Inevitable and Only Read online

  After a couple years of teaching at Montgomery Community College, Mom found her job at Fern Grove, and we left Ahimsa House for our very own row house on 34th Street in Hampden. Three tiny bedrooms plus a bathroom upstairs, living room and kitchen downstairs, and a semi-finished basement. There wasn’t room for four people and Mom’s piano, plus all of Dad’s books, so Mom said either Dad had to figure out what to do with the books, or they had to go.

  We weren’t used to hearing Mom talk like that, but she was supporting the family now, as she kept reminding us. So Dad found Fine Print Books, which was going out of business, and got a good deal on the place. He sold off some of their rare and antique stock, moved in his own collections, and settled in.

  I started school at Fern Grove, driving in with Mom every day, and Josh spent his first year in Baltimore crawling around the bookstore, making book towers and playing with the cats and generally getting in Dad’s way. This was long before Dad hired Cassandra, who probably would’ve dealt with baby Josh by leaving out bowls of water and cat food.

  When Josh was five, he discovered the cello. It happened at the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. Mom was excited because it was an all-Haydn program—the “Farewell” Symphony and a cello concerto. Mom’s always said, Haydn is the underappreciated Einstein of the music world. Whenever she was upset or stressed in those days, she sat down at the piano and took out her big tattered book of Haydn sonatas, held together with a rubber band, loose pages sticking out everywhere. Now she hardly ever has time to play the piano, and all her music sits neatly stacked in milk crates along the wall.

  I remember the “Farewell” Symphony, how at the end the musicians all got up, one by one, switched off their stand lights, and walked off into the wings, until there were just two lonely violinists still playing by themselves. And I remember the cello soloist, his wild curly hair flopping all over the place like a lion’s mane while he played, the way he made the cello sound like it was singing. But mostly I remember Josh, sitting there with his lips parted, as if he were getting ready to take a bite of ice cream but forgot what he was doing and froze in place. When it was over and the cellist took his final bow and left the stage, Josh burst into tears and wailed, “Make the cello man come back!” Mom and Dad were shocked. Josh barely ever complained or whined or asked for anything. The next day, Mom signed him up for cello lessons at the Prep.

  Thinking about all this while I unpacked the Cottage Cheese Contraption ingredients on the kitchen counter, I had an idea. “Josh, why don’t you play me some cooking music?”

  Dad always used to tell me to play “cooking music” on my violin when I wanted to help him with dinner but was too young to be much use. I suspect it was also a sneaky way of getting me to practice, even for only ten or fifteen minutes. I never had the discipline Josh seemed to be born with.

  Josh had wilted a little when we walked into the empty house, but brightened up at my suggestion. He ran upstairs and came down slowly, carrying his cello with both hands, his rock stop slung over one shoulder. He settled himself on one of the chairs at the kitchen table and started playing movements from the Bach cello suites from memory.

  I cracked eggs, stirred cottage cheese and flour and sugar together, chopped apples, tossed in raisins, and fried it all into a delicious hot mush, while Josh “talked” to me. That’s how I thought of it—this was Josh’s way of saying the things he didn’t know how to express in words. He played the slow, mournful Sarabande from the second suite, and I heard his confusion about everything between Mom and Dad: What are we supposed to do now? What should we say to Mom? What else is Dad hiding? How else is he going to confuse us and disappoint us and let us down? Do we even really know him?

  Or maybe those were my own confusing thoughts.

  But just when my eyes were starting to burn, Josh moved on to the Courante from the first suite, in a major key instead of a minor one, full of little trills and ornaments and musical jokes. Cheer up, Cadie, I heard. I’m here and Mom’s here and somehow things are going to be all right.

  I knew the names of those two movements because he played them often enough that I’d learned to recognize them from the rest of the endless Bach he was always practicing. He’d worked on the first suite last year, and he was tackling the second suite this year. Each suite was six movements long. I liked their symmetry, like six short scenes in each long act of a play.

