I took the silver pie server out of its place in the mahogany case. This silver was my mom’s pride, inherited from her grandmother. I polished the shiny surface until I could see my face in it. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe if I just forgave him I could forget about everything and go forward in my life. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? My face looked distorted, ugly, in the smooth silver utensil. I didn’t want to forgive him. I just wanted the benefits, the clear light feeling of letting it all go and walking into my future. Happy. Not bitter. Not alone.
Something occurred to me. “Hey. This silver. We’re polishing this silver for him? For Nick? For him to come to dinner?”
“Yes.” My mom wouldn’t meet my eye. “I thought it would be nice.”
“I thought you only used it for Christmas.”
“And special occasions.”
“What special occasions? You never used it for birthdays, or your anniversary, or my graduation. What’s so special about this?
“It just…seemed right.” Mom might have been blushing a little, but I couldn’t tell.
“Because he’s so rich now? Is that it?” I sounded like a teenager, but I didn’t care.
“Not that he’s rich, but he’s used to having things nice….” She was blushing.
“I can’t believe this! He used to eat cold pizza for breakfast right out of the box! And after what he did, now he rates Grandma Tremaine’s silver?”
“Julia—”
“This is bullshit, Mom!”
“It’s not just that he’s rich. I want…. I want our family back. I want things to be okay again, like they were. That’s what’s so special, that’s—”
“Things will never be okay again! They’re broken! They will always be broken, and Grandma Tremaine’s silver, or having Nick over for dinner, or not saying ‘step’—none of that will fix it. The hell with this! I’m going to the library.”
Mom jumped up, and before I could take two steps she had wrapped me in a big hug. “Sweetie. Don’t go. Nothing’s ever so broken it can’t be fixed.”
“Oh, Mom, that’s just a dream, it’s—” Somehow I was crying.
“Then let’s have a dream,” she whispered. “Let’s have a good dream, sweetie. Stay.” She kissed my hair. And all those times she’d lifted me out of bed and put me in the wheelchair, pretending not to cry so I wouldn’t see, all those times she’d driven me to physical therapy after the operation, watching as I fought to walk again, all those times came back to me, and I thought, no wonder she thinks everything can be fixed. I hugged her back, hard. How could I say no to her? And maybe she was right, although she didn’t know half of what had happened between Nick and me.
“Okay,” I said, wiping the tears away. “I’ll stay here for dinner.” I found a smile and pinned it on. “But I don’t promise to behave.”
After Mom and I set the table with the linen tablecloth and gleaming silver, I went up to my room to get ready.
What to wear to see Nick? At the hospital I had worn my scrubs, deliberately not dressing to impress. Now I wanted…I could barely admit it to myself, but I wanted him to want me. Yeah, my stepbrother. Long story. I wanted his tongue to be hanging out of his mouth when he saw me, but it had to look effortless. Like I hadn’t tried to look hot, it was just what happened every morning when I got out of bed.
Of course that wasn’t true. After the surgery that let me finally walk again, I had months of physical therapy, and then I turned into kind of an exercise addict. You try not being able to walk for two years, and see how much you crave being able to use your body after a near-miracle gives you that body back. So with all that gym time, I knew that I had a decent foundation to work with, but I wanted to showcase the goods without looking like I bothered. Plus Mom told me to “wear something nice.” So I put on a really simple, short white dress that showed some cleavage and leg but wasn’t too tight, with a denim jacket on top. I had scars from the surgery on my back and hips, but they didn’t show when I was dressed, thank god. Mom told me that they’re not that bad, just thin white lines. Still, it was hard to imagine ever being able to let anyone see them. Being a virgin at 21 is bad enough without having Franken-scars.
I still was so grateful to be able to dress myself. To be able to just walk to my closet and pick something out. On my closet door was a chart that Joe, my stepdad, had made for me when I was still in the wheelchair. Back then, any time I would go out in public, strangers would actually stop me and say shit like, “You’re so inspirational,” or “You’re really brave.” Didn’t matter where I was, on campus, at the mall, in the freaking ladies’ room. It was ridiculous. What did I inspire them to do, exactly? How the hell did they know I was brave? I was always (okay, usually) polite to them, because they were just trying to be nice to the poor crippled girl, but it made me so mad. Joe made the chart so I could check off “Inspirational” or “Brave” when I got home. It turned the whole thing into a joke. He’d say, “Nine ‘Inspirational’ but only two ‘Brave’ this week. You’re slipping, Julia.” I love him for that.
My room is at the front of the house, so I was able to see Nick pull up as I finished brushing my hair. He was driving a little Mercedes, like a Mercedes sportscar thing. At least he wasn’t driven here in a limousine. He’s filthy rich now. He invented an app or something like that. It was all over the news—Youngest Billionaire, blah blah blah. I didn’t read the coverage. Or, not much of it. Not all of it.
I watched him get out of the car. Mom was going to like how he was dressed. Pressed khakis, button down, no tie, brown leather jacket. It looked casual but probably cost a mint.