“I understand,” I say.
“It’s not you, Nina,” he says. “And, yes, I would like to kiss you again.”
Suddenly I feel tears behind my eyes and I couldn’t stop them even if I tried, so I don’t.
Before I have time to say anything, he presses his lips to my cheeks, my eyes, the tip of my nose. I can’t do much but hold on as it all slips out, uncontrolled and unexpected. There is nothing that can be done, but to give way to it.
I have this memory of lying on the ground underneath the dogwood tree in my childhood backyard. I’m seven. Bluish-purple petals float down over me from way above. The sunlight is so sharp I can’t see where it’s all coming from. I hold my hands up to catch the tiny pieces of blue, satin snow. I turn my head and see Dad’s long legs; he’s holding a hydrangea bloom like a dandelion puff, wisping it through his hands to let loose the little petals over me.
Oliver kisses my cheek one last time, sighs, and pulls back from me.
“Nina,” he says, “I’m sorry. This isn’t right. I shouldn’t have done this. This isn’t what you need now.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t know where my mind is right now. I’m just out of sorts.”
“Of course you are,” he says.
Oliver takes hold of my hand, and the simplicity of the gesture makes me cry again. I rest my head on his shoulder, and we stand quietly in the glow from the streetlamp until I have collected myself.
“I’m ok,” I finally say and pull away, searching for my keys and righting myself to leave.
“Take care of yourself,” he says.
“I’ll try,” I say.
Oliver opens the door for me and I get in. He pats the roof once I’ve closed the door and started the engine. He waves, and as I’m pulling away, my guilt taps on the window. I roll it down a smidge and let him in. He buckles up next to me, and we ride back to Mom’s house.
I go upstairs but can’t seem to go into my old room where I hope Lola will still be sleeping soundly. I go into the bathroom instead. I don’t turn on the light. I just stand there in the dark and breathe. I take a towel off the rack and push open the shower curtain. I make a pillow of the towel and curl up in the tub and fall asleep.
6
“Nina.”
Someone is calling my name through a thick fog. I hear it again and force my eyes open. Lola is standing over me, and I’m not sure where I am.
“What are you doing in there?” she asks.
“What?” I say, and when I try to move, I find that every inch of my body is sore.
“Why are you sleeping in the bathtub?”
I look up, confused. I’m in Mom’s bathroom. The walls are papered with that loud and slightly nauseating big-fat flower motif that makes it feel like you’ve got your head stuck in a kaleidoscope. It’s not helping the headache I developed from sleeping with my neck bent against the side of the tub.
“I woke up and you were gone,” she says. “I thought maybe you went home. Maybe to Jack’s? I was thinking maybe Cassie called and you went to get her.”
“Is Cassie here?” I say, alarmed.
I flounder around, trying to get out of the tub. Lola lends a hand and helps me out.
“Did she call?” I ask.
Lola puts her hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye. “Oh, my,” she says. “You’re a wreck. And no, Cassie didn’t call, and no, she’s not here. Thank goodness. What’s the matter with you?”
I sigh and wiggle out from under her touch.
“Have you been in there all night?” she asks, standing behind me so that I can see her over my own shoulder in the bathroom mirror.
“No,” I say, wiping my face like I can wipe off the night before. “I went out. I went to the bookstore. I woke up in the bathtub.”
“That makes no sense at all.” She chuckles.
“I’m a terrible person.” I move past her to sit on the rim of the bathtub. “I’m a horrible daughter and a hussy no less.”
Lola laughs at the ridiculous word. “Well, that seems a bit much. So you went to Jack’s—”
I shake my head.
“You didn’t see Jack?”
I shake my head again.
“Oh,” she says.
She kneels in front of me and pulls my hands away from where I’ve covered my face. It feels like we could be teenagers again, talking about Robbie Highsmith and the incident under the football bleachers.
“Nina,” she says.
My name alone is a call for me to answer her.
“Remember I told you I kissed some guy in the parking lot of the nursing home when I went to get Dad’s things?” I say.
She puts her hands over her mouth in a classic movie moment and sits cross-legged on the plush, mauve bathroom rug.
“Wait a minute,” she says, squinching her face. “You went to the nursing home last night? That’s really weird, Nina.”
“No.” I wave off her comment. “I ran into him at the Book Exchange downtown.”
“You did it in the bookstore?” she asks, seeming shocked but also impressed.
“No!” I shout. “Of course not.”
I put my hands back over my face. She pries them away again and raises her eyebrows for me to continue.
“Nothing like that, but we were talking and flirting on the couch like a couple of teenagers,” I say.
“He’s a lot closer to that age than you are,” she says and nudges my toes with hers.
I sigh a very guilty sigh.
“Did anyone see you?” she asks, and I can’t tell what she wants the answer to be.
“I’m pretty sure I heard a few tsk-tsks,” I say, mortified.
“Awesome,” she says. “You need to take off your Nina costume every once in a while.”
I’m