  Mom came downstairs in her pajamas and slippers, and I scooped big helpings into bowls, handed her a spoon, and joined her at the table. Josh stopped playing to eat with us, and then he went back to his cello. I scooted my chair closer to Mom’s and rested my head on her shoulder to listen. She put an arm around me and stroked my hair. “Thanks for cooking, mija,” she murmured.

  It still didn’t feel right, the three of us home, cooking, eating, playing music, without Dad. Not talking about what had happened. What would happen next. In fact, it was weird that Mom wasn’t trying to talk about any of it at all; that was how she dealt with problems—by analyzing or consoling or encouraging or convincing. By taking charge. Usually I was the one who just wanted to sulk it out in silence. Well, me and Dad. We were both like that.

  I sighed. I didn’t want to think about Dad, how we were alike. Or maybe not. How could I be sure I was similar to someone I didn’t really know—and did that mean there were parts of myself I barely knew, too? The warm, rich meal, so comforting a few minutes before, now felt like a heavy lump in my stomach.

  By Friday, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I broke down and went to see Dad.

  I didn’t tell Mom I was going, just said I didn’t need a ride home. But I could tell she knew. She looked relieved, actually. She almost said something, then changed her mind and simply nodded.

  When I got to Fine Print, Cassandra was nowhere to be seen. I dropped my backpack by the desk and went upstairs.

  I hadn’t known what to expect, and Dad looked in better shape than I’d imagined. But it still broke my heart to see him sitting at his desk, his shirt all wrinkly as if he’d slept in it, his face stubbly, his ponytail greasy. He was so engrossed in what he was reading, he didn’t hear me come in.

  “Dad, have you even taken a bath all week?”

  He looked up, startled. “Of course I have!”

  “Have you taken more than one bath?”

  “Err.” He looked sheepish. “Well, once I dried out the tub and put all the books back in, I figured I probably wouldn’t be here much longer, so it didn’t seem worth it to …” He jumped up, as if he’d just realized who he was talking to. “Cadie!”

  I grinned and met him halfway. We slammed into each other for a hug.

  “Dad, please come home,” I mumbled into his chest. “We need you. No one else knows how to make tofu scramble.” I couldn’t say I miss you without the threat of shedding tears, which was definitely not on the agenda.

  “He heaved a sigh,” he said, doing just that. A little glow kindled in my chest, melting away some of my doubts from last night. Everything will be okay. He’s still Dad. Still his same old self.

  “Here,” he said, “come sit down.”

  I plunked myself into the overstuffed armchair next to his desk.

  “I’ve spent some time talking to Elizabeth this week,” he said, and the glow in my chest fizzled out, just like that. “And to—her mother. Sunshine.”

  “Sunshine?” I echoed. “That’s really her name?”

  “She’d been very ill,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard me. “The hospital called this morning to tell me she passed away last night.” He rubbed his eyes. “She was in a lot of pain at the end. It was—a mercy, really.”

  I barely knew what to say. “Did you even know she was sick?”

  He shook his head. “Not until she got in touch with me to tell me about Elizabeth. That’s why she got in touch. Why she went through the whole process with the lawyer, naming me as legal guardian. She said she wouldn’t have done it otherwise—she never intended to disrupt my life.” His
voice caught on the end of that sentence.

  “Dad,” I said sharply. “Did you love this woman?”

  He looked at me unhappily. “What would be more horrible, Cadie? If I said yes, or if I said no? Look, it was all a long time ago—”

  “Sixteen years,” I interrupted. I could feel my palms starting to sweat and my face heating up. I clenched my fists.

  “And now I have to deal with the consequences. There is a grieving young woman in this situation who no longer has a family. She needs a home, and I am going to give her one.”

  I felt light-headed, as if someone had just sucked all the air out of the room. “She’s going to come live with us, in our house?”

  Dad nodded. “I’m taking the train to Ohio this weekend to help Elizabeth pack her things and take care of business with her house. I spoke to your mother last night. While she’s not exactly enthusiastic, she agrees that it’s the right thing to do.”

