Our Secret Summer(87)

The constant shame has taken its toll. I feel it in my posture, my facial features, the tightness in my chest. My knees are going to give out under the weight of it. Lita’s the only one who seems to think none of this was my fault.

“Have you spoken to your friends?” she asks the afternoon we settle into her home. I’m at her bedside, ensuring her medications are in order and trying to memorize her pill schedule when I shake my head.

“No.”

They’ve called and I haven’t answered. I barely look at my phone.

“And Cristiano? Has he called?”

I let my vision soften on a bottle of medication, annoyed by all the French on the label. “Yes.”

“And?” she presses impatiently.

My mom walks past Lita’s open door, a hired nurse trailing after her. “—your duties. If you need anything, my daughter will be here—”

“Nothing,” I say tightly, unwilling to meet her eyes. “I haven’t answered.”

Lita sighs heavily and leans her head back against her pillows, casting her gaze up to the ceiling. “You’re punishing yourself,” she concludes.

I shrug and reach over so I can pick up her empty teacup and take it to the kitchen. I’ll finish studying her medications when she’s asleep and can’t pester me.

“They’re wrong,” she insists. Just before I cross the threshold, I pause. “What you did this summer is what you’re meant to do! You’re young, mi ni?a. It breaks my heart to see you like this…”

Her words can’t penetrate the dense haze of guilt surrounding me.

In the kitchen, my dad sits at Lita’s breakfast table with his laptop open in front of him. I know he’s behind on work, but instead of focusing, he’s staring off at the garden through the window. When I set Lita’s cup on the counter, he looks at me. I feel his gaze even while I’m too embarrassed to look up.

“I still don’t understand why you felt the need to sneak off this summer.”

“I’m sorry.” I’m starting to hate the sound of those two words. How many times can I say them without them being heard?

“Does this have to do with Winnie?”

It’s the first time he’s asked me the question outright, so I force myself to face him and nod. “Yes, partially.”

He doesn’t hide his sorrow. “What else, then? There’s more to it, Isabel.”

He looks older than at the start of summer. He’s let his beard grow. There are dark circles under his eyes. His brow is furrowed and tense. He’s already worried about Lita so I don’t want to burden him with anything else.

I shake my head and turn to hand-wash Lita’s teacup. “Nothing important.”

My parents are due to leave on Saturday, a week after their arrival. Lita’s recovering quickly, and most of the bruising around her eye has started to fade. She’s up and walking around like normal, but with her arm in a splint, she needs help with daily tasks. It’s decided that I’ll spend the rest of the summer in Marseille with her. I’m not sure if I volunteer for it or if my parents assign me the role because they think it will be a fair punishment for me. I don’t mind either way; I want to be with Lita. It was always the plan to stay with her at the end of summer, in August, and though it’s only mid-June, I decide to make the best of it.

Fortunately the in-home nurse my parents hire turns out to be the daughter of Lita’s close friend. Jean is older—with grown children—and though she only speaks French and some very patchy English, she and I get on well. She’s quiet, which is fine because Lita talks enough for everyone. Besides that, Jean is extremely helpful, and I feel better knowing that when I eventually leave, Lita will be in good hands.

I know the three of us will settle into a steady rhythm once my parents depart. By Saturday morning, I’m more than ready to shove them out the door so they can catch their flight back to California. In Lita’s house, I feel their presence like a dark looming cloud. Dinners have been tense. Conversations are directed and carried on by Lita. My parents are still holding me at arm’s length, and I don’t know how much more of their disdain I can withstand. My mom hates my tattoo. She doesn’t say it out loud, but I catch her frowning down at it every now and then. My dad grows more anxious every day he’s away from the office.

It’s still dark outside as I stand in the foyer, relieved when a car rolls to a stop on the gravel drive. An older man gets out and pops the trunk, ready to load my parents’ luggage. I hear my dad coming down the stairs, his heavy footfalls a dead giveaway.

“I’m glad you’re awake.”

Surprisingly, it sounds like he means it. I turn away from the window and watch him set his bags down at the base of the stairs.

I don’t have the courage to meet his eyes. “Where’s Mom?”

“Finishing packing. She’ll be down in a second.”

He’s shaved his beard and dressed in a nice pair of jeans and a button-down. He looks more refreshed than I’ve seen him in days.

I go to get his suitcase, wanting to help, but he puts his hand out to stop me.

“Hang on a sec.”

I look up at him and hold my breath, worried where this will go. This is the last interaction I’ll have to endure with him, and then I’ll have some peace before I have to go back to California.