Chương 5
Then one morning Lila climbed onto a chair, found it, and asked why nobody used Mommy’s cup when “cups don’t die.”
Now Adrian drank from it.
“Should I show her the adoption papers?”
“Not as proof that you’re her father.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know. I’m saying don’t turn this into a court case for a six-year-old. If she’s curious about them, sure. Show her pictures. Tell her what happened. Let her ask strange questions. She’ll probably care about details you don’t expect.”
“She asked if Evan died.”
“That makes sense.”
“She asked why he left.”
“What did you say?”
“The truth, mostly.”
“Which truth?”
He paused.
“He chose not to be her parent.”
“And how did that feel to say?”
“Bad.”
“How did it feel for her to hear?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
He closed his eyes.
“You’re very soothing.”
“I have a mug that says so.”
Lila appeared in the doorway.
She held up the reindeer.
“Rudolph has macaroni in his butt.”
Kendra heard her.
Adrian heard a muffled laugh on the phone.
He looked at the yellow noodle wedged beneath the reindeer’s tail.
“Okay,” he said. “We have a separate emergency.”
Lila climbed onto the couch while he cleaned the toy.
Later that morning, she asked to see the pictures.
Not papers.
Pictures.
Adrian kept several albums in a cabinet beneath the television, most of them assembled by Nora because Adrian’s idea of organizing photographs was leaving them on his phone until technology solved the problem.
They sat cross-legged on the rug.
He found the album from the year Lila turned two.
On the third page was a photograph of Adrian sitting at Nora’s kitchen table with a bowl of applesauce overturned across his shirt.
Baby Lila sat in a high chair beside him, laughing.
Six-year-old Lila pointed.
“You look mad.”
“I was mad.”
“You said it was funny.”
“It became funny.”
“Mommy took the picture?”
“Yeah.”
“She didn’t help you?”
“No.”
Lila studied Nora’s handwriting beneath the photograph.
ADRIAN’S FIRST DINNER WITH HIS NEW BEST FRIEND.
“She wrote that?”
“Yep.”
“I wasn’t your best friend.”
“No.”
“Who was?”
“Your mom.”
“That’s better.”
They kept going.
Photographs did what explanations could not.
Adrian pushing a stroller.
Adrian asleep on a sofa with toddler Lila sprawled over his stomach.
Nora standing beside him at a courthouse two years later, wearing a blue dress and holding a bouquet somebody had bought at a grocery store because the flower shop was closed.
Lila stopped there.
“What is that?”
“That’s the day I adopted you.”
She moved closer.
In the picture, four-year-old Lila wore yellow tights and had one hand stuck inside a paper bag of crackers.
“You have a tie.”
“I owned ties.”
“You still own ties.”
“I try not to use them.”
“Why did I have crackers?”
“You were hungry.”
“Was it a long day?”
“Very.”
“Did I cry?”
“Because they took your water bottle at security.”
“That’s rude.”
“They gave it back.”
Lila touched the photograph.
“Mommy looks happy.”
“She was.”
“Were you?”
Adrian looked at his younger face.
He remembered the courthouse elevator smelling like bleach.
He remembered Nora squeezing his hand so hard the wedding ring she wore had left an impression in his skin.
He remembered worrying the judge would ask some impossible question and discover Adrian was unqualified for parenthood.
Instead, the judge asked Lila whether she knew who Adrian was.
Lila had said, “My Ad’n.”
The adults laughed.
Adrian had almost cried before the hearing even started.
“Yeah,” he said. “I was happy.”
“Did Evan come?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He had already agreed that I could become your dad.”
“Did he say bye?”
Adrian looked at her.
“No.”
She sat with that.
He did not fill the silence.
After a while she turned the page.
That afternoon, a text arrived from Aunt June.
Can I call?
Adrian said yes.
June did not begin with hello.
“Your mother planned it.”
Adrian stood at the sink staring into the backyard.
Lila was upstairs changing the reindeer’s “bandage,” which appeared to be half a roll of toilet paper.
“What do you mean planned?”
“I mean she had been talking about it before you arrived.”
“How long before?”
“Twenty minutes, maybe.”
“And you didn’t call me?”
June exhaled.
“I didn’t understand what she meant.”
“What did she say?”
“She was angry about the company documents. Travis said you were holding everybody hostage over inheritance language. Evelyn said this was what happened when people confused sentiment with obligation.”
Adrian’s fingers tightened around the phone.
June continued.
“Then she said maybe Christmas was the day you finally stopped pretending biology didn’t exist.”
“And you stayed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m sixty-one years old and still occasionally become sixteen in your mother’s house.”
That answer slowed him.
June rarely admitted weakness.
“She said it like she was venting,” June added. “I thought she meant arguing with you privately. I didn’t think she was going to say something to Lila.”
“Travis knew?”
“I don’t know.”
“He looked pretty comfortable.”
“I know.”
Adrian stared at the dormant garden bed Nora had built during the last summer of her life.
He had forgotten to cover it.
Again.
“June.”
“Yeah?”
“Did you laugh?”
Silence.
He closed his eyes.
“I saw you smiling before it happened.”
“We were talking about something else.”
“When Mom threw the reindeer.”
Another pause.
“I made a sound.”
“What kind?”
“The wrong kind.”
He leaned his forehead against the cold window.
“I thought Evelyn was being ridiculous about the present. For maybe half a second, I thought she was doing that thing where she pretends to be stern with the kids. Then she said the rest.”
Adrian said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” June said.
“I’m not the person you embarrassed.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t apologize to me.”
“I know.”
They sat in silence across the distance between their houses.
Finally June said, “How is she?”
“Confused.”
“And you?”
“Also confused.”
“That seems less normal at your age.”
May you like
He almost smiled.
“Mom has a partner meeting tomorrow.”