  “You talked to Mom about this already? When were you planning to tell me and Josh? If I hadn’t come over here today, then what—this girl would’ve just shown up at our door?”

  Dad frowned. “Acadia Rose, you do not speak to me like that, and she’s not ‘this girl’—”

  But I’d heard enough. I flounced down the stairs, grabbed my backpack, and shoved the door open. The bell jangled loudly, as if I’d punched it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I called Raven and Micayla as soon as I got home from the bookstore.

  “Mom!” I hollered. “I’m going out.”

  “Where?” she yelled back, from her bedroom.

  “The Charmery. With Raven and Micayla.”

  “Fine.” She didn’t even say Don’t ruin your appetite for dinner, which meant she still wasn’t her usual self. Not that saying it would matter. I never feel like eating Mom’s cooking, appetite or not.

  I pulled on my Jackson Pollock jeans, the ones Micayla made for me. She always wore paint-spattered clothing—overalls, mostly—and I loved the way she looked. Her clothes were paint-spattered from wearing them while actually painting, not because she’d bought them that way.

  Micayla and Raven were already sitting at a window table, waiting for me, when I walked into the Charmery—it was only a few blocks from my house, so I knew they must’ve really hurried. I felt tears prickling up and quickly squeezed my eyes shut. God, I was such a leaky faucet these days.

  When I opened my eyes, my friends were standing in front of me.

  “Girl, what are you doing? Making a wish?” Micayla asked, grinning. “Well, ta-da, here we are!”

  Raven gave me a sharp look, though, and I could tell she knew why I was all squinty-eyed. Have I mentioned that I never cry? “Let’s get this girl a double scoop,” she said, leading me to the ice cream counter.

  I ordered an Old Bay Caramel–Berger Cookies & Cream combo in a cup. Raven got two scoops of Thai Tea with sprinkles. Micayla chose something called Chinese Food & a Movie, which turned out to be buttered-popcorn–flavored ice cream with chocolate-covered fortune cookie pieces.

  “Totally gross, and yet totally delicious,” she reported. We passed each cup to the right until we’d tasted everyone else’s ice cream.

  Raven and Micayla both looked exhausted. Micayla was a junior, and she spent all her free time studying for the SAT and working on her college portfolio and being the president of the Black Student Council. She wanted to study art therapy and teach art to kids with learning disabilities. Raven spent Wednesday afternoons tutoring middle schoolers in Waverly, and Saturday mornings she helped plant and harvest vegetables at the community garden in Remington. In her nonexistent free time, between debate team and student government and getting straight As in all her classes, she had her nose buried in biographies of women like Malala Yousafzai and Hillary Clinton. It was hard sometimes to watch my two best friends planning to change the world while I sat around taking up space and feeling like I wasn’t particularly good at anything.

  And yet, they were both here.

  My ice cream started turning into a sticky brown-gray puddle as I stirred it with my spoon.

  “So,” Micayla said, “do you want to talk about it?”

  “About what?” I mumbled.

  “Oh, come on,” Raven said. “You called us and said it was an ice cream emergency. We came running.”

  “I know. You guys are the best,” I said.

  “So?” Micayla prompted.

  “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Well, start somewhere,” Raven said. “You’re killing me!”

  “Okay, okay.” It was going to sound melodramatic no matter how I said it. “My dad … found out that he has another kid. A daughter. My age. Her mother just died and she’s coming to live with us.”

  Silence.

  Then Micayla whistled, and Raven clapped a hand on my arm. “Cadie. Shut. Up.”

  I nodded. My ears were ringing, as if hearing my own voice utter all those words had done some sort of permanent damage. My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth, which was suddenly very dry. As if the words had scorched me from the inside out.

  “Wow.” Raven blew out a long breath. “Shit. Who knew your dad was such a player?”

  “Raven!” said Micayla.

  Dad? A player?

  Raven saw the look on my face. “Oh god, Cadie, I’m sorry. Me and my big mouth.”

  Micayla shot Raven a dirty look, then turned to me. “Honey, how’s your mom doing?”

