Touch

45

After Zayn drops me off, I lie awake in my bed, wondering if the night really happened or if it was just a dream.

I know that sounds sort of crazy, and normally I'd laugh if Hanna or someone else said anything even remotely similar, but if it weren't for the tingling that still lingers on my lips or the pure electric current pulsing through my veins, I'd swear tonight was one big fantasy created by my subconscious.

That's how amazing our evening was. At the breakfast table, Dad is all pastry and orange juice.

He's got a whole spread going, complete with sugarcoated strawberries, gluten-containing fritters, and a store-bought coffee cake that lists partially hydrogenated oil as one of its key ingredients.

He's obviously trying to overcompensate for Mom's absence this morning. She's still in bed. When I passed by her room earlier, the covers were drawn up over her shoulders, and she refused to talk. "She just needs a little space right now," Dad says when I ask.

"What about work?" He sits down across from me at the island and takes a sip of coffee. "Someone's taking over her classes for the next couple of days."

"For the next couple of days or the next couple of weeks?" He gives me a sharp look, but instead of answering, he keeps things light by asking about the cafeteria food at school and then handing me an extra five bucks for lunch.

"So, what are we going to do about it?" I ask. "About Mom ?" he asks, like I need to clarify. "We're going to give her a little space."

"But what if she doesn't need space?" Dad clears his throat. "I know you mean well, but this is really between your mother and her sister."

"Aunt Belle," I say correcting him, though it's weird to even call her that. The last time I saw her was when I was in preschool, at least that's what I'm told.

Dad clanks his mug against the granite counter in an effort to maintain his ground. "You really don't know anything about it."

"Well, I know that blaming yourself for stuff that happened forty years ago isn't the answer, either . I mean, do you honestly think it's Mom's fault that Grandma hated Belle so much?"

"That's not why your mom blames herself."

"I know," I say, confident that it has more to do with the fact that, growing up, Mom did nothing to protect her little sister. According to Mom, Grandma treated Belle with nothing but hatred, blaming Belle's birth for her husband's leaving her.

Meanwhile, my mom was loved and indulged, often as a way to make Belle feel even more unwanted. "It isn't Mom's fault that Aunt Belle is having all these problems."

"Shhh..." Dad gestures toward the hallway. Their bedroom door is open a crack. "I honestly don't know what the answer is," he says, lowering his voice.

"Me, neither, but I do know that living in the past only messes up your present. Mom needs to deal with her demons and move on and stop living a life of guilt." Dad smiles and stirs his coffee, even though it's black.

"You sound like you know what you're talking about."

"I do," I say, thinking about Zayn. "So, how do we help her demon-deal?"

"For one, she needs to talk with her sister."

"And for two, I need to make a little more time so that we can talk." He clinks his mug against my juice glass. "I'm sorry I've been so preoccupied lately."

"It's okay ," I say, almost tempted to tell him everything that's been going on. Instead we make plans to talk over dinner, a long-overdue trip to Taco Bell for chips and chalupas, and then I head off to school.