family of mine. Instantly and unreservedly. I’m almost sickeningly envious of them growing up here, in this house, although Ellie went to boarding school in Massachusetts. But they got to grow up at the top of a cobbled street that leads to boats bobbing on the water, with a dad who works at home, has a studio next door, was always present, and most of all, loving.
For I can see, even in one night, how loving Brooks is. We were still having cocktails when Summer came in, now out of her tutu and in a proper princess outfit, complete with tiny cowboy boots and cowboy hat, and climbed on his lap with a book. He had been talking to Aidan, and I watched as he immediately focused all his attention on Summer, stroking her hair and talking to her with such sweetness and love, it almost broke my heart.
I watched him read Goodnight Moon to her. Every time she stopped him to point out something in the picture, it led to another conversation, and his patience took my breath away.
My father, the man I called my father, only ever read to me if my mother was sick, which was much of the time. I was never allowed to ask questions, or interrupt, or he would start tutting and sighing, putting the book down and saying that as I clearly didn’t want him to actually read the story, he might as well stop. And he would indeed stop and leave the room, and not come back. Seriously. That was the kind of father I had. So I learned to lie in bed as quiet as a mouse, biting my tongue while he sped through the story, not pointing out to him that I knew he was skipping whole pages, huge chunks of the book, in order to get out of there as quickly as possible. Oh, I knew.
How different would it have been to have Brooks as a father. How wonderful it must have been to have someone so patient, so attentive. I look at Julia, through the doorway in the kitchen, as Aidan pulls her to him by the pocket on the front of her apron and kisses her, and I am instantly and horribly envious.
I want to be her. I want to have this father, to have had this upbringing. I want to have a boyfriend who adores me. I want to be a whirlwind of energy. I turn my head and look at Ellie, who has been perfectly polite and pleasant, if not exactly a bundle of warmth and acceptance. I have felt her eyes following me all evening, and I have been on my best behavior.
Even with the champagne. I’m not drunk. Brooks has been drinking all evening, first a glass of champagne, then endless glasses of scotch, but he’s not drunk either. I have had three, maybe four glasses of champagne, and I will not have any more. I won’t mess this up, don’t want to do anything I either won’t remember or will need to forget.
Jason and the AA meetings already seem very far away. The prospect of my having a problem with drinking seems very far away. If I had a problem, I wouldn’t be able to stop after three or four glasses, and I have absolutely no desire to have any more.
This, right here, right now, feels more real to me than anything in my life these past few months, this family. These girls have each other, have a loving father, and my pain at having been excluded from this is only assuaged by the fact that I have it now.
I have it now.
“Come help me with the washing up,” says Julia, and I obediently follow her into the kitchen, grabbing a dish towel as we stand next to each other at the sink.
“I still can’t get over it,” she says, handing me a sudsy bowl, which I stare at before handing back with a laugh.
“You have to wash the soap all off,” I say, laughing only because the reason I dry rather than ever, ever wash is because I have no patience and am always being told off for not washing off the soap.
“I hate washing,” she grumbles, taking back the bowl. “I always dry. I just want to get it all done as quickly as possible, so everything’s always soapy.”
“I’m the same way,” I say. “Surprisingly.”
“What else?” She is delighted, suddenly holding out her hand. “Look! We have the same hands.