Therese Fowler - Souvenir

‘Well, did you find the info you needed?’

‘Mostly,’ Savannah said, her mouth full.

The traffic signal ahead turned red, and Meg slowed to a stop. She looked at Savannah, really looked at her, in a way she rarely remembered to these days. The dangling wood-bead earrings, the thick, hammered-silver wrist cuff, the mascara, the slight sheen of lip gloss – when did she begin wearing that? – the swell of breasts inside a snug green tée; all these signs said her daughter was essentially a woman. When had this maturing taken place? Surely it was just last week that skinny, flat-chested, unadorned Savannah was dressing Barbie dolls and perfecting cartwheels on the pool deck behind their house. Yet this week she was a sophomore at a private all-girl high school; a little more exposure to the opposite sex would do her good.

Meg rubbed her shoulder while thinking whether she should ask outright if the girls had been ‘researching’ with boys. But knowing Savannah, the question would be interpreted as an accusation – and she simply didn’t have the energy to defend herself tonight. So instead of asking, she changed the subject again.

‘Hey, I just saw Grandpa Spencer. Do you want to go have dinner with him Sunday? He thought you’d get a kick out of using the self-serve ice cream machine they have there.’

Savannah smirked. ‘I’m practically sixteen . Did he forget the teen part or something?’

The signal light changed and Meg turned the car, heading toward their gated community on the northeast side of town. She left her arm resting in her lap. ‘Be nice,’ she said. ‘The important part is that he wants your company.’

‘Whatever,’ Savannah said.

Meg glanced at her. ‘Is that a yes?’

Her daughter shrugged, slim shoulders signaling noncommitment. ‘Are you and Dad going?’

‘ I plan to. I don’t know about your dad.’

‘He never does anything,’ Savannah grumbled.

True as it was, Meg felt obliged to defend him. ‘He has a business to run.’

‘I think I know that.’ Savannah opened the glovebox, shuffled through a few CDs, selected one, and slid it into the player.

Meg waited to hear what she’d picked. In a moment, the sounds of acoustic piano and guitar surrounded them, joined, after a few bars, by Carson’s voice. She smiled at how Savannah had moved from a grumpy thought about Brian to soothing herself with Carson’s music. Meg had done the same thing many, many times herself.

‘Good choice,’ she said.

‘Can I borrow this to upload when we get home?’

‘Sure, borrow it – but make sure you put this one back afterward.’

‘Duh,’ Savannah said as though she’d never forgotten before.

Savannah sang along softly, as invested in the music as if she’d composed it herself. Meg knew why she loved Carson’s music, but was Savannah’s connection inborn? The possibility alternately pleased or worried her, depending on how close the past felt when the thought bubbled up. Tonight, the thought was a bittersweet pleasure – a longing for the simpler life she and Carson and Savannah would have had if things had been different. But sometimes she hoped fervently that Savannah was Brian’s – wished for a clean break from Carson, for pure, open space between her past and the truth of her life now . The deliberate mystery of Savannah’s paternity had turned out to be much more troubling to her than she’d expected.

Probably, she concluded, she’d trained Savannah to love Carson’s music. Inadvertently, by example. Probably it meant nothing.

‘I guess I’ll go to Grandpa’s,’ Savannah said when the song ended. ‘Oh, we have our opening ballgame Sunday at one. I told Dad; he said he has a nine-thirty tee time with some client, so you’ll have to take me.’

Of course. When Brian wasn’t jetting off to some branch or another of the company he’d founded, Hamilton Investments Management, Inc., he was on the golf course. He rarely involved himself in their lives – ironic, considering he’d once been so determined to win her away from Carson that he and his father had spent $387,000 to close the deal.

He just wasn’t the sort of man who wanted intimacy, in the fullest sense of the word. What was surface level was uncomplicated and therefore desirable; he saved his energies for work. He was about accomplishments. Results. The successful pursuit of an ever-higher standard. He collected achievements the way other people accrue trophies. She admired his energy but was cowed by it too; he expected the same from everyone around him and, especially lately, she didn’t have it to give.

‘Well, whether Dad comes with us or not,’ Meg said, ‘Grandpa will be glad to see you; he wants to show you around – “show her off”, that’s how he put it.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s his new home, the people there are his new neighbors – he wants them to see his beautiful offspring.’

‘Which would be you , or Aunt Beth,’ Savannah said. ‘Not me. I’m not beautiful; I got Dad’s big nose.’

Perhaps , Meg thought. Savannah’s nose did look something like Brian’s, and the shape of her face was similar, too; the broad forehead, the wide smile. Meg wouldn’t bet her life on a genetic connection, though. She said, ‘ You are absolutely gorgeous. I’d give anything for that wavy hair.’ She wanted to reach over and touch Savannah’s long auburn hair, willed her tired arm to cooperate. Happily, it did, and she pushed some strands behind her daughter’s ear, letting her hand linger. Carson’s low, soulful voice sang one of his early ballads, a song about a pair of young lovers separated by a washed-out bridge.

‘Hey, two hands on the wheel,’ Savannah said.

In the darkness, Meg allowed herself a wistful smile.

SIX

Savannah passed the ninety minutes before her online ‘date’ by working on a new song. Her guitar, a fifteenth-birthday gift almost a year ago, made a good diversion most nights, especially now that her grandparents’ horse farm was sold. But last Sunday, while she was chatting online with her friends, she got a message from someone intriguing. A guy – no, a man – who wanted to get to know her. And at nine-thirty tonight he would be online to chat with her again … she hoped.

She sat on her fuzzy purple stool, trying to improve the final three bars of her song. The purple, the fuzz, annoyed her. Nothing in her bedroom suite felt like ‘her’ anymore; her life didn’t feel like ‘her’ anymore. She’d outgrown the lavender walls and spring-green carpet, the white dressers and desk. Her fuchsia curtains, with their bright appliquéd daisies, annoyed her. A lot of things annoyed her, in fact: most of her classmates, her dad’s refusal to let her get a dog even to keep outside, the stares of the creepy lawn-care guys, the way she still wasn’t allowed to stay home alone when her parents traveled, as if she couldn’t be trusted – just to name a few. It was all so irritating , like a cloud of gnats she couldn’t shoo away. Even this song, which she’d been so dedicated to at first, was getting on her nerves; she just couldn’t seem to get it to end the way she wanted it to.

Finally, at nine-twenty, she gave up trying to concentrate and propped the guitar against the wall, wishing there was some way to fast-forward to a time when she had her own life, her own place. Space that was decorated by her, not by some fussy designer who thought she knew ‘just what smart little girls like!’ Someplace like a park ranger’s cabin along the Chassahowitzka River, where she could do research on manatee populations – that would do her just fine. The gentle mammals were her main interest outside of music. If she could have music and manatees, that was all she needed. Well, music and manatees and a boyfriend who loved those things too. And maybe now she’d found him.