Racing the Sun(99)

“Why are you calling?” she asks me. “Is your flight canceled? I thought it was tomorrow.”

“Amber,” my father says, picking up the line, “I’m going to be a bit late picking you up from the airport. I didn’t account for the hockey game. That means extra traffic, you know.”

“That’s fine,” I say, taking in a deep breath. “Because I’m not coming home.”

The line goes silent. Just for a moment. Just long enough for my words to sink in.

“I knew it,” my mother says in a hush.

“Amber, please. Explain what you mean,” says my dad, his voice taking on that dry quality, the doctor-of-psychology one he uses when he needs to make himself look more important than he is.

“There was an accident, and Derio was involved. Motorcycle racing, it’s really big here and he’s hurt. Pretty badly. I’m actually at a hospital in Rome right now.”

“You’re in Rome?” my mother squeaks.

“Yes, I had to see him. I saw it on the news. It was horrible. I thought he was dead. But his old nanny is here, Felisa, the woman who hired me for the job. He’s just really hurt. The other guy actually died. God, it’s just terrible.”

“You made a commitment to come home,” my father says. “I know what you’re saying is sad and you feel bad, perhaps you’re even displacing your guilt, but if he’s all right and he has someone, then you need to come home.”

“I made a commitment to those children,” I tell them, feeling frustrated. He always pretends he knows what’s best for me, even though he doesn’t even know what’s best for himself.

“You made a commitment to your parents,” he says. “And you need to honor that commitment.”

“No,” I tell him. “I promised those kids I would take care of them, I’m the one who ran away when the situation got too hard.”

“You ran away because you realized you were wasting your life!” he yells, and I’m stunned into silence. He sounds ferocious, even over the phone. “This whole trip has been a waste of your time, and you know it. Whatever you’re looking for, Amber, it’s not out there. I should know. I traveled, too, and never found it. You might think you’re smarter and braver than your parents, but you’re not. I’ve seen the world and I’ve learned you can’t be a butterfly drifting from flower to flower. What you need, what you want, is at home. You’ll find it by using your goddamn degree and getting a proper, well-paying job and building a life for yourself here. Do you really think you can be a nanny? It’s a sad, sorry position with no respect and lousy pay. You are better than that. You have an education and you have brains. It’s time you use them. Be responsible for once in your life and come home!”

More silence. Months ago I would have cried at his outburst but I barely flinch at his words. I watch the orderlies stub out their cigarettes and laugh heartily at some private joke. This is surreal. I’m in Rome, waiting on Derio to come out of a situation where he almost died, and my father is yelling at me like I’m not here at all. Like I’m standing in the kitchen and complaining about what to do with my life, like I’m some teenager he can still talk down to and boss around. I still don’t know what I want to do with my life, but I know I’ll do it in time. But for now, there are bigger things than that.

“Harold,” my mother says in a softly chiding tone.

I clear my throat, feeling all the power they ever held over me drain away. “I am being responsible,” I say quietly but with more determination than I’ve ever felt before. “I have two children who depend on me and need me more than ever. And I have a man who I love, who loves me, who needs me just as much. I have a brain and I am using it, along with my heart. I’m sorry you’re disappointed in me but I’m not sorry I’m staying. You always wanted me to do the right thing and grow up. Well, this is me growing up.” The phone beeps at the two-minute mark. “Goodbye, Mom and Dad. I’ll write to you in a few days.”

Then I hang up the phone, put it on mute, and slip it back in my purse. I run after one of the orderlies and stop him.

“Scusi,” I say with a big smile. “Hai una sigaretta?”

The orderly looks at the other one, then shrugs. He brings a cigarette out of his pocket and gives it to me.

“Grazie mille,” I tell him. “Sei un santo.”

He grins at me, pleased at the compliment, and I grin right back, glad it wasn’t lost in translation. I’m learning. I watch as they go inside and then stick the cigarette in my purse. When I see Derio, he’s going to want this.