Chương 5
Three weeks later she announced the townhouse.
At the time, Mom had clapped both hands together and asked whether there was room for a nursery.
Jenna had smiled.
I had been standing at the coffee maker.
“Why did he leave?”
Mom hesitated.
“I don’t know everything.”
“That usually means you know enough.”
“He said he needed space.”
“People don’t move out because they need space.”
“Sometimes they do.”
“Did he cheat?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she?”
“Lillian.”
“What?”
“I am not doing this.”
“You called me.”
“I called because she’s upset.”
I stared at myself in the mirror.
My hair was sticking up on one side.
A faint crease from my pillow ran across my cheek.
I looked nothing like the woman who had leaned against a mahogany doorway while Jenna stared at the house.
That version of me had felt composed.
This version needed coffee.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
Mom’s answer came too quickly.
“Call her.”
I laughed once.
“That’s why you called.”
“She won’t talk to me.”
“Maybe because you told me something she specifically asked you not to tell me.”
“I was worried.”
“You were gossiping.”
“That is not fair.”
“It’s also not entirely wrong.”
She went quiet.
I closed the toilet lid and sat down.
“You shouldn’t have told me.”
“I know.”
The admission surprised me.
Mom rarely surrendered cleanly in an argument.
She usually rearranged the facts until everybody shared responsibility.
“I shouldn’t have,” she said again.
“Okay.”
“But now you know.”
“That doesn’t make it my job.”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“It doesn’t.”
I rubbed my forehead.
That was worse.
If she had pushed, I could have refused out of irritation.
Her agreement removed the argument I wanted.
“What did Jenna say when she called?”
“That I ruined everything.”
“She has a flair for scale.”
“She was crying.”
I stopped rubbing my forehead.
Jenna did not cry in front of Mom.
She cried strategically at weddings, funerals, and once during a charity commercial involving an elderly dog.
But actual private crying was something she treated like a contagious disease.
“I’ll text her.”
“Thank you.”
“I said text.”
“I heard you.”
“And Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Stop telling me things she doesn’t want me to know.”
A pause.
I almost believed her.
After we hung up, I went downstairs and made coffee in the regular drip machine because I still didn’t trust the espresso contraption.
I carried the mug into the sunroom.
Dad’s notebook was exactly where I had left it.
For a while I sat without opening my laptop.
Jenna’s name remained at the top of my recent messages.
I typed, Mom called.
Then deleted it.
I typed, I know about Evan.
Deleted that too.
Anything direct felt like opening someone else’s bedroom door without knocking.
Finally I wrote, I heard you’re having a rough morning.
Her reply came five minutes later.
Did she tell you?
I looked at the garden.
The grass was still silver with frost.
Yes.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
I waited.
She wrote, Unbelievable.
I answered, I didn’t ask her.
She sent nothing for almost ten minutes.
Then, This is exactly why I didn’t want anyone knowing.
I could have pretended not to understand.
Instead I wrote, Because of me?
Her answer arrived immediately.
Not everything is about you.
I laughed into my coffee.
There was my sister.
I wrote, Good to know.
Another minute passed.
Then she sent, I can meet after work.
No greeting.
No suggestion.
Just a location.
A coffee shop in Bryn Mawr we both knew.
I arrived ten minutes early because being late around Jenna had always turned into evidence.
She arrived twelve minutes late and acted as if the clock had made a clerical error.
She wore black work pants, a camel coat, and sunglasses despite the cloudy afternoon.
When she sat down, she left the sunglasses on.
“You look like someone’s attorney,” I said.
“I don’t want to be here.”
“Then this is an interesting choice.”
She took off the glasses.
Her eyes were swollen.
I immediately wished I hadn’t made the joke.
“You look tired,” I said.
“Much better.”
“I’m doing great.”
She glanced toward the counter.
“You getting anything?”
“I already did.”
“Of course you did.”
She ordered tea.
While she waited, she stood with her back to me and scrolled through her phone.
The shop was half full.
Two college students shared a laptop near the window.
A man in running clothes was eating a muffin with the concentrated seriousness of someone refueling after war.
Nobody paid attention to us.
Jenna returned with a paper cup.
She peeled the cardboard sleeve off and put it back on.
Then she did it again.
“So,” she said.
“So.”
“Mom told you Evan left.”
“Yes.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I waited.
She stared at the lid of her tea.
Finally she said, “He didn’t leave me.”
I said nothing.
“He moved out.”
“That sounds—”
“I know what it sounds like.”
“Okay.”
“He moved out because we were fighting.”
“About the house?”
Her jaw tightened.
“Among other things.”
I leaned back.
“I’m not trying to interrogate you.”
“You always say that right before you ask something.”
“I have never said that before in my life.”
She almost smiled.
It disappeared quickly.
“Evan thought buying the townhouse was insane.”
“That seems relevant.”
“He thought everything I wanted was insane.”
The bitterness in her voice was old.
Not two months old.
Years old.
I had heard pieces of it before without recognizing the shape.
Jenna complained that Evan was cheap.
That he hated entertaining.
That he thought vacations were a waste of money.
That he never wanted to replace anything until it physically stopped working.
At family dinners, Mom treated those traits as proof that Evan was sensible.
Jenna treated them like moral defects.
“Did you buy it without him?” I asked.
She looked up.
“Yes.”
I blinked.
“The mortgage is only in your name?”
“Yes.”
May you like
“Jenna.”
“Don’t.”
