Chapter 9 - Julia Had Been Waiting For Me To Run After Her
I found Julia outside near the valet lane.
She was crying.
Not dramatically.
Angrily.
Wiping at her face as if tears were another person touching her.
I stopped several feet away.
She looked at me.
“You came.”
“Don't make it a test.”
That almost made her laugh.
She looked toward the traffic.
“For years, I wanted this exact conversation.”
“With Mom?”
“With you.”
“What would I say?”
“That I was right.”
I looked at her.
“Were you?”
“About Mom wanting to leave? Yes.”
“About everything?”
“No.”
She knew.
That mattered.
We stood under the glass awning.
“You really blocked me?”
“Yes.”
“Idiot.”
“Completely.”
“Why not unblock me?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Two months.”
“Then?”
“Nothing.”
“I thought you hated me.”
“I did.”
“Useful.”
She smiled faintly.
Then:
“I also wanted you to miss me.”
I looked at her.
“I did.”
Her face changed.
“I didn't know.”
“You never asked.”
She nodded.
Neither of us got to keep that sentence.
“I called Mom every week for the first year,” I said.
“About me?”
“Sometimes.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That you needed space.”
Julia closed her eyes.
“She told me you were still too angry.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
We both looked toward the entrance.
Inside, our daughters were probably being watched by five adults because none of us trusted the universe for ten minutes anymore.
Julia said:
“I saw you once.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Five years ago.”
“Where?”
“Airport.”
My stomach tightened.
“You were with Lily.”
“How old?”
“Three.”
I searched memory.
JFK.
Maybe.
“You didn't come over.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You looked happy.”
I laughed quietly.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I made a stupid decision from twenty yards away.”
That sounded familiar.
“You had a little girl holding your hand. Husband beside you. You were laughing.”
“And?”
“I thought maybe I was the only person still carrying it.”
“So you left.”
“Yes.”
“Did you regret it?”
“Before I reached security.”
“Did you turn around?”
“No.”
We were impressive.
Then she said:
“Did you know I almost called after Dad died?”
Richard had died four years ago.
Stroke at sixty-nine.
I had attended the funeral.
Julia had not.
“At the funeral?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Mom told me you didn't want me there.”
My head snapped toward her.
“What?”
Julia’s expression changed.
“She said it would be too much.”
“I never said that.”
We both went quiet.
Another Diane sentence.
Maybe not as malicious.
Maybe Mom genuinely believed it.
The distinction no longer made it harmless.
“Did she ask you?” Julia said.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
Julia looked through the glass.
“She is still doing it.”
“Yes.”
Then:
“What do we do?”
I almost said I don't know.
Instead:
“Stop letting her answer for us.”
Julia nodded.
“That's annoyingly simple.”
“Implementation may be poor.”
She laughed.
Real laugh.
Brief.
Then she looked at me.
“I don't forgive you.”
“I know.”
“You called Dad.”
“Yes.”
“You heard Mom say I didn't start it and hung up.”
“Yes.”
“You let him call me selfish for years.”
“I didn't talk to you for years.”
“Same effect.”
I nodded.
“And I don't forgive you for making silence a loyalty test.”
“Fair.”
“Or letting Ava think I didn't want to know her.”
Julia looked down.
“Fair.”
We stood there without solving anything.
It felt better than pretending.
Then Lily appeared behind the glass and started waving both arms.
Ava beside her.
Julia looked at me.
“You ready?”
“No.”
May you like
“Me neither.”
We went inside anyway.
