“Some things you can’t fix for yourself,” Rory read. “But you can fix them for somebody else, if you get the chance. Today I got the chance.”

Long pause.

“Beautiful girl,” he read. “So proud.”

Chapter Ten: Fine

Nobody said anything.

The Buick hummed along at seventy-five miles an hour. Past the Humboldt exit. Past a feedlot with a thousand head of black cattle standing in the mud.

In the back seat, Sadie had both hands over her mouth.

On the phone, Rory wasn’t saying anything at all.

“Rory,” Darla said finally. Very gently. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“Do you know why I wrote that?”

He didn’t answer.

“I didn’t write it to embarrass you,” Darla said. “I swear to God, son. I didn’t.”

“Then why?”

“Because I watched your daughter check a price tag before she looked at herself in a mirror,” Darla said. “Six times. And I’ve seen that before.”

She paused.

“I saw it on you,” she said. “When you were eleven. At the Shopko in Madison. Buying school shoes. You’d pick up a pair and turn it over and look at the price before you’d even try it on. And if it was over twenty dollars, you’d put it back and say you didn’t like the color.”

Silence on the line.

“I remember,” Rory said finally. Very quietly.

“Your father taught you that,” Darla said. “By leaving. By never sending a dime. You learned that whatever you needed was too much to ask for.”

“And I watched you do it again,” she said. “At seventeen. When you didn’t ask me for a prom suit because you knew I’d have to do extra perms to pay for it. I found out from your friend’s mother. I did the perms anyway.”

“I know, Mom.”

“And now your daughter’s doing it,” Darla said. “Checking tags. Saying it’s fine. Twice.” Her voice broke. “Three generations, Rory. Three generations of us saying it’s fine when it isn’t. I am done. It stops with me today. On Phillips Avenue.”

Rory didn’t say anything for a long time.

Then he said, “Sade?”

Sadie took her hands away from her mouth. She looked at the phone in her grandmother’s hand.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“I need to tell you something,” Rory said. “And it’s not an excuse. It’s just true.”

Sadie waited.

“I didn’t buy Madison’s dress,” he said. “Tasha’s mom did. Her grandma, in Pierre. She sent the money.” He swallowed. “I didn’t pay a dime for it. I couldn’t. I really can’t swing it, kiddo. The welding shop cut me to three days in January. Tasha’s been covering our mortgage. I’ve got four hundred dollars in my checking account and the truck needs brakes.”

Sadie didn’t say anything.

“But that’s not the point,” Rory said. “Is it.”

“I commented on her picture,” he said. “I said beautiful girl. So proud. Because Tasha was standing right there and asked me to. And because Madison doesn’t have a dad. Hers left when she was three. Never calls. Never sends anything.” He took a breath. “And I’ve been trying to be that. For her. For eight years.”

“I know, Dad,” Sadie whispered.

“And I forgot,” Rory said. “I forgot you needed it too. I figured you were fine. You’ve always been fine. You’re the one who never asks for anything. You’re the one I never have to worry about.”

His voice broke completely.

“And that’s exactly what my dad thought about me,” he said.

Darla handed me the phone. She needed both hands on the wheel. She was crying too hard to drive with one.

She pulled over on the shoulder of I-90, just past the Salem exit. She put the Buick in park. She turned on the flashers.

She sat there with her hands over her face.

I held the phone. I didn’t know what to say.

“Dad,” Sadie said, from the back seat. Very quietly. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, Sade.”

“I know,” Sadie said. “That’s what I meant. It’s not fine. But it’s okay. Those are different.”

Silence on the line.

“Where’d you learn that?” Rory asked.

Sadie looked at her grandmother. In the front seat, with her hands over her face and her shoulders shaking.

“Grandma,” she said. “Just now.”

Chapter Eleven: The Weekend

Rory didn’t call for a week after that.

I thought maybe he was angry. Or ashamed. Or both. I thought maybe that was it, and he’d go back to calling about weekends, and we’d never talk about any of it again.

Sadie didn’t say anything about it either. She hung the emerald green dress in the back of her closet, still in the garment bag. Every night, I’d hear her open the closet door. And stand there. And close it again.

Then, on Friday night, my phone rang.

Rory.

“Jodi,” he said. “Can I talk to you? Just you. Not Sadie.”

“Okay.”

“I need to ask you something,” he said. “About prom. About the twentieth.”

“What about it?”

“Is there,” he said, and stopped. He tried again. “Do they still do pictures? Before? At the house?”

“Everybody does pictures,” I said. “At Jensens’ park, by the river. Five o’clock. All the parents come. It’s a whole thing.”

“Would it be okay if I came?” he said. “To pictures. I don’t want to make it weird. I don’t want to take anything from your day. Or my mom’s.”

I didn’t answer right away.

“I’ve never been to one of her things,” Rory said quietly. “Not really. I’ve missed everything. Recitals. Games. Eighth-grade graduation.” He took a breath. “I don’t want to miss this one.”

“Ask her,” I said. “Not me. Ask Sadie.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’ll ask her.”

“And Rory?”

“Yeah?”

“If she says no, you don’t argue,” I said. “You say okay. You don’t make her feel bad. You don’t make her say it’s fine.”

He was quiet.

“I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”

 

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