I looked at him. The fact that I felt scared didn’t deter the desire inside me to share myself with him. All my inner thoughts and secret fears. But these thoughts confused me even more. I didn’t understand how or why I felt this way about this boy who’d showed up out of nowhere and suddenly consumed my life. As if I’d known him my whole life, almost as if he’d always been a part of me. It freaked me out.
“Emily?” he said again.
For some reason his voice seemed far away. Like he was calling to me from inside a long tunnel.
“Two years ago in July.” My voice felt as if it echoed in the tiny structure. Rain still fell on the roof. But now it sounded like drums beating on my brain, not the soft patter I’d enjoyed earlier.
“Was he sick long?”
I nodded. “Yes. He had cancer. I hated watching him get sicker daily. He’d lie in the hospital bed in the living room. Every day he seemed to shrink until he resembled a bag of bones stretched out on the white cotton sheets. He’d lost so much weight. He didn’t even look like himself anymore.” I paused. “But he still joked like he used to. He always tried to make us laugh.”
“You were lucky,” Tommy commented. His gaze met mine. “To have a dad like that. I always wanted to know my father. I doubt he was much. After all, he left us without a second thought.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
“His name was Joe Tucker. He was a truck driver from Tennessee. My mom met him when she was waitressing at the truck stop down by the interstate. I guess he stuck around for a few months after Mom told him she was pregnant with me. He even moved in with her. One day he was supposed to pick her up from work and never showed up. She went home, and all his stuff was gone. No note. No nothing. She never saw him again.”
His voice cracked, and he stopped talking. Tommy tapped his right thumb slowly on the white plastic table. I put my hand on his arm, and his tapping silenced.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
His dark-blue eyes met mine. Not the eyes of a fifteen-year-old boy, but those of an old soul. I’d never seen eyes like that in any of the boys I’d known before in my life. Most boys were silly and immature. Sometimes I felt like their mother rather than a classmate, witnessing their antics.
But Tommy’s eyes held a depth beyond his fifteen years. Even at thirteen, I recognized it. A depth that saw and understood me in a way I’d never imagined. And I understood him in a sense that went beyond words. I felt his presence in my heart. In my very soul.
He nodded. I knew his life held pain, as did mine. His was more hurtful. Whereas my anguish lay in my longing to have my father back and my old life back, his grief was different. Pain which slithered through his heart constantly, but instead of letting anger control him and eat him alive, he did something else. He put those feelings into his artwork. He created beauty from the pain.
I realized in that moment I’d never have another friend like Tommy. You know when someone special touches your heart. That day I knew he was different.
***
We lay on the bank beside the stream. Droplets of water from the earlier rain still clung to the willowy ferns surrounding us. The ground was cloaked in dampness, but I didn’t mind. Its coolness felt good against my skin. Humidity was at an all-time high. Typical for July.
I turned to glance at Tommy. His eyes shut, and he soaked up the warm rays of sun that followed the rain. I had looked earlier for a rainbow, but none was visible.
It was quiet in the woods. No noise yet sounds all around me. No cars driving or people talking. No TVs blaring or radios blasting. But sounds, like the crackle of leaves as squirrels scampered through, or the rhythmic melody of water running over rocks in the stream, and the lonesome song of a lost robin searching for its nest filled the air.
“Do you believe in God?” I asked suddenly.
Tommy’s eyes stayed closed. “Yes, I do.”
I waited for him to elaborate. But he didn’t. A common occurrence for him.
“So do I,” I whispered. I don’t know why I whispered. It was almost as if God was eavesdropping on our conversation. Stupid, since God was already supposed to know everything, right?
“Look around us,” Tommy said through half-open eyes. “How could someone not believe in God, in a higher power?” He gestured his arm in the air. “Life surrounds us. Everything growing green and wild is a testament of God’s existence.”
I wasn’t surprised that he believed in God. I knew he would. I felt that connection to him. But what did surprise me was the passion and certainty in his voice. I was jealous of the certainty he had about almost everything. I held certainty for nothing.
