Chapter 7
The photographer was calling for family on stage. I heard him from the hallway where Mom had pulled me aside, his voice bright and practiced over the ballroom sound system. "Mr. Bennett, if we could get the family up here for the foundation portrait?"
Dad looked toward the stage, then back at us. Vanessa's hand was still on his arm. She didn't let go.
Mom had her clutch pressed against her ribs like she was holding herself together. Her eyes were still red but she wasn't crying anymore. She looked at Dad and then at me, and something settled in her face.
"We're going to go," she said. It wasn't loud. It was just clear.
Dad shifted. "The photos are in two minutes. If you could just—"
"We're going to go," Mom said again, quieter this time. She touched my shoulder. "Lily and I are going home."
Vanessa smiled, that small hold on Dad's sleeve tightening. "But they'll want Lily in the picture," she said.
Mom didn't answer her. She looked at me. "Get your coat, sweetheart."
That was the choice. I felt it happen. We were supposed to walk back into that ballroom and stand on the riser while someone counted to three and the flash went off with Vanessa in Mom's pearls right between us. Mom chose not to. She chose the hallway that led to the lobby instead, and I followed her.
The coat check was tucked behind the ballroom doors next to the restrooms. The attendant was a young guy in a vest who had to stand on tiptoe to reach the higher hooks. The air back there smelled like perfume and wool and the heat coming off the kitchen.
Mom handed him her ticket. Her hand shook a little when she held it out. I stood close to her and held her silver clutch for her so she could slip her arms into her coat. It was her dark navy wool one, not a fancy gala wrap, because she'd brought the coat that actually kept her warm. I held the clutch with both hands the way I'd held my own beaded one all night.
"Thank you," she told the attendant. Her voice had that polite, even tone she used when she didn't want strangers to know anything was wrong.
He gave me my cardigan, which Mom had folded over her arm when we'd arrived because I'd been cold in the blue velvet dress. She helped me put it on. Her fingers were cold.
"Do you have your clutch?" she asked me.
I nodded and showed her the silver beaded one, still looped over my wrist. She nodded and we turned toward the front doors. Behind us, the photographer's voice came again, muffled now. "Family, right here, please?"
Dad didn't come after us.
Outside, the valet circle was concrete and too bright. Those tall hotel lamps made everything look yellow and the night air had that sharp November bite that came off the parking lot. I could see my breath. The valet stand had a little line, three couples ahead of us waiting with their tickets out, and the valets in red jackets were jogging back and forth between the lot and the circle.
Mom gave her ticket to the guy with the clipboard. He checked it and said, "About eight minutes, ma'am. We're a little stacked up from the gala."
She nodded. "That's fine."
We stood off to the side near the low stone wall where the planters were. My velvet dress wasn't made for outside and the wind cut right through my cardigan. Mom opened her coat and pulled me in against her side without saying anything. I could feel her breathing, slow and deliberate, and the wool of her coat against my cheek.
Through the glass doors, I could see straight into the lobby and a slice of the ballroom beyond. They'd left the ballroom doors propped open. Vanessa was still on the edge of the stage now, angled toward the photographer. She had one hand on Dad's shoulder and she was smiling wide for the camera, her head turned just enough that the chandelier light caught the pearls. Two rows, white against the champagne satin. Even from out here, from behind glass and thirty feet away, I could see them.
The photographer lifted his camera. Flashes went off, one and then another.
Mom didn't look. She kept her eyes on the parking lot where the taillights were crawling up the ramp. But I watched. I watched Dad stand there with his bow tie and his hand in his pocket and Vanessa leaning into him, wearing what wasn't hers, while the people at the tables clapped.
"Mom," I said quietly.
She followed where I was looking for just a second, then looked away. "I know, baby."
The valet pulled up finally, our old gray Honda looking out of place behind the black SUVs and the town cars. The valet held Mom's door open and she thanked him and slid into the driver's seat. I went around to the other side, my dress rustling, and got in and pulled the door shut. The heat wasn't on yet and the seats were cold.
Mom didn't pull away right away. She sat with her hands on the wheel and looked forward at the hotel entrance, where the doorman was helping the next couple. Her breathing fogged the windshield a little.
"Are we okay to leave him there?" I asked.
May you like
She reached over and squeezed my hand. Her fingers were still cold. "We're okay to leave," she said. "That's what we're doing."
She put the car in drive and we pulled around the circle, past the stone planters and the bright lamps, and turned out onto the main road. In the side mirror I watched the hotel get smaller, the glass doors getting narrow until I couldn't see the stage anymore or the pearls or Dad. Just the warm light from the lobby spilling onto the concrete. Mom kept driving, and I kept holding her clutch in my lap next to my own.
