Don't Forget to Write: A Novel(85)

But that didn’t matter now. Because I still didn’t have a way out other than Ada allowing me to stay. “Please,” I begged. “Don’t make me go back there. I don’t want to leave you.”

For a moment, she said nothing, and I allowed myself to hope. Then she shook her head. “You have to go home,” she said, patting my hand. “But don’t you worry. I’ve got tricks up my sleeve yet. You really think I’m going to let Walter Kleinman get the better of me?” She rose, going to my wardrobe. “Just pack what you need for now. I’ll send the rest along later. I doubt all your things will fit in your father’s car.”

“Ada—”

“No more tears,” she said. “Don’t you know that’s the most important thing? You never let them see you cry.” She pulled out a couple of dresses and laid them across the bed. “No. You go down there with your head held high and you be an obedient daughter—as much as you know how to be, that is.” She paused, contemplating the typewriter. “And take that, of course. You’ll have plenty of time to finish your novel there. And an easier time getting it into the right hands in the city.”

“I don’t know how to finish it. This is the worst possible ending.”

She crossed to me and cupped my chin in her hand, forcing me to look at her. “This isn’t the end of anything except our summer. You hear me? You’re going to be a writer, and you don’t let your father or anyone else make you think you can’t do that.”

I swallowed thickly, then nodded. “Will I see you again?”

“You will see me again. And in the meantime, we’ll write.” I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. “A handkerchief, darling. That”—she pointed at my hand—“is disgusting.”

I let out a hiccupping laugh through my tears. “I’m going to miss you.”

“And I you, trouble though you are.”

“You like trouble.”

“That I do. You remind me of me.” She paused for a moment. “And you do know the ending of your book.” I looked at her questioningly. “She drives off into the sunset to live exactly how she wants.”





When I went downstairs, carrying only my valise, a hatbox, and my typewriter, my parents stood. “Where did you get that?” my father asked, pointing to the typewriter in its travel case.

“From me,” Ada said coolly. “And it’s poor manners to refuse a gift.”

He started to sputter, but my mother put a hand on his arm, murmuring something that quieted him. “Into the car,” he said finally. “We have a long drive ahead of us.”

Lillian was next to Ada, Sally in her arms, Frannie behind them. I set the bags down and went first to Frannie, embracing her. She squeezed me back, tears in her eyes. We nodded at each other before I moved on to Lillian. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t kinder when you first arrived,” I said.

“I never even noticed,” she lied. “Dear, sweet girl. Please write to us.”

“I will,” I promised, hugging her tightly. She pressed a warm kiss to my cheek before releasing me. I took a minute to pet Sally, who nuzzled into my hand. I felt my breath hitch, but remembered Ada’s admonition and took a deep breath to steady myself.

Then only Ada remained. “Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”

“Don’t you make a fuss,” she warned. “This isn’t goodbye.”

I didn’t believe her. If the last time she had been to New York was my brother’s bar mitzvah twelve years earlier, I didn’t see her making the journey now. And there was no chance my parents would let me visit her in Philadelphia again. But it was a choice—believe her and be able to leave, or not and stay rooted to the spot, tearing my family apart. So I chose to believe her, if only because it was what she wanted.

She pulled me in for a brief but tight hug, and I wondered if she was telling me not to make a fuss so that she didn’t cry in front of my parents either.

“I’ll see you again soon,” I whispered.

“You’d better.”

My father cleared his throat and Ada released me. I looked back at her one last time over my shoulder before descending the porch steps.

My parents loved me because I was their child. But there was a lot they would change in me if they could. Ada was under no such obligation to love me. And, no matter how many critiques she had of my behavior and manners, she wouldn’t change a thing. Leaving her felt like I was leaving a piece of myself behind. But I was stronger for having known her. And even if I never did see her again, that part of her would always be with me.

Squaring my shoulders, I blew her a kiss, then followed my parents down the steps and settled into the backseat of my father’s black sedan for the long ride home.





CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE


My childhood bedroom seemed smaller. Which was ridiculous because it was bigger than my room at either of Ada’s houses. But the walls were closer. The windows smaller. And everything in it a reminder of what I didn’t want.

It was better than the rest of the house though. In my room, I could sit at the desk where I’d done my homework in high school, my typewriter in front of me—my old one discarded to the back of my closet. It would never produce a novel. It was a relic of the girl I used to be. And, for those hours while I wrote, the room receded. My character wasn’t me, but she lived in the now-familiar spaces of the world I had just left. And Ada was right—I did know how it ended.