing realistic.”
The Heritage Hill house, which both parents and son decided they should let go, soft housing market be damned.
The phone rings, and Dr. Turner starts to get up, by reflex the doctor on call.
I’m closer, though, so I gesture for him to sit and go answer it myself, clowning for the family with an exaggerated British accent: “Dr. and Mrs. Turner’s residence.”
“Oh, well, if it isn’t the little woman.”
I don’t answer. The room around me falls silent. Mrs. Turner rises to her feet.
“So. Carrying on with your plan to steal my children? Any more of them run away lately, or haven’t you noticed, busy screwing Michael?”
I take a deep breath. I close my eyes and shake my head as if shaking raindrops out of my hair.
She’s just a person. As Michael once said, she’s not going to eat my spleen.
I hold out the phone and say simply, “It’s Mallory.”
Michael takes it, listens for a moment, and makes as if to step out of the room to talk. Then he stops, turns back to us, and says quietly into the phone, “Enough.” He pushes the button to end the call, and places the phone carefully down. He looks around at the ring of worried frowns around the table.
“Your mom is feeling a little upset right now. I’ll talk to her when she’s calmer.”
We all pause for the phone to ring again, but it doesn’t, and Mrs. Turner claps her hands and announces it’s time for cake.
When she comes back in, I’m laughing, because there really are twenty-seven candles on a round layer cake.
She says, blinking in the faint smoke, “Quick! Blow them out before the alarm goes off!”
I can barely get in a breath because I’m giggling. Michael reaches out to pull my hair back. “Don’t set yourself on fire!” he cries in mock alarm.
I don’t get them all blown out at once—my poor ravaged lungs—but it’s close enough. I don’t wish, either, because I don’t believe candles can grant wishes, or that hoping for something will make it come true.
Between bites of chocolate cake I open gifts—a pretty scarf from the Turners, a glittery bookmark from Jewel. Angel bought me a copy of The Crucible because I told her that was my favorite play. A homemade CD of Dylan playing his sax nearly has me weeping puddles of mascara down my face.
Michael’s box is last.
“I’m sorry to say that it isn’t brand-new, but money is tight and all,” he says, shrugging, turning pink.
The box is shoebox size, but impossibly light,