The Cinderella Theorem Read Free

“coming over” or “coming
home,” at this exact moment?” She started stacking her notes in different piles,
a sign that writing was done for the day.
    I stomped upstairs to brush my
teeth. (I tend to brush my teeth when I get annoyed.) What does she mean, coming
home ?
    On the landing, I stepped over the mini-vac Mom had
left (through her distraction) plugged in. Most likely, this morning, when she
was supposed to be vacuuming the stairs, inspiration seized her and she
abandoned cleaning for writing.
    I stomped into the bathroom, annoyed with my adult
role model. How am I supposed to grow up in this abnormal environment?
    Just
as I finished angrily squeezing toothpaste onto my toothbrush, the shower
curtain was pushed back by a fully clothed man standing in the bathtub.
    “Lily!” he said. “Happy Birthday!”

2
Lubcker
     
    I screamed
and chunked my toothbrush at him. I didn’t wait to see if my aim was good; I
rushed out, slamming the door behind me.
    “MOM!”
    The
man opened the bathroom door. “Lily, let me ex—”
    “Stay
back,” I grabbed the mini-vac off the floor and revved it at him. I could hear
Mom rushing up the stairs.
    “Lily?
What’s going on?” Mom stopped when she saw the man. “Matt! Welcome home!” She
threw her arms around him, kissing him.
    I
dropped the vacuum.
    “Lily,”
Mom said as she pushed the tub-man forward a little, “this is your father. Matt,”
she started tearing up, “this is Lily.”
    Will
nothing in my life ever be mathematical or normal again? Not only is my father
not dead, but I meet him while brushing my teeth, and my mother greets her husband
that she hasn’t seen in fifteen years like he just came home from a day at the
office.
    Tub Man handed a present to my
mom. Then he hugged me. I pulled back a little from the hug, but he didn’t
notice. He just squeezed tighter and said, “I’ve missed you so much, Lily. I’ve
been looking forward to this day ever since you were born.”
    I
couldn’t think of any response to this, so I stared at him, studying his
features to form an equation.
     
    My father = a tub-loving, blonde-haired, tallish man,
who is not dead, but apparently has a loose definition of what it means to be a
family man.
     
    My
mother interrupted my analysis. “Let’s go downstairs,” she said. “We’ll be more
comfortable. Lily, don’t forget to put the vacuum away.”
    Tub
Man beamed as he put his arm around Mom.
    I
picked up the mini-vac, stuffed it in the closet and followed my “parents” to
the living room. My mother sat next to my “father” on the couch. I sat in the
chair opposite, processing what had just happened. How did my father get in the
bathtub? If he came to our house after school, I would have heard him coming
upstairs. If he had been in the house since before I got home, why did my
mother act like she had seen him for the first time upstairs? And why was he
in the bathtub?!
    “I
can’t believe this day is finally here.” Tub Man flashed a bright smile.
    “I’m
so glad we’re all together.” Mom gazed at him with the same stupid smile.
    It
doesn’t make mathematical sense for her to react this way. Wouldn’t they have
grown apart over fifteen years? Shouldn’t she be bitter or something? I am a
reasonably intelligent person: Why don’t I understand any of this?
    “Why
don’t I understand any of this?” I asked.
    “What
don’t you understand, Lily?” Tub Man turned his smile to me.
    He
has to ask what I don’t understand? I filtered through my questions and had just
decided to ask, “Why were you in the bathtub?” when we heard a voice calling
from upstairs:
    “Should
we bring the dinner down, sir?”
    The
fear I felt in the bathroom was back. I grabbed the arms of my chair. “There’s
someone upstairs!” I hissed.
    My
father, instead of rushing up the stairs to defend his wife and child from the
intruder, turned to my mother and asked, “Perhaps we could do this better over
dinner? What do