The Concealers by James J. Kaufman Page B

sort out—for each of them. A lot of time. More than her mother had today. More than she would have for a lot of tomorrows. She decided to change the subject. She knew she had ruined her mother’s trip and wanted to try to end on the best note she could.
    â€œWhat’s going on with your eyes?” Katherine asked, sensing her mother’s relief at the shift in conversation. “You seem to be doing well.”
    Beth relaxed into nurse mode. “There is a notable drusen increase in both eyes, crowding the maculae, but they’re still dry. So far it hasn’t interfered with my work, but that may change.”
    â€œYou’re in the best place to get excellent care, though, right?”
    â€œSo far, so good. What about you, your headaches? The commotion brought on yesterday’s, I’m sure. But have you had more?”
    â€œOnly a few recently . . . mostly when I was working on class deadlines or my job search.”
    â€œYou’re worried about a job. I hate that I’m adding to the worry,” Beth said.
    â€œI told you about the Career Expo in March, and the three best choices. An internship would be a foot in the door, and there are some very good ones, but the ones I’ve looked into don’t pay much, maybe a thousand a month. Starting salaries in the City, fresh out, are better—maybe $58,000 or so—but it costs a lot more to live here. If I stay, I’d have to move to Brooklyn and commute. If I go to D.C. with
Mother Jones
—the magazine—my living expenses would be less—but so would the pay. Other than that, I’ve put out resumes, filled out a lot of applications, and had some phone interviews, but nothing else seems interesting yet.”
    â€œWhat’s Professor Simpson’s advice? Didn’t he want you to go to the
Times
?”
    â€œI’m meeting with him in the morning.”
    â€œSay hello,” Beth said, looking at her watch.
    â€œYou’re okay for LaGuardia. How’s Grandpa?”
    â€œHe’s fine. He’s missed you this year—it’s not like when you were an undergrad at Columbia and could come home for breaks or long weekends.”
    â€œI know. It’s been pretty intense. The Fletcher Thomas program drives you hard, but the professors say in the end it’ll pay off. Maybe once I get settled—wherever that will be—I can come back up for a real vacation.”
    â€œThat would be nice.” The rain hammered down. Beth went to use Katherine’s closet-sized bathroom and repair her makeup, while Katherine phoned the car service.
    Downstairs, Katherine, barefoot, held the umbrella and saw her mother into the sedan as the driver put the one small bag in the trunk.
    â€œYou didn’t have to spring for luxury on your budget,” Beth chided her daughter.
    â€œIt’s only a small thing. You’d have waited forever for a cab in this downpour.”
    â€œSome things are a long time in coming,” she replied. She put her hand on the door to leave, and Katherine put her hand over it. “Wait, Mom, there is one more thing. I love you.”
    â€œI love you, too,” Beth said, patting her daughter’s cheek and climbing in. “LaGuardia, please,” she said to the driver.
    For hours later, watching the rain outside her window, Katherine replayed in her mind the conversation of the last two days. She was trying to absorb the disturbing realization that the idyllic construct of her father as a hero who died serving his country—and from that fact, must have been a man of strength, character, and purpose—was a myth. The foundation and architecture of his image, and her genetic connection and identity, a complete fabrication. Her desire, no,
compulsion,
to not disappoint this larger-than-life father—which had so driven her to excel in all she did—was a house built on quicksand.
    Katherine had always wondered whether she was