overheard the same thing I did.
“Eva,” I say.
She’s shaking her head. “My watch,” she whispers. “I couldn’t find it.”
So she didn’t hear them, then. Thank God. My relief is huge, staggering, and I almost sag against the oversize Craftsman-style column supporting the front porch.
“Will you go in and look for it with me?” she asks, her voice shaking.
I’d shave my head before I’d go back in that house. “Let’s not worry about it now. Let’s go to the beach for the picnic, and I’ll give Mrs. Young a call later.”
“But the watch,” she protests.
“We’ll find it.” I steer her toward the Ford truck, a meticulously restored 1957 classic with a glossy paint job somewhere between vanilla and buttercream. It’s my prized possession, and another f—— you to those (like my father) who would have us believe a woman isn’t complete without a man.
But Eva’s still fighting tears as she opens the passenger door and climbs inside. “Grandma and Grandpa gave me the watch for Christmas last year.”
The watch does have sentimental value—especially since my parents had it engraved for her—but I just want to get the hell out of here.
Our house is only a few blocks away. We could have walked to the Youngs’, but since we’re heading straight to the beach, I’ve already packed the back of the truck with our folding chairs and cooler.
But as I back out of the Youngs’ circular drive, Eva announces she doesn’t want to go to the beach after all.
I brake at the stop sign and turn to look at her. “But the picnic is a big deal. You’ve been looking forward to this all summer.”
She just shakes her head.
“Eva.”
Eva takes a deep breath. “We’re just going to end up sitting alone again. Aren’t we?”
I grimace inwardly. Ouch. “I don’t know—”
“We are. We always do.”
The steering wheel feels clammy against my hands. “I’m trying very hard, Eva.”
“Why did we even move here?” she cries, her voice breaking.
I pull over to the shoulder and park in front of yet another huge shingled house. The beach park is just at the end of 92nd Avenue, and we’re going to have to park along the side of the street anyway.
“We came for Grandma,” I say slowly, wondering what it is she wants to hear from me, what it is that would reassure her, make her feel better. “Because she’s sick, and she’s not going to get better.”
“But it’s not as if we see her very often.”
“We go to her house once a week.”
“More like every two weeks.”
Holding my breath, I look at Eva. Right now, nothing I say or do is correct. Right now, I feel as though I’m just failing as a mom, yet I’m trying my best. “You’ve been upset with me all day,” I say carefully, trying to keep my tone neutral. “What’s wrong?”
Eva does that preadolescent shrug she’s getting so very good at. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I echo, trying to be brave because it’s hard to open yourself for criticism, especially from the one person you love most in the world. “Are you sure there isn’t something that’s eating at you, something you’re mad at me about?”
“Well, maybe. A little.”
A little. Okay. I take a quick breath, tell myself not to be hurt. “What am I doing that’s bothering you?”
Another shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Do I embarrass you?”
And a third shrug. “Not exactly.”
I feel as if I’m wading into very deep waters here, and I take a big breath for an added shot of courage and calm. “But you’re not proud of me?”
“No, it’s not that. Oh, Mom. It’s just that . . .” Eva’s shoulders slump, and she squeezes her eyes shut. “The kids that are popular, they’re popular because . . .” She sinks even lower on the seat. “Because they have nice clothes and nice things, and everybody wants stuff like that.”
I don’t say anything. I just look at her and wait. Because there’s more. There’s always more.
“Jemma, Paige,
“Eva,” I say.
She’s shaking her head. “My watch,” she whispers. “I couldn’t find it.”
So she didn’t hear them, then. Thank God. My relief is huge, staggering, and I almost sag against the oversize Craftsman-style column supporting the front porch.
“Will you go in and look for it with me?” she asks, her voice shaking.
I’d shave my head before I’d go back in that house. “Let’s not worry about it now. Let’s go to the beach for the picnic, and I’ll give Mrs. Young a call later.”
“But the watch,” she protests.
“We’ll find it.” I steer her toward the Ford truck, a meticulously restored 1957 classic with a glossy paint job somewhere between vanilla and buttercream. It’s my prized possession, and another f—— you to those (like my father) who would have us believe a woman isn’t complete without a man.
But Eva’s still fighting tears as she opens the passenger door and climbs inside. “Grandma and Grandpa gave me the watch for Christmas last year.”
The watch does have sentimental value—especially since my parents had it engraved for her—but I just want to get the hell out of here.
Our house is only a few blocks away. We could have walked to the Youngs’, but since we’re heading straight to the beach, I’ve already packed the back of the truck with our folding chairs and cooler.
But as I back out of the Youngs’ circular drive, Eva announces she doesn’t want to go to the beach after all.
I brake at the stop sign and turn to look at her. “But the picnic is a big deal. You’ve been looking forward to this all summer.”
She just shakes her head.
“Eva.”
Eva takes a deep breath. “We’re just going to end up sitting alone again. Aren’t we?”
I grimace inwardly. Ouch. “I don’t know—”
“We are. We always do.”
The steering wheel feels clammy against my hands. “I’m trying very hard, Eva.”
“Why did we even move here?” she cries, her voice breaking.
I pull over to the shoulder and park in front of yet another huge shingled house. The beach park is just at the end of 92nd Avenue, and we’re going to have to park along the side of the street anyway.
“We came for Grandma,” I say slowly, wondering what it is she wants to hear from me, what it is that would reassure her, make her feel better. “Because she’s sick, and she’s not going to get better.”
“But it’s not as if we see her very often.”
“We go to her house once a week.”
“More like every two weeks.”
Holding my breath, I look at Eva. Right now, nothing I say or do is correct. Right now, I feel as though I’m just failing as a mom, yet I’m trying my best. “You’ve been upset with me all day,” I say carefully, trying to keep my tone neutral. “What’s wrong?”
Eva does that preadolescent shrug she’s getting so very good at. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I echo, trying to be brave because it’s hard to open yourself for criticism, especially from the one person you love most in the world. “Are you sure there isn’t something that’s eating at you, something you’re mad at me about?”
“Well, maybe. A little.”
A little. Okay. I take a quick breath, tell myself not to be hurt. “What am I doing that’s bothering you?”
Another shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Do I embarrass you?”
And a third shrug. “Not exactly.”
I feel as if I’m wading into very deep waters here, and I take a big breath for an added shot of courage and calm. “But you’re not proud of me?”
“No, it’s not that. Oh, Mom. It’s just that . . .” Eva’s shoulders slump, and she squeezes her eyes shut. “The kids that are popular, they’re popular because . . .” She sinks even lower on the seat. “Because they have nice clothes and nice things, and everybody wants stuff like that.”
I don’t say anything. I just look at her and wait. Because there’s more. There’s always more.
“Jemma, Paige,
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