How to Love

Sawyer wrapped me up in a hug instead of answering, the blue T-shirt warm and soft against my cheek. I felt myself calm down some as soon as he touched me. Let myself sink into it. “Okay,” he said finally, mouth at my temple and not sounding entirely convinced. “I did, too.”

35

After

It’s ballsy, Sawyer coming here for dinner. To be honest, I’m almost impressed. For a second I thought my father might actually slug him, but if Sawyer notices, he doesn’t let on—smiling affably, telling stories, everybody’s favorite prodigal son. I wonder what was going through Lydia’s mind when she invited him, if it’s so important to trick him into believing we’re all one big happy family. If she’s trying to convince him not to take off again.

We sit at the table, get the baby settled in, fill our glasses and our plates. My father recites a quick, simple prayer. I’m only half listening to the conversation around me—Lydia’s low opinion of the new Woody Allen movie they saw recently, Soledad’s laugh like the tinkle of wind chimes. It sounds like I’m hearing it from the bottom of a well.

“Do you feel all right, Serena?” Lydia asks as she hands me the basket of rolls; her short nails are painted a deep, glamorous crimson. For a second I imagine throwing the entire thing at her head. “You’re very quiet.”

“I’m fine,” I murmur, glancing down at my lap. My own nails are ragged, cuticles bitten down so far they’re nearly bloody.

We clink. We eat our dinners. I sit back in my chair. I feel as trapped as the very first days of my pregnancy, like I could literally burst into flame where I sit and all anybody would say is Boy, some weather we’re having. Like possibly I don’t even exist.

Hannah’s not hungry, either: She’s unhappy with her rice, making a mess as she spreads it across the tray of her high chair, waving her arms in the air and chattering noisily. After a moment, she begins to whine. “Uh-uh,” she argues, completely unwilling to be distracted by anything I have to offer, pushing irritably at my hand when I try to tempt her with a buttered roll. “No, Ma.”

“She’s tired,” I explain when the whining turns to a shriek, high-pitched and grating. I remember that day at the Galleria and think Oh, baby, please, not now. “She didn’t nap today.”

“I’ll take her,” Lydia says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like she’s been comforting my baby for the last year and a half and not ignoring us completely like some minor and vaguely embarrassing faux pas, the way you ignore a huge green chunk of spinach wedged in the teeth of your dinner companion. She reaches for Hannah even as I put my napkin on the table, those perfect hands under her pudgy baby arms.

“I’ve got it,” I say, standing too quickly. I can feel the blood rushing to my face.

Lydia ignores me, undoing the high chair’s safety clasp. “Serena, honey, it’s fine—”

“Don’t.”

That stops her. It stops everybody, as a matter of fact: The whole table is suddenly silent, save my tempestuous daughter’s wail.

“All right, then,” Lydia says softly. She holds her hands up and sits down.

“I’m sorry.” I’m embarrassed, but more than that I’m angry. I feel it pushing up from somewhere deep inside of me, red and powerful. I try to explain. “I just—you see how this looks to me, don’t you? You suddenly taking an interest after all this time?”

Lydia cocks one carefully maintained eyebrow. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Reena,” my father begins. “Let it alone.”

“No, Leo,” Lydia says, cool as the other side of the pillow in the middle of the night. “If Serena has something to say, by all means let her say it.”

“You haven’t wanted anything to do with Hannah, or with me, in years,” I tell her shrilly. I think of broken dams, walls caving in. “You don’t talk to me. Nobody talks to me. About me, maybe, but maybe not, even. I wouldn’t know, because this is the first Sunday since Hannah was born that I’ve been invited to dinner.” I glance at Sawyer, my gaze darting like a cornered animal. “So, you know, thanks for getting me back into the club.”

“Reena—” he starts, but I ignore him, looking at our parents instead. Hannah’s still crying. This is crazy—this is probably an enormous mistake—but the truth is I’m just getting started. Already I feel more powerful than I have in years.

“I’m not an idiot,” I say, lifting the baby out of her high chair and bouncing her a bit on my hip. It’s useless, though; there’s no way to calm her when I’m this riled myself. “I screwed up, but I’m not generally stupid. Don’t think I don’t know how you feel about me. You’ve all made it pretty clear how you feel.”

“Wait, what?” Sawyer breaks in again. He looks at his mother. “What did you guys do? ”

“I certainly did not—”

“Well, Hannah belongs to both of us.” I look around the table accusingly, Roger to my father to Lydia and back again. “Me and Sawyer. We had sex. We’re not married. I’m sorry. And I know it’s incredibly offensive to all of you, and that’s fine, but I can’t sit here and put on a show and … repent anymore. I’ve been repenting for years.” I pause for a second, shrugging angrily. “Nobody even threw me a baby shower!”

“Serena,” says my father. His face has gone dark as his tomatoes, his eyebrows drawn together in a thick line. “Calm down.”

“I can’t,” I shoot back, but even as the words come out I can hear my voice start to break. God, I don’t want to cry—crying now is going to make me look crazy, is going to undermine everything I’m trying to say—but I can’t help it. I’m so hugely tired of carrying all of this inside me, all my guilt and anger and loneliness. I can’t do it anymore. It’s too much. “I’m sorry that I disappointed you, Daddy, and I’m sorry that I brought shame on this family and that you hate me and you think I’m a slut and a whore and every other filthy thing.” I’m sobbing now, big and ugly, Hannah clutched tight in my arms. “And maybe I deserve it and maybe I don’t but the point is I can’t do anything about it now. I really wish you would just forgive me already. How can you be my father and not forgive me?” Hannah is thrashing, grabbing at my hair, and I can’t do a single thing to soothe her. “I mean it! Why did you only love me when I was good?”

I look at Soledad then, her lovely face blurry and distorted through my tears. “And please just think this time?” I shake my head, desperate. “Really? Like I don’t know how hard it’s been? Like it hasn’t been hard for me?”

“Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Sawyer demands. He’s losing it himself, standing up now, a hint of the temper I remember from when we were together. His eyes are dark and angry.

“Ask them,” I tell him, hitching up my screaming baby, leaving my dinner uneaten and heading for the door. “I’m done.”

* * *

“Reena!” Sawyer is following me. “Reena, wait.” He catches the driver’s side door just as I’m about to slam it, and I grimace.

“I almost took your fingers off.”

“Nah.” He smiles what would be a really fantastic smile if it reached the top half of his face. “Got quick reflexes.”

“So I recall.”

He opens the door wider, maneuvers himself in between so I can’t try and close it again. “Let me come with you, okay?”

I shake my head, snuffling; there’s definitely snot on my face. I am not a pretty girl these days. “This is a long ride.”

“That’s okay.”

“I do the highway.”

“I don’t mind.”

My insides feel like they’ve been scraped with a fork, hollowed out like a spaghetti squash. I don’t know how this got so out of control. I shrug and wipe my face, jerk my head toward the passenger side. “So,” I tell him. “Get