The Grown Ups Read online

  Sarah was at the table on the patio when Suzie walked in. She put the perishables away, left everything else on the kitchen counter, and carried their salads outside. Her mother had a map spread out on the table before her and was diligently writing down directions on the back of an envelope. She waved a hand away when Suzie tried to set the salad down. “I’m not hungry.”

  Suzie fought the urge to drop the salad on the patio. Instead she made room next to Sarah’s elbow on the small table and set about opening her salad and digging in. She wasn’t even that hungry herself. But she would eat even if she threw up. She wouldn’t sulk like her mother.

  After a few minutes of silence Suzie said, “Do you want me to do that for you?” She pointed to the map with her fork. A piece of spinach was caught in the tines.

  “I’m good,” Sarah answered quickly. “How was your day?” She didn’t look up, although she had stopped writing.

  “Fine. Good.”

  “Did you play today?”

  “I hate tennis, Mom.”

  Finally, Sarah looked up.

  “But I won every match.”

  “Why do you play if you hate it?”

  “Why do people do anything they hate?”

  “I’m not sure, Suzie.”

  “Neither am I.” Suzie felt the prick of tears at the back of her throat and swallowed hard, refusing to allow herself any weakness.

  “Listen.” Sarah leaned forward across the small table, smoothing the paper beneath her palm. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to try to finish high school early.”

  “What?” Suzie said it quietly, although in her mind she slammed her fists down on the tabletop and sent their salads flying. “Why?”

  “Because later on you are going to regret that you gave up this time. That you tried to rush your life. It’s going to come at you sooner than you think. Why not give yourself time to get used to the idea of being an adult?”

  “Why are you doing this to me? What do I ever ask you for?”

  “Suzie—please, be reasonable. You are not ready to go out there yet.”

  “Out there? You mean the big, bad world? Are you serious, Mom? Are you serious with that crap about being an adult? How would you know?”

  “What?”

  “How would you know what it’s like to be an adult?”

  “Suzie!”

  “From everything I’ve seen, every stupid decision you’ve made has been decidedly un-adult. Moving us here? Getting back together with Dad? Do you even think he’s in Asia or alone? Do you really convince yourself that he is working every single night?”

  “Suzie!”

  Suzie looked at her mother. Sarah’s face was white, her lips tight and tinged with blue. “Stop,” she cried. “Please.”

  “Mom—”

  “Where is this coming from?” Sarah put her palms up to her face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I was there,” Suzie said, unable to stop herself even though she knew she should. “Is this the kind of husband you hope I’ll find? Is this what you want for me? Do you want me to hang around here for another couple of years so I really know how to do everything just like you?”

  Her mother’s shoulders shook; her face was still hidden in her hands. She said something, but Suzie couldn’t make out what it was.

  “I don’t want any of this, Mom. I didn’t ask for any of this. If you don’t give me permission I will find another way.” Suzie took a deep breath. “Because the last thing I want to be is you.”

  Later, Suzie found the house and the lifeguard easily enough. The house belonged to a girl she had noticed all summer at the pool, always the center of a large group. She was friendly, filling Suzie in on where she went to school (Tufts), where her parents were (a cruise to Alaska), and where the bar was (the kitchen island) before she disappeared out a set of sliding glass doors.

  The lifeguard’s name was Trent, although in Suzie’s head it was better if she thought of him as simply “the lifeguard.” He made her a vodka and lemonade and they walked outside to the far back corner of the yard, past the pool, past people twisted together on lounge chairs, past tightly huddled groups passing joints and laughing. He wanted to talk, to get to know her better. She told him she was about to start her senior year. He asked about colleges and a major and she found herself saying Harvard and premed even though she really didn’t have a clue. She found out he was at BU, a sophomore. He was studying environmental science, a major he offered shyly. He said that Suzie was probably way smarter than he was, and she said no, even though she thought differently. When he stopped walking and gestured to the ground Suzie sunk down into the grass and looked back at the house. They were far enough away that they wouldn’t be noticed and yet close enough that she could hear music and smell the weed. She finished her drink, aware that he was watching her. She nestled the empty cup into a fist of ivy, then turned to him and smiled.

