On the fourth day, my father called, which he almost never did directly. Your mother is a mess, he said. What did you think of my graduation, I asked him. What do you mean? I mean what did you think when Mom told you we were not going. He explained she’d told him the ceremony was rescheduled, that I’d said not to worry about coming. That is not true, Dad, I mailed you tickets three weeks in advance. A long silence. Oh, he said. Yes, I said. Oh.
Dad, I want to believe you, but you have been married to Mom for thirty five years. If you did not know, that is because you did not want to know. That is fair, he said. Then, after a long silence neither of us broke, he asked if it was true I’d bought the Berkeley house, in cash. Marlo, are you in any kind of trouble? No, Dad, I got a job. A very good job. I am safe. I am healthy. I have a real career.
Okay, he said. Then, Marlo. I am proud of you. No qualifier. No comparison to my sister. Just, I am proud of you. Thank you, Dad, I said. Do not sell that house, he added. And your mother is going to get worse before she gets better. She does not know how to be told no. I am not going to fight you on it. I owe you that much.
I moved to New York on the fifteenth of July, into a corporate apartment three blocks from the office, with a window looking out at the East River. I hung my grandmother’s photograph on the wall beside the bed and said good night to her every evening before turning off the light. Xavier Halden shook my hand my first morning, soft spoken, sharp gray eyes. I have been waiting fourteen months to meet you, he said. Please try not to disappoint me.
