“You watch,” Marni had said after Abby and Simon had gathered in Marni’s bedroom. Abby’s big sister had been summoned home from college for the announcement. She’d been gone only a few months, but, in her college sweatshirt, with a blue streak of dye in her hair, she already looked like she’d outgrown their house and her brother and sister. “Either she’s got a boyfriend or he’s got a girlfriend, or both of them have someone else. And this whole ‘Dad’s got an apartment and you’ll see him twice a week’？ All of that ‘I’m always going to be your father’？” She’d made a dismissive flicking gesture with one hand as Abby had stared at her, numbly, and her brother, red-faced and visibly miserable, had looked at his feet. “That won’t last six months.”
Marni had been only half-right. Eileen did have someone else. Either Gary Fenske had been waiting in the wings or Eileen had found him with impressive rapidity after her separation. But Marni was wrong about Bernie Stern, who had never given up on being a father. He’d found a house nearby, where Abby had her own bedroom. He’d gone back to school, to become ordained as a rabbi. He’d learned to cook.
Abby told Sebastian and Lincoln how her dad would make all of her favorite meals on the nights she spent at his place—chicken Parmesan, grilled sirloin, his famous Meat Loaf Surprise. “The surprise was bacon,” Abby stage-whispered. She didn’t mention how, at least once a month, her father completely forgot when it was his night and would be surprised （and try to hide it） when he got home from the synagogue and found Abby doing her homework in his kitchen. Nor did she tell him how wonderful it was when her father cooked because of what she ate at her mother’s house. Grilled boneless, skinless chicken breasts, SnackWell cookies, and Lean Cuisine were the staples of Eileen’s table. When she did cook from scratch, it felt like her goal was to remove as much fat, salt, and, subsequently, flavor from any dish she prepared.
“My dad taught me to ride my bike when I was little. Once my parents were divorced, that was how I got back and forth between their places.” She told them how, in eighth grade, she’d started taking bass lessons at the School of Rock in Philadelphia. “I had to bring Shirley with me when I changed houses on Wednesdays. I’d ride through town with a bass guitar on my back.”
“Shirley?” asked Sebastian. “Oh, wait. I get it. Shirley Bassey.”
“Exactly,” said Abby, secretly pleased that he’d gotten the reference so quickly. Mark hadn’t understood the joke, not even after Abby had explained.
She tried to tell them how her bike had given her freedom from her mother’s high standards and restrictions and her dad’s occasional cluelessness and carelessness; how being able to go to the places she chose, under her own power, had made her feel like she could take care of herself, at a time when she didn’t entirely trust either of her parents to do it. Biking was her refuge. She could escape from Eileen’s cool silences or judgmental glares, her mother’s meals of barely dressed salads and unbuttered sweet potatoes. She could get away from her father’s hurt looks and heavy sighs, the chagrined look on his face when she was forced to tell him that there was no food in the refrigerator or no gas in the car or that he’d forgotten about her recital or performance or dentist appointment.
Whatever was happening at whichever house she was at, Abby’s bike could save her. She could say, “I’m going on a bike ride,” and go off by herself: to a friend’s house, or the Willow Grove Mall, or to the path that ran from Center City all the way to Valley Forge. She could pedal, feeling the wind against her face, until she was calm again, until she’d gotten some perspective, until whatever had happened no longer felt as dire, and she didn’t feel so sad.
“Biking made me who I am,” Abby concluded. She removed a wet wipe from its package and rubbed barbecue sauce from her fingertips. “It saved me.” Those dorky, ridiculously sincere words seemed to echo in the restaurant, audible even through the noise of other diners and music from the jukebox, and Abby wished, immediately, that she could unsay them. She glanced at Sebastian as a waitress came to clear the table; bracing for scorn, or boredom, but seeing neither one. He looked interested, and thoughtful. She wondered if biking had been like that for him. Except what did Sebastian need to be saved from?
“And how about you two?” she asked, looking at Lincoln first. “Lifelong cyclist?”