  “You are really pretty,” he said as he reached out to tug on a corkscrew of hair by her chin.

  “So are you,” Suzie shot back. She leaned closer, the vodka doing an excellent job of warming her belly and making her less afraid.

  “So why did you never come to any parties before tonight?”

  “’Cause I didn’t want to.”

  “So why tonight?”

  “’Cause I wanted to.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Suzie.”

  “Trent.” She smiled. “What are you waiting for?”

  He leaned into her, holding his drink between them. His lips were cold but soft. They kissed slowly, like they would have all summer. When Suzie pulled back he brought his drink to his mouth and finished it off. She watched his throat move as he swallowed, and she wanted to trace it with her finger down to the hollow. When he was done drinking he reached across her and put his cup into hers, dragging a hand against her bare legs as he did so. His fingers grazed the inside of her knee and she jumped.

  He immediately began to apologize, but he kept his hand there, his fingers stroking up toward her thigh. She was surprised how every part of her body seemed to be at attention. She closed her eyes and leaned back on her elbows and he covered the upper part of her body with his. She shifted beneath him, encouraging him to get closer, and though his mouth was hard on hers he still seemed hesitant. She pressed the palm of her hand against his lower back, and a sound escaped from deep in her throat as their lower bodies met. It was then that he said “Let’s go,” and he helped her up off the grass and kept her hand in his as they walked back toward the house. Even though the lights were dimmed, Suzie blinked hard as they walked against a tide of people. She ducked her head against Trent’s shoulder, her chin bumping up against his shirt, which smelled fresh like detergent, as he led her through the rooms and up the stairs, and she was all too aware that he had done this before and that he knew exactly where to go.

  Afterward, Trent tried to walk her home, but Suzie put him off with the idea of an angry father pacing before the windows because she had missed her curfew. She cut through backyards, imagining herself a stealth midnight hurdler as she jumped shrubs and sprinkler heads until she reached her own. She got into her dark house through the broken latch on the sliding glass door. That tight, headachy feeling had returned and she wanted nothing more than to take a bath and crawl into her bed. But when she went into the bathroom, instead of running the water she got into the tub fully clothed and rested her cheek against the cool porcelain. She needed to talk to Bella. Without thinking about the time, she grabbed the phone and brought it back into the tub. She dialed Bella’s number as if they had last spoken only yesterday and not a year ago.

  Bella’s mother answered on the second ring, as if she were waiting for a call. And then Suzie remembered that some of the medicine Mrs. Spade took made it difficult to ever truly sleep. Her insomnia had made sleepovers tricky as the girls had gotten older, especially whenever she and Bella had tried to sneak out in the middle of the night.
r />   Suzie pressed the phone hard against the side of her face, as if Bella’s mother were in the room. “Mrs. Spade,” she whispered, “it’s Suzie.”

  “Suzie? Suzie Epstein?”

  Suzie nodded, grateful that Mrs. Spade had remembered her. The fuzziness of the dead air between them made her realize that she needed to speak into the receiver. “Yes, yes. I’m sorry; I know it’s late. And it’s been a long time.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Spade said. “Sometimes you just need to talk when you need to talk. Bella’s not here, though, I’m afraid.” She paused. “They are all out enjoying the last nights of summer.”

  “Oh.” Suzie felt an irrational rush of sadness at being left out of whatever her friends were doing.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. Is everything okay?”

  Suzie closed her eyes. She knew what Mrs. Spade meant when she asked if Suzie was okay. Everyone had known; it would have been impossible not to know about Suzie’s family. She heard a clacking sound and remembered the individual cellophane-wrapped mints that Mrs. Spade kept in her pockets to ward against dry mouth, a side effect of a medication. How could she have forgotten so many details only to remember them all at once?

