“Think about it,” Jeanette says. “I don’t mind talking to your Mom if you want me to.”
My images of life in Victoria burst like soap bubbles. “What would you tell her?”
“How much you’re blossoming here, how you have access to a world-class bandoneón teacher and how much he thinks of your playing.”
I wince. “My parents don’t know about the bandoneón. I never told them.”
“No problem. I did.”
“Oh.” Now Mom has undeniable proof that I’ve been keeping things from her. That’ll be enough to send her imagination searching for a million other secrets I must be hiding. If Jeanette asks her to let me stay here for the year, she’ll be convinced I’ve become an Uncontrollable Teenager for sure.
TWENTY
Ineed a good twenty-four hours to figure out what to say to my parents. Not about moving here—I haven’t made that decision yet—but about the bandoneón.
Withholding information is a big deal in my family. Like I said, my parents believe in discussing everything with me, from their first sexual experiences (“knowledge that might help you make your own decisions”) to what they’re presently arguing about (“as a member of the family, you deserve to know”). They’ve always assumed I would be open with them too, and I have been, until now.
“I was wondering when you’d get around to telling us,” Mom says when I bring up the bandoneón. “Why did you keep it a secret?”
I can think of no safe way to answer this, so I choose the least painful version of the truth. “I wanted it to be a surprise. You know, I show up at the end of the summer able to play a whole new instrument?”
Mom says nothing at first. “Why wouldn’t you want to share your excitement with us, though, as you experience it?”
“I didn’t know you’d find it so exciting,” I say. “I know Dad, for one, hates anything that sounds like an accordion.”
Another long silence. Dangerously long. I brace myself.
“I wish you’d tell me what’s going on,” she whispers. “You keep saying everything’s fine, but if it were really fine, you’d tell me things. Why don’t you tell me things anymore?”
I don’t know how to respond to that, and I guess my silence lasts a moment too long, because I hear her take a deep breath, and I know any hope of rational conversation is gone.
“I can’t stand this anymore,” she cries. “We need to talk. I’ll get on a ferry first thing tomorrow morning. I can be there by nine.”
“No,” I say too quickly, then scramble to save myself. “I mean, I’d be happy to talk to you, but no, we don’t need to talk. Everything’s fine. I love you, Mom.” She’s crying quietly enough for me to add that I didn’t mean to hurt her, and I’d love to see her, but I also understand that work is very busy and I wouldn’t want her to fall behind to come over here when everything’s—
“Everything’s not fine between us!” she wails. “I can hear it in your voice.”
I cast a pleading look at Jeanette, who’s suddenly standing next to me. She holds out her hand for the phone, but I know I have to say something to calm Mom down before I hand her over. “I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t know what to say.”
“Just let me come,” she says. “I need to see you.”
“I—”
Jeanette snatches the phone before I can say any more. “Gloria, what is going on?”
Even from a foot away, I can hear Mom’s garbled moan.
“Why are you second-guessing your own daughter?” Jeanette asks. “Has she ever lied to you before?…No, she’s not. In fact, it took considerable courage for her to tell you how she feels…Of course you’re still welcome to come. When have I ever locked my door on you?…Forget the poor-me stuff, Gloria. She doesn’t hate you. She simply said you don’t need to come here on her account. That’s good news. Nothing worth wailing about.”
Jeanette turns and finds me staring at her. She shoos me away with one hand, but I stay rooted to the floor, wondering why Mom hasn’t slammed down the phone yet. I think, too, about my dad hiding away in his basement office. I suspect he won’t be coming out to comfort her this time, and part of me wants to clamp a hand over Jeanette’s mouth. The other part of me wants to reach through the phone and shove my mother across the room.
I turn and run.
TWENTY-ONE
I’m not much of a runner, and by the time I reach the end of the block, I have to slow down. I storm across Douglas Street to the park and head to the stone bridge over Goodacre Lake. Sarah and I often came here on hot days to watch turtles sunning themselves on the rocks. It’s a breezy evening now, though, so the turtles have all hidden away, and Sarah’s probably holed up with her family playing a happy game of Scrabble. Her dad probably made a chocolate cake, and all five of them are savoring each mouthful, basking in their perfect family-ness.