Man Of The Family

Mandi is not unhappy, he’d told Sunny.

Holding the watch, Griffin walked back to the bed. Her bent head spoke of guilt. Yet she wouldn’t admit it. She’d tried to sidetrack him with a completely different subject.

Right after Rachel had left, the counselor had said Griffin’s first task would be reassuring his children that he was still here for them. But despite his best efforts, Amanda didn’t feel secure.

He had to tread lightly. True, he was deeply disappointed that Amanda had taken the watch, but he wouldn’t show her how he felt. He never did. In an effort to avoid more damage to his family, Griffin struggled to maintain a deceptively calm—some would say closed-off—facade.

Yes, he was the grown-up here, the guy who had to keep things together. Make Daddy proud. To avoid upsetting his motherless daughter’s fragile equilibrium, he had to say the right thing.

And he could be wrong about the watch. He knew he was grasping at straws, but he hoped he was wrong. What if she wasn’t guilty? And Dixie really was to blame?

Griffin sat on the edge of the bed beside her but avoided glancing at Rachel’s picture. He touched Amanda’s chin and turned her face toward him. Her eyes, brimming with tears, met his.

“You and Josh are both my first priority. We’re in this together, Mandi. We’re a family.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” she whispered.

Griffin’s breath caught. He had no idea how to answer that. “I’m sorry if I accused you unfairly.” He kissed the top of her head then stood. His hand ached from the tight grip he had on the watch. “Let’s sleep on that. We can talk again tomorrow.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said.

* * *

HOURS LATER AMANDA was still awake. She’d tried staring at the dark ceiling for a while after her dad left, but she could hear his words—his accusations—as if they had just been said.

It had been a long time since her mother sat on her bed, talking about the day’s happenings, laughing with her over nothing at all, kissing her good-night, soothing all the hurts. Two years, sixteen days.

Why mark the stupid time, as if they still lived in Boston and Mom was just visiting her grandmother in Philly, where they used to live?

She slipped between the sheets and flopped down, squashing her stuffed giraffe and her oldest cloth doll against the pillows. She kicked off her slippers under the covers. They were too small, but only yesterday her father had said, “No money for nonessentials this month, kiddo. Maybe after payday.” Amanda knew there would always be bills, lots of them from when Mom had left and run up the credit cards. Just as she knew her big feet would never stop growing.

Amanda hated them.

She hated her growing breasts, too, even though Dixie told her she’d be happy with them one day.

Amanda even hated her name. It wasn’t cool like Dixie’s or her other friends’ in Boston or Philly. Mom had always told her it was lovely, graceful, and she’d grow into it, but Amanda hadn’t heard those words in a long time. Her dad wasn’t much of a talker. And when he did...

Yanking the covers up to her neck, she lay shaking in the dark.

I’m the adult here. You’re the kid.

Why feel surprised that she had absolutely no power?

Your grades should be important to you.

But why? It wasn’t as if she’d ever need any of the dumb things they tried to teach in school. Dixie said they wouldn’t. Like those boring job talks in Aunt Bron’s class. Amanda didn’t plan to become a ball player or a cop or a...lawyer.

She bit her lip. She didn’t want to think about bad stuff anymore.

Or about her dad.

Yet the stubborn memories kept coming. Josh had been only three when their mother took off. In sixth grade then, Amanda had been just getting used to having him around and was glad he’d finally stopped wearing diapers and sucking on a bottle.

Her father, of course, had been at work that day. He’d had a big-deal job then.

Amanda pinched herself for wanting to cry.

Even Josh didn’t cry much now. She wondered if he remembered Mom, which only left Amanda feeling more alone. She remembered everything about her, even the shadows in her eyes right before she left.

In the dark she turned over, off the old doll, which glared up at her with its one remaining black eye. She groped across her nightstand for the snapshot in a porcelain frame with roses around it. Amanda ran a finger over the raised flowers, the cool glass. She didn’t have to actually see the picture. Josh might forget, but she never would. She’d always remember her mom’s soft blond hair. And her eyes would always be the exact same color as the blue in her favorite dishes, and her smile...

Dad hardly ever smiled anymore.

When he did, he smiled at Josh. He was always trying to reassure him.

Setting the picture down, she rolled on to her side, facing the wall. She couldn’t bear to open the photo album tonight.

Fresh tears welled in her eyes. She huddled under the lavender eyelet comforter her mother had helped her pick out when they moved to Boston—like the white wicker nightstand and her dresser—but she couldn’t get warm. She thought of her dad’s Uncle Theo, who still lived in Philadelphia. He didn’t have anyone now, and she missed him, too.

“Mandi?” Whispering, Josh stood at her door. She always kept it half-open in case he needed her. “What’samatter?”

Wiping her wet cheeks, she said, “Nothing. Go back to your room. You want Dad to wake up? He’ll put you in time-out.”

A brief silence made her feel ashamed. Mean.

“Daddy never puts me in time-out.”

She frowned at his small frame backlit by the hallway light. “Well, he’ll want to anyway.”

“No,” Josh said in the doorway. “He loves me.”

You’re both my first priority. Amanda couldn’t believe that, not after he’d accused her of stealing. Blinking, she waited until Josh went back to his room, his bare feet dancing to avoid touching the floor.

Her throat ached, and no matter how much she swallowed, it kept hurting. The tears slid down her face, dripped into her ears and on to her pillow. No wonder he liked Josh better.

No wonder he didn’t smile at her. He only pays attention to me when I’m bad. And even then, what happens? Nothing.

That scared her most of all, as if she were a runaway train, and he wasn’t trying to stop her. He hadn’t stopped Mom, either.

She dragged the giraffe back into her arms and held on tight, her stupid tears wetting its baby-stupid face.

* * *

GRIFFIN TOOK A deep breath and rang the doorbell again. From inside he could hear raised voices, one male, one female.

He hesitated. Try the bell once more? Give up? Or open the door himself?

The Cabots rarely locked their doors.