  “Suzie?”

  They were coming fast now, little snapshots of a life once lived: a dish of chocolate kisses on the nightstand next to Mrs. Spade’s bed that she and Bella always used to take from when they were younger. It had become a game to see how small they could make the foil, so as not to be found out. But no matter how many they took, the dish remained full, and it wasn’t until much later that they figured out that Mrs. Spade was in on their game. By then they had started worrying about how they looked in a bikini and had stopped eating candy altogether.

  “Everything’s fine. I was just really missing Bella.”

  “I’ll tell her you called.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Suzie?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s good to hear your voice.”

  Suzie swallowed hard, choking back a sudden rush of tears. Mrs. Spade sounded so kind and so caring. As if what Suzie was going through actually mattered. “You too.”

  “It’s going to be okay, you know. Whatever it is. It will all work out.”

  Suzie laughed. “That’s what every adult says.”

  “Well.” Mrs. Spade laughed back. “Do you want to hear that sometimes it doesn’t work out?”

  “I guess I already know that,” Suzie said softly.

  “I guess you do,” Mrs. Spade answered. “I guess you do.”

  When Suzie woke she was curled on her side in the bathtub, the phone on the bath mat, her neck sore from the strange angle at which she had fallen asleep. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to remember the sound of Mrs. Spade’s voice. Yes, that had really happened. She unfolded slowly, stretching each limb before she opened the door, and staggered, a little stiffly, down the hall to the kitchen.

  It was a surprise to both of them when Sarah Epstein entered the room. At the sight of Suzie, Sarah stopped short and blinked rapidly. Suzie watched shock, anger, and sadness flit across her mother’s features like the spinning images of a slot machine: Suzie knew right then that there would be no escape.

  “You’re coming?” Sarah said, her voice casual, softer than Suzie expected it to be, but not entirely forgiving. Suzie watched her mother’s attention shift to the items she must have placed on the counter before going to bed: her purse, the sheet of directions, a map, keys, gum, and an empty to-go coffee mug. Sarah took inventory, touching each piece, before she crossed to the coffee machine and flipped the switch.

  Suzie nodded and put her hands on her hair, attempting to pat it down into obedience. She was trapped now; there would be no backing out of the drive to New Hampshire. “I’ll be right back,” she mumbled.

  In her room she avoided the mirror as she lifted her T-shirt over her head and caught a whiff of detergent, sweat, and grass. She stumbled into the bathroom with her shorts around her knees, surprised again by the violent swath of blood, a mixture of brown and red, collected in the cotton crotch of her underpants. She recalled the look on the lifeguard’s face when he realized she had been a virgin, and right then in his eyes he had been so much like Sam that she could barely look at him again. He seemed to be struggling to say something afterward, but Suzie had already begun the search for her clothes and wouldn’t give him the chance.

  She cleaned up, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and pulled her hair back into a ponytail; in fresh clothes she felt presentable, and invisible. When she returned to the kitchen she was surprised to find it empty, her mother gone. The counters had been swept clean; the light on the coffeemaker was still on. She poured herself a mug of black coffee and turned off the pot before she went into the garage. The door was open, and she could hear the car idling in the driveway. Suzie held up her free hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she walked toward the car. At the passenger’s side she was surprised to be greeted by her mother, seat belt clicked in place, map spread out across her lap, travel mug of coffee in hand.

  “Why don’t you drive?” Sarah said.

  “Are you sure?” Suzie asked, but she walked around to the driver’s side door without waiting for an answer. The keys were in the ignition and the car in park. She was about to get in but then realized she would not be able to drive and hold a mug of coffee, and if she put it between them on the console it would most likely spill. She blamed lack of sleep for the fact that she had taken a regular mug, too fat to fit into the base of the cup holders. She took a deep swallow before dumping the rest on the driveway. As she settled in, she tucked the empty mug under the front seat and closed the door. She adjusted her seat belt and put her hands on the steering wheel. Her mother leaned over and pressed the garage door opener attached to the driver’s visor and they watched the door close together.

