My breathing slows down. His nice words take some of the sting out of Nate’s. Everything I’ve missed rushes forward. His deep voice. His steady presence. How he tries so hard to make things right. His earnestness. His faith in me. Lawrence enrages me, but I miss him. He makes me nuts, but I love him. Opposing ideas can be simultaneously true; one reinforces the other even as they’re both canceled out.
Without warning, my eyes fill, and I let myself cry. It’s such a relief, I feel a shift in my chest and my anger weakens. The hard edges loosen, pieces crumble away. What’s left begins to soften and slowly awaken. “I miss you, too, Lawrence,” I say finally.
When he grins, I see both apprehension and hope in his face, a father worried his forever girl is gone but equally sure she can never not love him.
He’s quiet. After a while, I assume he’s fallen asleep, but when I get up, he grabs my arm. “I don’t know how we got here, kiddo. Once upon a time, I was a cocky young buck with my whole life ahead of me. I felt like a king. I had a stunning wife, three amazing kids, everything money can buy. But it’s gone. My career, my family, my boys, you—all of it, gone.”
“It’s not gone, Lawrence. We’re still here. I’m here.”
“My best days are behind me, Cassie.”
The true story of Lawrence’s career is one of overestimated potential, exaggerated promises, and outsized ambition. He started at McKinsey, primed for the C-suite, but corporate life bored him senseless so he quit. After that, he kicked around for a while, did a bit of consulting, a lot of networking, and ended up in politics, where he found his footing. Ten years in, Lawrence was having a terrific run. He was instrumental in the election of two New York state senators and helped to reposition a few others. Word got around. Soon, he was clearing up DWIs, burying sex scandals, and handing out campaign jobs. Eleanor sniffed at this work, which she called lowbrow and undignified. But Lawrence was happy. Happy enough to set his sights on the big leagues. With Eleanor’s backing, the sky was the limit—a national election to manage, maybe even the presidency. But Lawrence aimed too high and got exhausted or distracted—both, more likely. He was never good with details, preferring the meet-and-greets to the sit-and-work. He made mistakes, minor blunders at first, then unforgivable lapses. Clients went elsewhere; referrals dried up. Soon, he was finished. The architect of his own ruin, he had only himself to blame.
At fifty-four, Lawrence has reached the end of the road. Most men in his position would have retired long ago. Some, the morning after their wedding. But he’s still thinking big. And to be fair, his nonprofit is an excellent idea with several sources of funding and great potential—that is, if he were conscientious or diligent. If he could focus. If he had leadership qualities. If he were a different man entirely.
The next time Lawrence speaks, he sounds despondent. “Cassie, someday soon you’ll marry a nice guy, have a bunch of children, and enjoy a happy life. I want that for you.”
“I don’t think I’m the marrying kind, Lawrence. Or stable enough to be someone’s mother. Girls like me . . .” I don’t finish. Better not to talk about girls like me.
He glances over. “Just don’t forget, okay? When you’re sitting by the fire, with your new family, don’t forget. Don’t forget we had a life together, once.”
“I could never forget, Lawrence. You saved me.”
“You saved me too, kiddo.” He switches off the TV; the room goes dark. “Let’s just sit for a minute. Let’s just enjoy each other.”
It is nice to be here, with Lawrence. His voice comforts me, and soon my twitching subsides. We used to spend hours in this room, just talking. No subject was off-limits. Like when I was ten and stumbled on my first TripleX movie. I went directly to Lawrence and told him about it. I was all twisted up. He was uneasy and stilted. But eventually he found his words. “Grown-ups watch these videos together as a way to feel close to each other,” he explained.
“But they’re disgusting.”
“You may think differently someday.”
As the years passed, my questions led to more conversations, ones I might have had with Rachel if she were alive. Or Eleanor if she’d been inclined. Lawrence didn’t judge or get mad. He gave me answers, offered opinions, and told me stories. I learned about his brothers, whom he missed a great deal. About the bullying at Groton, which was relentless and devastating （his words）。 About money. About how he tried, so hard, to be a supportive husband and conscientious dad. The more I heard, the more I wanted to be just like him: strong and noble, loyal and honest. I loved that I was the one he chose to confide in. Admittedly, with Eleanor’s society schedule and my brothers away at school, no one else was around. Still, he gave me the greatest gift a father could give his daughter, even though I wasn’t his real daughter, and he wasn’t my real father. Lawrence made me feel less alone at home, and later, less alone in the world.
“We were happy, weren’t we, Cassie? We were a happy family once?”
“I think so,” I say softly. “But I’m not really sure.”
35
IT’S THE FIRST WEEK OF SEPTEMBER, MY FIRST DAY OF CLASS. Everything has come together. Today I am a new girl, wholesome, fully realized and present. Yale is gorgeous. The buildings are gorgeous. Being here, I’m gorgeous too. I pass ornate cathedrals, arched entranceways, open green spaces, and towers that rise two hundred feet in the air. I understand this is only one part of the city. Minutes away, ramshackle buildings crumble in neglect. Hungry children live in squalor. The elderly die alone. Like impoverished Manhattan, impoverished New Haven is not my town. But the disparity helps me appreciate what I have while churning up guilt and unease.
My appearance today would make Eleanor proud. Despite the warm weather, I’m dressed like a virginal schoolgirl: white blouse with Peter Pan collar, tweed jacket, pleated skirt, and sensible heels. My hair is twisted into a dignified braid. My makeup is minimal: mascara, eyeliner, and a sheen of lip gloss. I hold my books to my chest and stroll up Prospect Street like I’ve landed the starring role in the all-female remake of Dead Poets Society.
At the corner, my phone rings. It’s Lawrence, but I don’t answer. “Hello, hello, my Sweet Girl,” he’ll say in a voice so euphoric it scrapes the ceiling. “Wishing you luck.” Then he’ll ask, nonchalantly, where I’ve been, what I’m doing, why I haven’t been in touch, when I’m coming home. “No pressure, Cassie. We just miss you here.” I’ll get snared in our usual push-and-pull. When I hang up, in the space between cutting him off and aching with doubt, I’ll brim with youth, vitality, and the possibility of freedom.
The ringing stops. A minute later, it starts again. I shut off my phone, tuck it away.
“Let’s introduce ourselves,” the instructor says in my first class of the semester. “Anyone want to start?”
Lawrence will call me every day for the next several weeks. Occasionally I’ll ignore him; most times I won’t. My strength is not enough to sustain me. For now, though, for this one moment, I can say no. “My name is Cassandra Forrester,” I say to the room. Today, I am no longer a Quinn. Here, in this class, I am reborn.