The dog was a birthday present. For my twelfth birthday, my parents had rented out an arcade and batting cages in Culver City. It was the beginning of 1998. We always celebrated in January, since I was born so close to the end of the year.
My friends crowded behind the plate, cheering as I nudged the batting helmet out of my face and timidly stepped into the cage. Dad offered me last-minute advice to keep my feet shoulder-distance apart, my right elbow up. I expected Mom to remind me to be careful, but she was at the concession stand, making a phone call.
All right, Miranda, you can do this, Dad said after a swing and a miss. Mom appeared at his side and whispered something into his ear. I swung at the next pitch once it had already sped past the plate. You should know by now not to count on him, Dad said to Mom. Miranda, he called to me. Keep your eyes open.
He promised he’d be here, I heard Mom whisper.
Let’s not get into this now, he whispered back.
He shouldn’t make promises if he isn’t going to keep them.
Suze, not now.
I tried to focus on my cocked elbow, my loose knees, just as Dad had taught me, but their hushed tones distracted me. There was only one person who made them whisper like that. I hated when they talked about Billy that way, like they were trying to protect me from him, like he was someone I needed to be shielded from. I turned away from the pitching machine, toward my parents. They were leaning against the cage, staring each other down.
The impact sounded before I felt it. An incredibly loud clap and then my shoulder ignited. I screamed, falling to the ground. Two more balls whizzed by my head. Dad shouted for someone to turn off the machine as he and Mom raced into the cage.
Sweetheart, are you okay? Mom pulled the helmet off my head and brushed the sweaty hair off my forehead. The pain had knocked the wind out of me. I panted on the cold cement floor, unable to respond. Miranda, talk to me, she said a little too frantically.
I’m okay, I said between exerted breaths. I think I just need some cake.
Normally, this would have made them laugh, but they continued to cast concerned and disappointed looks at each other as if the welt rising on my shoulder was somehow Billy’s fault, too. Mom huffed at Dad, then stormed off to the concession stand to collect my birthday cake.
Is Mom okay? I asked Dad as we watched her talk to the teenager behind the counter.
Nothing a little cake can’t fix, Dad said, ruffling my hair.
After the cake was devoured and the bag of ice Mom made me hold on my shoulder had melted down the front of my T-shirt, I joined my friends in the arcade, ignoring the sharp pains that shot down my arm as I rolled the skee-ball up its narrow lane. Between rolls, I glanced over at my parents. They were cleaning up the remains of my birthday cake, Mom furiously scrubbing the plastic tablecloth until Dad pulled her away and held her in his arms. He stroked her hair as he whispered into her ear. I couldn’t understand why she was so upset. Billy often didn’t show up when he said he would. In fact, I couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been to one of my birthday parties. If an earthquake hit in Japan or Italy, he’d be on the first plane out with the other seismologists, engineers, sociologists. He didn’t usually have time to let us know he was leaving. Instead of disappointment, I felt pride. My uncle was important. My uncle saved lives. Mom taught me to see him this way. After a recital or debate, a Sunday barbecue without Billy, she would tell me, Your uncle wants to be here, but he’s making the world a safer place. He was my superhero. Captain Billy, who saved the world not with superhuman powers but with a superior brain. Even when I was too old to believe in superheroes, I still believed in Billy. I thought Mom believed in him, too, yet there she was, crying over a birthday party.
* * *
My best friend, Joanie, and I went to bed early that night. I was half-asleep and hazy, but the ringing doorbell was real, the tiptoes downstairs, the whispers. I slipped out of bed, into the hall where I saw Mom at the front door below, her satin bathrobe pulled snugly around her small frame. Billy stood outside on the porch.
I started to run toward the stairs, ready to pounce on Billy. I was getting too big to jump on him, yet I thought even when I was an adult I would greet him that way, breaking his back with my love for him. When I got to the top of the stairs, Mom’s words startled me.
What the fuck is wrong with you? It’s 3:00 a.m. I froze. Mom rarely raised her voice. She never cursed. You’ve got some nerve, showing up in the middle of the night and blaming me. Some fucking nerve.
I stood paralyzed at the top of the banister. Her anger was glorious, unlike anything I’d ever seen before.
You made things this way. She tried to keep her voice down. You hear me? This was your choice. Don’t you dare blame me.
Billy turned away as Mom continued to yell about the hour, telling him he was an asshole and something called a narcissist and other names I didn’t understand. When he spotted me at the top of the stairs, his cheeks were red, his eyes were glassy. Mom followed his gaze to me. Her cheeks were pale and she suddenly seemed very old. I looked between their expressive faces. They weren’t fighting about my birthday. Something else had happened.
Honey, go back to bed, Mom called to me. When I stalled, she added, Please.
I darted back to my room, disturbed and inexplicably embarrassed by what I’d seen.
Joanie tossed when she heard me crawl into bed beside her.
What time is it?
It’s after three.
Why is someone coming over so late?
I don’t know.
Joanie rolled over, mumbling incoherently. I couldn’t fall back to sleep. Mom’s words raced through my brain—some fucking nerve and asshole and don’t you dare blame me. This was your choice. Sunlight bled through the curtains as dawn became morning. I’d stayed up all night, and I still couldn’t figure out what choice Billy had made, what he’d blamed on Mom, what I had witnessed at our front door.
* * *
Later that morning, Dad took Joanie and me for pancakes.
Where’s Mom? I asked Dad as we got into his car.
She’s sleeping in. Mom never slept past seven, but Dad’s tone discouraged further questions.
When we returned from breakfast Mom was still in her satin robe, her auburn hair tangled around her face as she folded chocolate chips into batter. Normally, singing was an essential ingredient in any recipe. Mom’s mellifluous voice would weave its way into a pie or lasagna, making the cherries or the tomatoes sweeter. As she continued to flip the cookie dough, over and over again, the kitchen was painfully silent.
She looked up when she heard me in the doorway. Her eyes were puffy, her cheeks still colorless. How was breakfast?
Dad let us get three different kinds of pancakes.
Did he? She returned her attention on the bowl of cookie dough. That was nice of him. I wanted her to start singing, to break her own trance. She continued to watch the dough thud against the sides of the mixing bowl, and I wondered if the cookies would taste as good without her secret ingredient.
* * *
We didn’t hear from Billy for a few weeks, not until he stopped by to take me out for my birthday. I had no idea where we were going. That was the fun of a day with Billy. Whatever activities I would have proposed—an afternoon at the pier or Six Flags—wouldn’t have been half as exciting as whatever adventure he had in store for us.
The labored breaths of Billy’s old BMW echoed through the house. I waited for the familiar sounds of his car door shutting, of Mom rushing to meet him at the front door, peppering him with questions. Where were we going? Would