  When it was shut, Suzie turned and looked at her mother. “Are you ready?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “I’m going to need you to tell me where to go.”

  Her mother tapped the map with her index finger. “Got it.”

  Suzie backed down the driveway slowly and stopped at the curb. The automatic sprinklers had come on in their yard as well as in their neighbor’s. Suzie noticed plastic bagged newspapers dotted along the driveways. The late-August sun seemed mellow at this time of day, but Suzie knew in an hour or so it would be brutal. For now, though, they could drive with the windows open. “Mom?”

  Her mother turned to her, a single eyebrow raised in question above her large dark sunglasses. They looked at each other for a long moment before finally she nodded, urging Suzie to go on.

  THREE

  Scouting for Boys

  Sam—1999

  They arrived together at Penn Station. With the ticket to Rhode Island crumpled inside his jacket pocket, Sam shifted his backpack higher onto his shoulder and double-checked the departure board. When he looked back to the space where his father had been standing, he was gone, lost in a trench-coated army shuffling toward the exits. Lemmings in London Fog, Sam’s mother had remarked once as they sat at the station watching the neighborhood men file off the commuter train.

  They’d still had the station wagon then. Sam remembered sliding across the canyon of a backseat, the pleated and dimpled leather creating perfect troughs for marbles and plastic army men. Watching for his father, Sam had rested his chin on the high back near to his mother’s scratchy wool-covered shoulder. It was past their usual dinner hour and Sam had been hungry and distracted, wanting his father to hurry up, resentful that he wasn’t old enough to stay home alone like Michael. For some reason that car had always smelled like breakfast cereal, slightly sweet with the tang of warm milk. Sam had been too little to understand what his mother meant when she called the men lemmings, but old enough to know that the smile she gave him as she said it wasn’t genuine.

  Now, Sam bought a bag of chips and a soda for the trip at Duane Reade and finished them before he b
oarded. When the train arrived in Providence he took his time gathering up his stuff. He had fallen into a deep sleep soon after they pulled out of Penn Station and his cheek had a red sleep crease where he had used his backpack for a pillow. He had to switch trains in Boston to get to Providence and he had stumbled onto the next train and fallen asleep again. Sam wouldn’t have known they had stopped if the conductor hadn’t tapped him on the shoulder.

  Originally this was supposed to be a weekend for the three of them, but last night his father had said he thought Sam should spend time with Michael alone, have Michael show him the real college life that he wouldn’t if their father came along. When his father announced this change in plans, he and Sam had been eating ravioli, a dinner Sam had prepared by boiling water and dumping sauce from a jar into a pan. Sam had overcooked the ravioli a little bit and the water held a skim coat of cheese and starch, but they tasted fine masked by excessive amounts of Parmesan. The kitchen was a man’s domain now. There was an ever-present stockpile of condiments centered on the table: salt, pepper, the green can of cheese, hot sauce, soy sauce, and a sticky mound of duck sauce packets from the Chinese takeout place next to the train station. Unless there was a big spill, sweeping the table for crumbs was often forgotten, and the surface of the table was always tacky to the touch. Still, in the eighteen months since Sam’s mother had left them, Sam and his father managed to eat together at this table three nights a week. A triumph, his dad called it, each time they sat down for a meal.

  The last time Michael had been home was winter break. Even though his semester didn’t start until mid-January, he left the day after Christmas to meet some friends whose parents had a ski house in New Hampshire, and he had returned to school from there. Before he left he spent most of his time sleeping or raiding the fridge late at night. Aside from the occasional late-night drive-by, Sam had seen Michael only twice over the break: the neighborhood Christmas Eve party at the Coles’ house that they had been going to since Sam was in diapers, and Christmas morning, which was really late afternoon.