She takes another sip. “Then part of you still does.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” I retort, rolling my eyes at her “wisdom,” which I can’t help finding smug and simplistic. “This isn’t a sappy old movie. He lied to me, and—”
“But toprotect you, right? Not to cover his own ass, likemalignantliars do. Don’t you think it was sort of sweet and… I don’t know, heroic? Manly?”
“Good lord, Sherri. ‘Manly’?Hell no.Sorry to drag you kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, but life isn’t a Brontë sisters novel, where men get a free pass to be haunted jerks who treat women like helpless pets who need to be ‘protected,’ and sent off to the seaside to recover if they get the vapors.”
“Okay,” she mutters, defensive. “Shit almighty.”
“Klaus lied to me, his ‘protection’ was condescending, and… he’s probably not even over his sainted wife. We can’t be partners if he doesn’t see me as an equal. End of story.”
I immediately feel bad for unloading on her, because the word “partners” reminds me of how clueless Sherri still is, and how she’s trying her best. The first few times she heard people referring to their partners, she discreetly asked Minnie, “Are way more people gay now?” because in her day, that designation was only used in same-sex couples.
I let out a slow breath, struggling for patience. “I’m sorry I sound mad. It’s… it’s not you. I’m sensitive about this, and I took it out on you, which isn’t fair.”
I’m not sure if she’s sulking when there’s no reply for a solid three minutes, just the intermittent gurgle of a straw trying to suck up milkshake.
“I understand,” she finally says quietly. She puts the lid back on her empty cup and drops it into the bag between us. “And I’m sorry if I’m being nosy or pushy or whatever. I just panic about all the lost time. I guess I’m trying to have the conversations I always imagined I’d have with you as a teenager. But obviously you’re an amazing adult woman now with a whole history. I know you don’t need me.”
If she’d said that last bit in a self-pitying tone, I could be annoyed… but she doesn’t. Her calm resignation is neutral.
I mash down the fast-food bag and take her hand, giving it a squeeze. It’s the first time I’ve touched her voluntarily, rather than in submission to a Sherri-initiated hug. I don’t say it, but in my head the response hovers:
I actually think Idoneed you.
The last race was Suzuka, and Circuit of the Americas in Texas is fifteen hours earlier—a rough time zone adjustment, even though the events are two weeks apart. A few days after the trip to Mammoth Caves with Sherri, I concede to inevitability (and necessity) and text Klaus.
Any chance you can stop by here and talk with me before you fly to Mexico City? I know it’s out of the way. But there are some things that will work better to discuss in person.
For a full ninety minutes there’s no reply, and I get wounded that he’s ignoring me. A lag before a return text never botheredme before; I always figured he was in a meeting. But since I took my sweet time replying to his texts in the days after leaving Hungary—and kept my responses under four words—I’m assuming this is payback.
While I’m poring over data about illnesses, injuries, and deaths in the prison where Sherri served her time, my phone buzzes on the little seafoam-green antique desk.
Klaus:Apologies for the delay—I was in a meeting. I’ve already scheduled the flight. There’s a small airport called McCreary just a few miles from you. Does Tuesday work? I’m happy to arrange for a hire car to be there for me if that’s your preference, rather than picking me up.
Me:It’s your call.
His next reply is uncharacteristically terse, I suppose in response to mine.
Klaus:I can make my own way—I have the address. Late afternoon.
For the next five days I’m a nervous wreck. My writing focus is garbage, so I let myself just do research and some editing. I go for brisk walks with Auntie Min every morning, help her with volunteering—assembling sack lunches for her church to pick up and take to the shelter—and work on my bedroom, making it feel more like my own space. In the evenings, Minnie and I cook orbake, then watch movies. She’s also teaching me to crochet, which is surprisingly relaxing, despite how slow and clumsy I am at it.
Sherri comes over every other day to work on her class assignments for a few hours, sitting with her laptop in the wing chair in the corner of my room. We’re getting comfortable enough with each other that we can be in the same space silently. At first I was irritated to have her nearby distracting me from full concentration. But it’s nice now. If I have a question, she’s here to clarify, tell me a new story, or provide a quote or detail.
We may never really feel like mother and daughter, but we’re cultivating something of a friendship. Kind of like… cousins? Not the shared context of people who grew up in the same house, but a sense of family connection, and the ability to be natural—even a little cranky sometimes—with each other.
The evening before Klaus is going to arrive, Sherri asks me, “Can I meet him?”
“No!”
She holds her hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. Don’t rip my head off. I just… y’know, he’s a big deal in your life.”
“Wasa big deal.”
“Is, Natty. There’s no denying it at this point, considering.”
She returns to typing out an essay she’s writing about whether there’s a “fourth wave” in feminism, or if it’s a continuation of the “third wave.” I recommended the topic for her midterm essay. She’s catching up, culturally. It’s not like she did her time in a Siberian snow cave with zero access to the larger world, but she still has plenty to learn about sexual harassment, rape culture, and body shaming.
