Read An Anonymous Girl for Free Online Page B

days.
    “Should I drive?” I offer.
    He looks almost offended, soI quickly add: “I never get to do it in the city and I worry I’m getting rusty.”
    “Oh, sure,” he says. He flips me the keys, and I snatch them out of the air with my right hand.
    I know my parents’ routines almost as well as I know my own. And within an hour of being at home, I realize something is wrong.
    As soon as we pull up in front of the house, my father lifts Leo out ot his carrierand offers to walk him around the block. I’m eager to get inside and see my mom and Becky, so I agree. When my dad returns, he has trouble unfastening Leo’s leash. I go to help him. The smell of tobacco is so powerful I know he has snuck another cigarette.
    Even when he was an official smoker, he never went through two cigarettes in such a short time.
    Then, while Becky and I sit at stoolsin the kitchen, tearing up lettuce for a salad, my mother pours herself a glass of wine and offers me one.
    “Sure,” I say.
    At first I don’t think twice about this. It’s the night before Thanksgiving, so it feels like a weekend.
    But then she pours herself a second glass while the pasta is still cooking.
    I watch as she stirs the tomato sauce. She’s only fifty-one, not much older thanthe bat mitzvah mothers, the ones who want to look young enough to get carded. She colors her hair a chestnut brown and wears a Fitbit to monitor her ten thousand daily steps, yet she appears a little deflated, like a day-old balloon that has lost some helium.
    As we sit at the round oak table, my mother peppers me with questions about work while my father sprinkles the grated Kraft Parmesanover the pasta.
    For once, I don’t lie to her. I say I’m taking a little break from theater to do freelance makeup.
    “What happened to the show you told me about last week, honey?” my mother asks. Her second glass of wine is almost drained by now.
    I can barely remember what I said. I take a bite of rigatoni before answering. “It closed. But this is better. I can control my own hours.Plus, I get to meet a ton of interesting people.”
    “Oh, that’s good.” The creases in her forehead soften.
    Mom turns to Becky. “Maybe someday you’ll move to New York and live in an apartment and get to meet interesting people!”
    Now I’m the one who frowns. The traumatic brain injury Becky suffered as a child didn’t just affect her physically. Both her short- and long-term memory are sodamaged that she can never live alone.
    My mother has always held on to false hope, and she has encouraged Becky to do the same.
    It bothered me a little bit in the past. But today it seems kind of . . . unethical.
    I imagine how Dr. Shields would pose the question:
Is offering someone unrealistic dreams unfair, or is it a kindness?
    I think about how I’d explain my thoughts on thesituation to him.
It’s not exactly wrong,
I’d type.
And maybe this is less for Becky more for my mother.
    I take a sip of wine, then deliberately change the subject.
    “Are you guys getting excited for Florida?”
    They go every year, the three of them, driving down two days after Christmas and returning on January 2. They stay in the same inexpensive motel a block away from the water. Theocean is Becky’s favorite place, even though she doesn’t swim well enough to go in past her waist.
    My parents give each other a look.
    “What?” I ask.
    “The ocean’s too cold this year,” Becky says.
    I catch my father’s eye and he shakes his head. “We’ll talk about it l ater.”
    My mom stands up abruptly and clears the plates.
    “Let me,” I say.
    She waves her hand. “Why don’tyou and your father take Leo out for his walk? I’ll help Becky get ready for bed.”
    The metal bar in the middle of the pull-out couch digs into my lower back. I flip over on the thin mattress again, trying to find a position that will coax sleep.
    It’s nearly one A.M. , and the house is quiet. But my mind is whirling like a washing machine,