Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Twenty-Five

| photo by Priscilla Du Preez from Unsplash |

Lindsay reaches back as we get to the bottom of the stairs, wiggling her fingers like she's asking for my hand. We join up and move into the family room, sitting on the couch pressed against each other like one unit: us against them. Except our parents don't look like they're on the same team. Dad is pacing in front of the glass doors that lead to the screened porch. Mom is across the room, perched at the far end of the sofa, clenching and unclenching her hands, like she's trying to wake up her fingers.

And it's not just the physical space between them that bothers me. It's like they can't even look at each other.

"I'm still trying to get my head around this," Mom says. Her eyes make a rapid-blink shift over to Lindsay, and then come back to me. "I knew you were upset, and of course I noticed that Noah wasn't coming around anymore, but it seemed like you were working through it. When did you start spending time with the Watterson boy?"

"I don't know, Mom. I haven't had a chance to figure out how it fits into my timeline. You know, the one I made to help me track the years I can't remember?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry, honey."

"I'm never going to get my head around this," I say. "Because even with all the details I've gathered, I don't know how I became that person. And I don't understand how... Are you saying that you thought me quitting track was working through it? I mean, when one of your kids just all of a sudden stops doing this thing they've loved for most of their life, isn't that like, a warning sign? And what about that text on my phone?"

"What text, Allyson?"

"It was Samantha, calling me out on a lie about skipping school. She said I was scaring her, keeping secrets. She used the phrase man-whore. Isn't that why you made the rule about making us tell you our passwords—so you could check up on us, make sure we were staying out of trouble?"

"She was too busy to check up on us," Lindsay says.

Mom does another rapid-blink shift. This time her eyes touch on everyone in the room. Then they flare with realization and she shifts back to Lindsay. "Busy starting up a catering business?" she asks.

My sister nods once and leans into me. "Mom meets with her clients during the week," she says. "Mostly in the evenings. And then she's gone on Saturdays. Dad's gone all week, working, but when he's here, he's not really here. There's either homework that keeps him on his laptop. Or a golf match that keeps him glued to the TV."

Lindsay straightens, keeping her eyes down like she's bracing herself. But my parents aren't readying themselves to do battle. They're listening, rapt and contrite.

"What about when they're together," I ask, squeezing Lindsay's hand. "Tell me about the arguing."

"They don't fight as much as they used to. Especially not since your accident. But they don't seem to talk very much."

"Yeah," I say, because that's something I've noticed myself. I mean yes, I heard "talking" this morning but Mom obviously didn't tell him about... "It's been almost two weeks since Lindsay told you about the phone call," I say, focused on Mom. "Aren't married people supposed to tell each other everything?"

She closes her eyes and her hands lift to her mouth, palms pressed together like she's saying a prayer. Dad just stands there, watching. But I don't think he's waiting to hear the answer—not in the way Lindsay and I are—because he's leaning back, almost grimacing. Like he already knows, but he doesn't want to be the parent who delivers the bad news.

"We started out that way," Mom says, through her hands. "Your father and I talked about everything. That changed after he went back to work in North Carolina—it had to." She opens her eyes and leans forward, pushing on the arm of the couch like it's all she can do to lift herself. And then she's unsteady on her feet, walking like someone who just ran the Boston Marathon.

Or. Maybe someone who's in shock because she just found out her oldest daughter gave drugs to her thirteen-year-old.

Mom settles on the edge of a square leather ottoman that's big enough to serve as footrest for the love seat and the couch. She reaches out, taking one of my hands and one of Lindsay's: connecting us in a circle that excludes Dad. "We kept having the same argument over and over again," she says. "I'd spend all week making decisions on my own and mediating sibling rivalries, and then your father would come home and..." She twists around to find him. I can't see the look she gives Dad, but it must be a call for help, because he comes right over, squatting beside her.

"It was frustrating for both of us," he says, his voice even. But it's a forced kind of calm that doesn't match his eyes. "Your mom and I were used to making those decisions together. It wasn't fair for me to come in after they'd been made and criticize."

"And that's exactly what it felt like," Mom says. "As a parent, you're already questioning every decision you make—every single day. I started dreading the weekends because it felt like your dad was coming home to point out everything I had done wrong."

"We couldn't live that way," Dad says. "But it's never been easy for me to keep my opinions to myself—especially when it comes to my family. The only way I could do it was to put blinders on, so to speak."

Mom lets go of my hand so she can wipe her tears, but it's a two-hand job. Dad hands her a box of tissues and rubs her back while she blows her nose. "We made this agreement because we believed it would benefit everyone in the family," he says. "I can see now—looking back on it with this new information—that we need to reevaluate the situation."

"I'm going to take that job," Mom tells him.

Dad shakes his head. He starts to say something—to protest most likely—but she holds up her hand. "I know," she says. "The catering company was my dream, and I'll never regret trying it on, but it doesn't fit. I hate meeting with clients. And I loathe having to chase them down to get paid. All I want to do is cook beautiful food. I can do that for Dream Events and earn more in one month than I've netted so far this year. And then you can go out on your own."

"That's not a perfect solution," Dad says. "Money would be tight for a while and I'd still have to travel."

"But not every week. You would be here more—we both would—and then we can start to repair..."

Mom breaks. She folds into herself, sobbing, and Dad wraps her up in his arms, pressing his lips to the top of her head.

I let go of my sister's hand so I can wrap my arms around her, because all four of us are crying now. Our family meeting is over. Called on account of emotional overload. But in the best possible way.