Unfortunately, looking at those last two rings on my plate reminds me of Trey surprising me with O’Malley’s on my first test jump to the Lincoln Memorial and on our last day together before the jump to the Expo. That, of course, reminds me of everything else going on in my life that I can’t really talk to my mother about.
Mom, being a mom, naturally notices my change of expression. “Hey, I wasn’t really going to swipe an onion ring. Although I’m pretty sure they gave you more in your order than they gave me. Your flirting with the waiter must have paid off.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I did not flirt with the waiter!”
She grins. “Nope, you didn’t even notice him. And he’s kind of cute, too. Are things so serious with this boy you’re dating that you don’t even glance at a hot guy now?”
I really don’t want to talk about Trey right now. I’ve given her a plausible half-truth concerning our relationship, saying that I met him at a Briar Hill meet and greet for incoming students and that we’ve gone out a few times. All of that is more or less true, and since I have to leave out the parts about alternate timelines, the fact that the meet and greet was on his doorstep, and that I had to pretty much stalk him in order to arrange the meeting and greeting, there’s not much else to tell.
So I stab the larger of the two remaining onion rings and toss it onto Mom’s plate. It’s partly meant as a distraction and partly because they really don’t look as tempting as they did before my thoughts turned to Trey.
“Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?” Mom gives me a fake evil glare, and for a fleeting moment, I see a resemblance to Saul. For some reason, I’d thought of him as Prudence’s father and even as my grandfather, but I’d never really lingered on the fact that he’s her biological father, too. I shouldn’t be surprised that there’s some resemblance, but I have to admit that it creeps me out a teensy bit.
I give her a tentative smile. “The Accords do say that either party can voluntarily grant control of an onion ring to the other party.”
“True, but that’s never happened.”
“Maybe I’m just growing up and have decided that it’s nice to share?”
“Hmph. As long as you don’t expect me to reciprocate.”
“The treaty remains in full force. And I actually do have an ulterior motive. I want to finish eating so that you’ll finally tell me this big news.”
She’s been playing coy since she picked me up. And I was wrong about her venturing into the lion’s den. She called at 5:40 p.m., ten minutes after she was supposed to arrive at Katherine’s, to say that she was running late and I should meet her outside or we’d lose our table. On a Thursday night . . . at a place where reservations aren’t recommended, let alone required. Yeah, right, Mom. You retain your crown as the Queen of Avoidance.
I finish off my last onion ring and wipe my fingers on the napkin in my lap. “Okay, we have now eaten every bite. So spill.”
“You don’t want dessert?”
“No! Stop stalling.”
“Fine,” she says with a nervous little hand gesture that really isn’t typical for her. “I’m just very excited about this, and a little . . . well, hesitant. I don’t know whether you’ll be all right with it.”
“Um, okay.” I give her a quizzical look. “I’m going to repeat back to you a question you’ve asked me many, many times. ‘Exactly who is the mother and who is the daughter here?’ Last time we discussed this, the answer was that you were the mother, so unless something has changed, why would you need my permission?”
“I don’t need your permission, but I don’t want you to feel abandoned. It’s—I’ve been offered this incredible opportunity, a research sabbatical with some minor teaching duties. But it’s in Italy. For a year.”
My expression must shift a bit, because she immediately says, “But I don’t have to take it, Kate. I’m sure there will be other opportunities—”
“No, no.” I can’t tell her that the expression was due to déjà vu because I just heard something very similar in the diary entries by Other-Kate. “Really, Mom. Tell me more.”
She looks skeptical. “It’s just a research grant. I could probably delay it for a few years, until you’re in college,” she says, although I can tell from her voice that she doesn’t really believe it.
“Um . . . I said tell me more, not tell me why you shouldn’t go. Where in Italy? What would you be doing? When would you need to leave?”
“It’s near Genoa, but I’d be traveling to five or six different cities in Europe and also in Africa. There’s a private donor who is funding oral histories of women survivors of the genocides in Rwanda and Bosnia. It would be a comparative study, and I’d pull in my research on women survivors of the Holocaust and maybe even have a chance to interview the few still alive in Europe. Someone else must have backed out at the last minute—I’ve never heard of anything moving this quickly in academia. The grant would cover my salary, plus my traveling expenses, and even compensates my department for having to cover my classes at the last minute. They want me there a few weeks before their fall semester starts, which gives me a whopping six days to get things in order. That’s counting today, so five really.”
Her eyes are wide and excited throughout that long speech, which might strike someone who didn’t know her as odd, given that she’s talking about the prospect of an entire year filled with some pretty grisly and emotional stories. It’s not like she revels in the suffering of others. This is just the one subject she’s passionate about. She wants to be sure these women’s stories are told and remembered.
“I think you should take it, Mom. I mean, I’ll miss you, but I could come over on vacation, right? Or you could fly back here?”
She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. “Are you sure, Kate? A year is a long time, especially at your age.”
“True. It would be a shame for you to miss my first step.”
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“I do. But I’ll have Dad document every homework assignment and report back to you if I grow an inch or my shoe size changes. You should do this, Mom.”
I try to make my expression as sincere as possible, both to counteract her earlier assumptions and to hide the fact that part of me really and truly doesn’t want her to go. It’s not just that I’ll miss her. I was also looking forward to having a part-time refuge from CHRONOS and Katherine. A few days a week at Mom’s house, being a normal teenager, going to school, sleeping in my tiny, cluttered room, curling up on our battered, old sofa with her to watch a movie—all of that would have given me a break from the current insanity.
I’m also pretty certain Katherine is behind this grant, although I’ve no idea why I think that. With few exceptions, this timeline seems much like the one in which Other-Kate existed, so maybe this opportunity came Mom’s way based on her professional reputation. There’s just something about the phrase “private donor” and the fact that the university is in Italy, where Katherine lived for a number of years. And the timing . . . this just came out of the blue.
The bottom line is I know Mom needs this. Dad has his teaching and me and also Sara. He has Grandma and Grandpa Keller, who raised him from the time he was five. He loves teaching, but if he had to switch jobs tomorrow, I doubt it would change him. Given the breach between Mom and Katherine, she has her work and me, and I’m at Dad’s half the time. Sometimes she looks at me with this odd, sad expression, and I’m pretty sure she’s imagining what it will be like in a few years, when I’m on my own and all she has is her work.
I haven’t seen her eyes light up like this about anything in years—maybe not since she and Dad split up—so there’s no way I’m going to let on that I’m suspicious. If Mom thought Katherine was involved, her interest would evaporate instantly. And it would be so selfish for me to keep her here just because I want an escape from round-the-clock Saving the Universe duty.