Maura had nestled herself in the uncool in high school, not going through the effort of dating, not even fully bothering with high school friends. She had a nice group of girls she liked, and they were friends; but she was always a bit apart, like joining the sleepovers (which were as likely to be about studying for AP physics or watching an extra credit movie for history as for normal sleepovers with MTV and such) but quietly conspiring with her dad to have him call her at 10:30 and announce a reason to take her back home.
“When you call, I’ll argue,” she said, the first few times. “And I’ll complain. But don’t listen to me. Tell me you’re sorry but you have to pick me up.” She and her dad wondered together, later, whether her high school girl friends ever caught on.
Not that she didn’t grow out of that shell at Stanford. She did. She dated, even had a couple flings, and lived briefly with a boy friend a few weeks after graduation. She made life long friends. She grew up. But still, when Donald came along, she hadn’t had the life experience to anticipate who he really was. Her mom and dad had always loved each other. For the rest of her life she’d wonder whether she’d been caught in the web of Donald because her father was also long on intellect but a bit clumsy socially, awkwardly sincere at times. Her father, she worried, was tragically similar to the fictional character that Donald played, and caught her with, before they were married.
Sprippets 