Page 36 of We Were Something
“Parents are afraid of a lot of things when their children are sick,” I tell her. “And there is no wrong way to feel.”
The words I say are true. Thereisn’ta wrong way to feel when trying to manage the grief that comes with a loved one being sick with something as serious as what Ivy is facing. But in this instance, I want to shake Vivian’s entire body and ask her what the hell kind of question is that? How can she be concerned with some bullshit regarding her social standing instead of focusing entirely on her daughter and what she needs?
This is the kind of shit Ihatedabout the world I was forced to participate in when I was a student at Roth Prep. It’s all so fake. So forced. So self-absorbed. It’s why I’m so thankfulnotto live in that world anymore; I’m happy existing on the outskirts of it, engaging only when it’s important or convenient for me.
But I don’t say any of those things. Because we’re not allowed to, and because IknowIvy will benefit from this trial and I’d likely be kicked off her case if I were to say any of the angry things I’m thinking.
Mrs. Calloway nods, her eyes turning back to look at Ivy, and I wonder if that vacant look in her gaze is the grief or the normal way she looks at her daughter.
“But I want to encourage you not to focus too much on her dying,” I add, trying to shift the conversation to something more positive. “It’s important to stay positive. Like I said, Dr. Singh has been seeing good results from this trial, and I’m hopeful to be able to replicate them with Ivy.”
When she doesn’t say anything else, I decide to just get up and leave. Nothing I can do or say will actually matter if Mrs. Calloway is more concerned about herself than her daughter lying in that bed. It’s better for me to just get out of here and not have to deal with her or her strange concerns.
But as I cross the room, I hear her voice break the silence.
“I know you think I’m a bad mother,” she says. “For asking a question like that.”
When I turn around, I find her staring at me with the same kind of ice in her eyes that she directs at Ivy. Something emotionless, cold, uninviting. And maybe…something a little bit haunted.
“I don’t think anything,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “You have no idea what it’s like, living up to the expectations of people in this town. Ilovemy daughter,” she says, her voice choking slightly, almost like she’s not used to saying the words. “Maybe it doesn’t look that way to someone on the outside, but Ido.”
“I don’t doubt that at all,” I tell her, deciding to keep my mouth shut. “Good night, Mrs. Calloway.”
And then I turn back to the door and stride out of the room.
It will help nothing for me to tell her I knowexactlywhat it’s like trying to live up to the expectations of the people in this town. I faced it constantly as a child and a teen, and I never managed to measure up, even with the time and hard work I put into the sailing team, even with the pseudo-popularity I was able to conjure up for myself through sports.
Because the elite mindset of always having to prove yourself is a bunch of toxic bullshit I finally let go of after Roth Prep and Yale, once I moved to Seattle and escaped that mentality. I didn’t participate in the Yale Alumni Association in town. I didn’t try to join a country club or some other organization that would do nothing other than ostracize me from entire groups of people who were consideredless than.
Instead of trying to meet those unrealistic expectations of perfection, I decided to let it all go.
Only then did I learn the most important lesson: that I didn’t need anyone’s permission to belong. To exist. To live a happy life. My happiness was up to me and me alone.
Hell, the only reason I actually ended up getting a membership at the Hermosa Beach Yacht Club is because I need somewhere close to moor my boat, regardless of all my own internal bluster about aFuck youto the people I knew when I was in high school.
But people like Vivian Calloway are the ones who never learn that lesson. They’re too ensconced in the murky underbelly, too shrouded by the cloak of what things could be like if they fell from grace.
Whose grace? I have no idea.
And that’s the bullshit.
The ridiculousness of trying to meet ‘their’ expectations, fearing what ‘they’ think…
There will always besomeonewho disagrees with you, who is disappointed in you, who doesn’t like what you do with your time or your life. But ultimately, you have to be strong enough to recognize that those people don’t matter.
The very ones who consider themselves the strongest, the most deserving of being at the tippy top of whatever kind of structure there is in a town like this one…they are actually the weakest of them all, because their entire world is built on a shoddy foundation that could crumble at any minute.
It’s after eight when I finally get home a few hours later, so I move quickly through my post-work routine of dropping my stuff at the door and heading straight for the shower. I give myself some time to review the day, the cases, the things I need to do tomorrow under the delicious, cascading warmth of the water pumping out of the showerhead.
Once I’ve dried and changed into a pair of loose sweatpants and a V-neck, I head out to the living room and collapse on the sofa.
Tonight, though, instead of clicking on ESPN and zoning out or falling asleep early, I palm my phone and stare at the blank screen.
I don’t fully understand this trepidation I have when it comes to her. Anything about her. The constant little twinge of uncertainty I feel at all times when she’s involved, whether it’s a mention of her name or she’s standing in front of me. It’s like I’ve lived my entire life on the beam and now suddenly, I can’t figure out how to keep my balance.
Calling Paigeshouldbe easy. Just clicking her name on the screen and waiting for her to answer with that sexy voice of hers.
