“Theater isn’t exactly a door to success in life,” she begins, and I find myself choking on the very fact that we’re having this conversation. “You’ve got to have a plan, Mia.”
And there it is again.
Mia.
She doesn’t bother to correct herself this time, folding and refolding her napkin yet again.
“Why don’t I just write about my experience as the kidnapped child of author Tess Vanguard?” I quip back. “That should bring in some big money, right? Or maybe I should be a hedge fund manager and make money in a legal but morally twisted and broken and corrupt way?” Tess’ eyes flick around, like she’s looking to see if I’m causing a stir. That panicked feeling in my chest begins to rise again, and bile comes up in my throat. I want to go home. All I want is to be back home. “Or maybe I should be a plastic surgeon who offers their step-kid a freaking nose job for her sixteenth birthday that isn’t really her birthday at all?”
I shove up from the table and speed walk as quickly as I can to the front doors, ignoring the curious looks of the staff. My phone is clenched in my hand, but there’s nobody here for me to call, nobody to come and save me.
Instead, I end up sitting on the edge of the curb, looking out at the sea of luxury vehicles in the lot.
After a few minutes, Tess comes out and sits beside me.
For nearly half an hour, neither of us says a word.
“I had the kitchen hold our food,” she says, and I glance over at her, tears dried, emotions in a twisted tangle. It’s like, nobody asked me how I felt about all of this. Not once did the lawyers or the judge or Tess ever ask me how this whole situation was affecting me. “I know this is hard for both of us,” she explains, reaching out to cup the side of my face. I allow the contact, if only because physical affection from her is so rare it may as well be a shooting star. “And I know I’m making a lot of mistakes. I know that, but there’s no rulebook for this. No checklist that tells you how to make your estranged daughter love you. I thrive on rules and routine, Mia. I’ve had to, in order to survive losing you. There were times during those years that I thought I wouldn’t make it, that I …”
She trails off and exhales, dropping her hand to her lap.
“Please stop calling me Mia,” I tell her for what I’m fairly certain is the thousandth time. “I understand you picked that name for me, but it isn’t the name that I grew up listening to.”
Tess stares at me for a long moment and then pulls in a big breath, nodding briefly. I notice that a single tendril of hair has escaped her bun, making her look much more human and less like, well, a politician. Gag.
“And I don’t want plastic surgery. I love myself for who I am. Love the skin you’re in and all that.” I look away toward the trees rustling at the edges of the parking lot.
“I understand,” Tess says as I glance back to find her watching me. “And you’re right. I shouldn’t … Paul and I should not have offered you that. Kimber is always asking, and I just thought …”
“Plastic surgery for teens is a little gauche, don’t you think?” I reply, but Tess just gives me a look.
“I think if surgery makes someone feel better about themselves, then they should do it,” she replies.
“Agree to disagree?” I ask, wondering what that phrase even means. I better get used to it though because it appears that Tess and I are going to have a lot of these moments. She nods and smiles at me, standing up and waiting for me to do the same.
“Agree,” she says, escorting me back into the restaurant.
For the briefest of moments there, I feel another glimmer of hope, like everything is going to be okay.
Of course, that only lasts as long as the meal. As soon as we get into the car, and Tess convinces me to visit some fancy clothing boutique in Seattle, she starts dropping hints.
“You mentioned writing a book about your experience,” she says slowly, carefully, as if she’s weighing each and every word. I glance over at her as she swings blouses across a wooden rack. Even the hangers are made of wood, no plastic or metal here. I stare at the cream-colored items, the white ones, the oatmeal ones.
Hm.
“I was only being facetious,” I admit with a loose shrug. “Writing isn’t my outlet. I’m not sure, exactly, what is, only that I need to create to be happy.”
“Engineering is a form of creating,” Tess suggests as she lifts up a conservative dress with a four-figure price tag. I almost choke. No way would I wear something that costs that much. Inevitably, I’d ruin it by spilling juice or sauce on it and then I’d have massive anxiety trying to get the stain out. “Or coding.”
