Barbara Sissel - Evidence of Life

“Oh, I think I understand perfectly. He’s exactly like you,” Abby would say.

Stubborn, she meant. Each one was determined to have it his own way.

“You know I’m right, Mom,” Lindsey said.

“At least you won’t have to listen to them argue.”

“Maybe I’ll go to law school.”

Abby made a face. Lindsey never passed up an opportunity to remind her parents that she was the better student, the orderly, more agreeable child. “I thought you were going to play pro basketball overseas, travel the world.”

“Is there a reason I can’t do both?”

“Nope. You, my darling daughter, can do anything you set your mind to, just like your brother.” Abby ran her fingers lightly down the length of Lindsey’s braid.

“If only I could stay home like my brother.”

“Your daddy has gone to a lot of trouble to plan this trip so he can spend time with you.”

“I know. I just wish it wasn’t this weekend.”

“There are worse sacrifices,” Abby answered, blithely.

“I have finals next month, too. And don’t say it’s not the same.”

“Okay, I won’t.” Abby centered the griddle over the burner. “Will you set the table and call your dad? The French toast’ll be done in a minute.” She could feel Lindsey considering whether or not to push.

Please, don’t. It was a prayer, a wish, yet one more in the sea of mundane moments from that morning that would return to mock her. To ask her: How could you? Because she would remember that Lindsey hadn’t pushed; she’d set the table and left the kitchen without another word.

* * *

“What about jackets?” Abby followed her husband and daughter through the back door, onto the driveway. Although it was April, it was still chilly, and it would be colder where they were going.

Colder than home.

“It’s supposed to rain,” she said. “Maybe you guys should take your boots.”

“Dad says it’s not going to rain, that the weatherman doesn’t know his—”

“Lindsey,” Abby warned.

“I wasn’t going to say ass, Mom. I was going to say bum or buttocks or what about seater rumpus?”

Abby rolled her eyes.

“He doesn’t know his seater rumpus from a hole in the ground,” Lindsey finished. She stowed her purse and iPod in the front seat. “Mom?”

“Yep?”

“I wish you were going.”

“You do? How come?”

“Because that delicious French toast you made for us? It’s the last good meal I’ll eat till we get home.”

Abby laughed.

“Very funny.” Nick hefted his briefcase and laptop into the back of Abby’s Jeep Cherokee, shifting it to fit, muttering what sounded to Abby like, “Who needs this?” Or, “Why am I doing this?”

She said, “Why don’t you leave that stuff here? You don’t have to work every weekend.”

“I gave you the keys to the BMW, didn’t I?” he asked as if he hadn’t heard her, and maybe he hadn’t or didn’t want to.

“Oh, my gosh!” Lindsey’s eyes were round in mock amazement. “Dad’s letting you drive his precious BMW?”

“I know,” Abby said. “I’m astonished, too.”

He straightened. “Hey, funny girl, maybe I’ll let you drive Mom’s Jeep.”

“For real?” She only had her learner’s permit, wouldn’t turn sixteen until August.

“Do you think that’s wise?” Abby was instantly anxious. “She’s never driven on the highway.”

“She has to learn sometime.”

“But they said it might storm.”

“Like they know.” Nick dropped his arm around her shoulders. “You worry too much.”

“Just promise me you won’t let her drive if the weather’s bad.”

“Jesus, Abby, I’m not stupid.”

“No, Nick, I didn’t mean—”

But he was stepping away, telling Lindsey to get in the car. He wanted to get to the campsite before dark.

She came over to Abby and hugged her. “Never mind, Mommy. You know how stressed he gets before a road trip. If he lets me drive, I promise I’ll be careful.”

Abby clung to Lindsey for a moment, breathing in her scent, leftover maple syrup and something citrusy, a faded remnant of little girl, the color pink, a lullaby. She said, “I know you will.” She walked with Lindsey to the car.

“We’ll be back on Sunday.” Lindsey settled into the front seat. “Unless we’ve starved to death from Daddy’s cooking.”

“I’ll make a big dinner, barbequed chicken and corn on the cob. Chocolate cake for dessert. How’s that sound?”

“I just hope I’m not too weak to eat it.”

“I think you’ll survive,” Abby said. She looked at Nick over the hood. “Don’t be mad because of what I said about Lindsey driving, okay? I didn’t mean anything.”

“She has to learn, Abby, and it’s best if one of us is with her.”

“I’m glad it’s you.” Abby meant it. Nick’s nerves were steadier. She went around to him. “I hope you can relax and have some fun.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

She wanted his gaze and touched his wrist. “Nick?”

“We should probably talk when I get home.”

“About?”

“Things. Us. You know. Isn’t that what you’re always saying, that I should be more open with you?”

“Yes, but—” What’s wrong? She bit her lip to stop herself from asking.

“Thanks for making the French toast.” His eyes on hers were somber.

“Sure, of course. I was glad to. You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

Instead of answering, he cradled her face in his hands and kissed her, and his kiss was so gentle and tender, and so filled with something she couldn’t define. Later she would think it was regret she felt coming from him, maybe even remorse. But then she’d wonder if she’d read too much into it, if her sense of that had been created in hindsight.

He touched her temple, brushed the loose wisps of hair from her forehead. “I don’t want you to worry. We’ll be fine, okay?” His look was complicated, searching.

“Okay,” she said, and she might have questioned him then, but he left her and got into the car too quickly. They reached the end of the driveway, Lindsey waved, and they were gone.

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