and I hit puberty. In the game, Lila and I are polite, well-educated, achieving daughters who love and respect their parents. In exchange for presenting this front, and going to college and meeting other expected life landmarks, we have been permitted to keep our personal lives completely private. My mother never really wanted to know me, she just saw the daughter she wanted to see. She picked out a few relevant facts, that I was popular and a strong writer, for instance, and then she made up the rest. She has done the same thing with Lila. Really knowing someone is too messy and disturbing and even tedious for my mother. It doesn’t mean that she doesn’t love me, because she does. That’s why this hurts so much now. I have behaved in a way no daughter of hers would ever behave, and that has forced her to face the reality that she does not know me. This was not pleasant for either one of us.
“I’ll be fine, Mom, I promise. You don’t have to worry.”
There was a hard sob. “I shouldn’t have worked so much when you were a child. A few of those nannies were not the best role models.”
“I should go, Mom. Can we talk about this later?”
“I need to ask you one question first. I’ve been wondering, how did your grandmother know about this? Did you tell her?”
“No,” I said. “Gram just knew. I didn’t have to tell her.”
“I have to go myself,” my mother said. “I’m just running out the door. Do you need anything?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m okay.”
WHEN I tell Lila about this conversation, she says, “Mom always makes everything about herself.”
I say, “Do you realize she’s going to be a grandmother?”
Lila laughs so hard she snorts, and I laugh, too, watching my sister’s face. It is no problem for me to keep laughing; I like the sound. I am so thankful that Lila didn’t move out. She said something happened to her student loan situation, so that she couldn’t afford her own place after all. I know she’s not telling me the whole truth, but I don’t care. I don’t want to drive her away by asking too many questions. For the first time since she moved in we are hanging out together. We watch television. Lila flips through magazines while I read my letters. We go food shopping. She seems to not mind my company and I enjoy hers.
But Lila’s schedule is more insane than ever, and she creeps in and out at odd hours. More than once, she and I have frightened each other in the hall in the middle of the night, me in my bathrobe, her in her jacket and shoes smelling of fresh air. I know that regardless of whatever else is going on, she is getting laid on a regular basis. I knew she had had sex when she came home the morning after Easter. There was a vagueness to Lila’s eyes as if she were unable to focus on the chairs, the table, the room around her. I recognize that look.
At first she denied it, and then when I wouldn’t let up, she admitted it was true but refused to say anything more. She said that it didn’t mean anything and was going to end any minute, so there was no point in discussing it. Then she would leave the house, and I wouldn’t see her until the next morning.
The phone rarely rings when I’m home alone. My father has not spoken directly to me since Easter. I’m not surprised. I know he’s embarrassed and ashamed and doesn’t know what to say. I don’t want to speak to him for those same reasons, but I miss him.
The constants in my life right now are Gram and Grayson. If the phone does ring, it is one of them. Since our last meeting, Grayson and I have spoken about nothing but work. I haven’t apologized for yelling at him. He hasn’t apologized for insinuating that I can’t handle having a baby on my own. Just like when I broke up with him on his answering machine, we are ignoring the issue at hand and focusing on business. Grayson requested that I come into the office three days a week instead of my usual one. He says that a professional, sterile environment will help me choose my letters and my responses with more balance and objectivity.
He gives me the office of a writer who spends most of his