me out of the elevator and into the parking garage, my tears began to fall. I told myself to think positive, and still they fell. I told myself that I was making a terrible first impression, and still they fell. I told myself that I was supposed to be the grown-up in this scenario, and still the tears welled up and overflowed my self-control. Bev, who seemed to have witnessed this kind of thing before, merely handed me a handkerchief, patted my arm, and prattled on about airports and airline food and Gus’s driving.
I had always prided myself on being able to stifle the kind of emotion that was presently overwhelming me and, in order to do so, had developed various techniques. The National Enquirer technique required losing myself in the pages of a tabloid until my own woes seemed minor compared to women birthing chimps and aliens running for the presidency and Madonna claiming to be the reincarnation of King Tut. The Jon Stewart technique involved imagining what the caustic comedian might say about my emotional demonstration, like “Ladies and gentlemen, it seems icebergs are indeed melting” or “And this just in: the women’s liberation movement has just been set back fifty years by the sheer spinelessness of an Illinois woman” or even “Yo, Shell, mascara landslides are not a good look for you.”
My most effective approach, which I reserved only for desperate occasions like tears in very public places, was the Daddy Dearest technique. This was the most brutal of my emotion-avoidance mechanisms, and it was a surefire solution to my more acute meltdowns. “Look at you,” my dad’s voice would say in my head, his words dripping with acid, “carrying on like a two-year-old. You’re an embarrassment, Shell. A disgusting humiliation. Stop your whining! Grow up! No one is ever going to give you the time of day if you can’t get a grip on yourself. Get out of my sight until you’re ready to be an adult. No daughter of mine is a sissy. . . .”
And on and on his voice would drone, as it was droning now, though it had serious competition from Bev. By the time we reached the car, I’d been battered back into good-girl mode, completely in control and with the lid screwed firmly on. Shayla had fallen asleep in the cart, bent over at an impossible angle, and Gus lifted her into the rear car seat as if he’d had plenty of practice.
“Poor dear,” Bev said as she reached into the car to fasten Shayla’s seat belt. “Did she do okay on the flight?”
I nodded. “She fell in love with the clouds.”
“Well then, she’s in the right country! It’s cloudy for most of the year around here.”
Gus closed the door behind me and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Brace yourself, Shelby,” he said. “You haven’t really driven until you’ve experienced the autobahn.”
“Gus,” Bev warned.
“I’ll be good, darlin’. I’ll be good.”
Bev turned in her seat to look back at me, one eyebrow raised. “Gus’s ‘good’ is everyone else’s ‘certifiable.’ I swear—he thinks the autobahn is a challenge to his manhood.”
I laughed in spite of myself and tunneled a finger into Shayla’s fist, feeling a wave of exhaustion weighing down my limbs.
“You’re going to be just fine, Shelby,” my new friend said. “You and that precious child are going to be just fine.”
“Seat belt on?” This from the man revving the engine in the front seat.
“Yes, sir,” I answered, too tired to be seriously concerned about the driving ahead.
Bev handed her husband the parking receipt and pointed him toward the exit. “Get driving, Evel Knievel. The sooner we hit the road, the sooner we get to feed these tired little ladies their very first meal on German soil.”
SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER
“What is it?” I asked.
“Shut up and eat it,” Trey said. He was in full-on chef mode and not amused by my dillydallying.
“Well, since you ask so kindly.” I speared a piece of meat with my fork and piled what looked like boiled Honey Smacks on top, wrinkling my nose at the cook before popping his latest concoction into my mouth. “Mmmm,” I said, my thumbs-up clarifying the unintelligible review of his masterpiece. I washed the first bite down with a healthy slug of Perrier and motioned for him to keep the food coming. “Hope you have a lot more of this back there, buddy. I’m in an eat-myself-into-oblivion kind of mood.”