  I shook my head. What if I could invent a head motion for every word in the English language and never have to speak again?

  I could see Raven thinking over what I’d said. “If she’s your age … ,” she said slowly. “That means your mom and dad were already married.”

  I nodded again.

  “Sweet mother Mary,” said Micayla. “I’m not sure two scoops is enough for this situation.”

  I held my stomach, which was rumbling ominously, and groaned. Raven and Micayla scooted closer on either side of me and put their arms around me.

  “This shoulder’s here,” Micayla said, “no matter what happens. You hear me?”

  “Second that,” said Raven. “Plus, you can always come sleep over at my house if things get too weird.”

  I looped my arms under theirs, so the three of us were linked together. Luckily we were facing the window, not the rest of the shop. I was sure everyone else was staring at us. Despite that, and the way I seemed to have lost my powers of speech, and the fact that I was kind of lactose intolerant and ice cream was always a terrible decision … I felt a little better.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dad came home Friday night. I’d been expecting a big blowup, Act Two of the scene in the living room on Tuesday. But he was just there when I came home from the Charmery, quietly making Missing Tuna Casserole for dinner. In a fat green glass vase on the table, there was a giant bouquet of pink and white lilies, Mom’s favorites. She acted as if they’d materialized there all by themselves. Normally I loved their scent, but tonight it seemed to clog up all the air in the room.

  No one ate much or said much at dinner, but at least we all ate together. Mom has always been big on “family meals.” Dad would be happy to eat on the couch while reading a book, but Mealtime is our chance to talk to each other like human beings, Mom always says. Tonight, though, they sat at opposite ends of the table with the lilies between them like a pink-and-white buffer and pretty much ignored each other. I wasn’t hungry after all that ice cream, and I’ve never been too fond of Missing Tuna anything. Josh ate quickly, then went up to his room to do homework. (For crying out loud, what kind of ten-year-old does his homework on a Friday night?) The strains of a Shostakovich string quartet filtered down through the kitchen ceiling a few minutes later, which wasn’t good. Josh only listened to Shostakovich when he was really upset.

  I pushed back my chair and said I was going to go check on Josh, but Dad held out a hand.

  “Cadie. Just a minute. Mom and I have to talk
to you.”

  What now?

  “We discussed this with Josh while you were out, and he’s fine with it.” Dad paused. “We want you to know that any decisions we make going forward are your decisions, too.” I noticed how many times he was using the word “we,” as if stressing that he and Mom were still a team. I wondered who he was trying to convince. Mom hadn’t made eye contact with him once.

  Now, though, she rolled her eyes and interrupted him, as if trying to get this conversation over with more quickly. “The problem is,” she said, addressing me, “we don’t have another bedroom. For Elizabeth.” It was the first time I’d heard Mom say her name, and it didn’t sound quite right coming out of her mouth. As if she were pronouncing a word in a new language that she didn’t know very well. As if she wasn’t quite sure where to place the accent. Or the girl herself, apparently.

  Dad nodded. “So Mom and I had an idea—we could move into your room, and you and Elizabeth could share the master bedroom.”

  My jaw literally dropped. “You want me to share a room with her? With a girl I’ve never even met?”

  Dad continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “In the long term, we’ll finish the basement and make another bedroom down there. But we can’t afford to do that right now, and obviously there’s not enough time, anyway.” He glanced at Mom for a moment, then back at me. “And Cadie … try not to think of her as just ‘a girl.’ I know this will take time. But remember, she’s your sister.”

  “My half sister, who I’ve never met,” I mumbled. Who I didn’t know existed until this week.

  “Anyway, Josh said it’s fine with him, but of course it doesn’t really affect him. You’re the one who gets to say whether it’s all right or not.”

  I hated the way Dad was acting like I even had a choice.

  I shrugged. “Like you said. Where else is she going to sleep?” Then I stomped upstairs and discovered that Mom and Dad had already moved some of their furniture out into the hallway. So it had been decided without me, no matter what they were pretending.