“How are you so sure?” I asked. “Do you go to church?”
He laughed. “Come on, Emily. Do you think going to church gives you some front row seat with God? We all have a backstage pass with Him if we want to. God’s with us everywhere we go. He doesn’t just make an appearance on Sunday morning.”
“I know that.” It’d been a long time since I’d gone to church. We used to go every Sunday. Well, almost every Sunday. To the red-brick Methodist church in our development. I remember one of my Sunday School teachers had given us round peanut butter crackers, the kind in a six pack, after class for a treat. And sometimes grape juice. The teachers used to act out Bible stories with puppets. That’s what I remembered about church.
“Do you?” Tommy rolled over on his side, his face inches from mine.
His hot breath settled on my skin. I nodded.
“Then why did you ask me about church?” he asked. “Sounds like that’s the only place you think God is at.”
I sighed. He was forever analyzing me. Every word I said. Sometimes it drove me nuts. I could never just say something to him. He always wanted to know why I’d said it.
“Most people who believe in God go to church,” I explained. “That’s why I said that. I don’t think it’s the only place to find God. He is everywhere.”
“I hate that stereotype. Lots of people who don’t go to church believe in God. Nothing against church at all. I just don’t feel like I need it.” Tommy tapped his chest. “I feel God right here. That’s enough for me.”
I thought about God a lot. And Heaven. I knew Dad was there, too, but I didn’t understand what all that meant. My nana used to say feeling and knowing something was true was all we really needed. Understanding was a good thing. But sometimes we got too tied up in the details. Feeling and believing in your heart was the true test of faith. I could still see Nana, in her sunny yellow kitchen, icing cinnamon buns fresh from the oven. Cinnamon buns had been one of her favorites, and ours, too, so she’d made them every time we’d gone over. She’d been an old woman, forty-two years old, when she’d had Dad, her only child. She’d been an elementary school teacher for many years but had retired long ago. What I remembered most about her was her hugs, warm and loving, and how she smelled like peppermint. Probably from the same shampoo Dad always used. She was gone now, too. She’d died a few years before Dad.
I knew God was real. I could feel Him in my heart. Sometimes that’s all you needed.
***
I sat the last blue daisy-decorated plate on the kitchen table. Sam greedily gulped his glass of milk. Mom placed the white stoneware bowl in the center of the table. Spaghetti again.
“Any garlic bread?” Sam asked.
“On the stove,” Mom said.
Sam sprang from the table to retrieve the bread.
“Something I wanted to talk to you two about,” Mom said, scooping a pile of spaghetti on her plate.
“What?” I snatched two pieces of garlic bread before Sam inhaled all of them. He was such a pig sometimes.
“I’ll be coming home a little later on Thursday night,” she said.
“Extra shift at the steakhouse?” Sam asked.
Mom paused. “No. I’m going out to dinner…with a friend.”
At the tone she used, I stopped and studied her. She’d said it like she was tryi
ng to hide something from us.
“What friend?” I questioned.
Mom continued to twirl the spaghetti on her fork. I stared at the noodles accumulating sauce as she pushed them around. The fork stopped, and I looked up, meeting her gaze.
“His name is Nick,” she said simply. “I met him at the insurance office. One of our customers.”
“You mean this is a…date?” I shot a glance at Sam.
Shock covered his face. How could she be going on a date?
Mom sighed. “I knew this would surprise both of you.” She laughed. “It even surprised me. Your father has been gone almost two years. I’ll always love him. But I think he would want me to move on with my life. And part of that is dating again.”
Dating again. Going out with some strange guy. Talking and doing God knew what with him. No. I did not want her moving on in that way. Not at all.
Sam cleared his throat. “Well, it is a little weird.”
“It’s just dinner,” she said, taking a bite of garlic bread. “A friendly dinner. He’s a nice man I’d like to know better. It is weird. Even for me. I haven’t been on a first date in twenty years. But it’s something I want to try.”
It was beyond weird imagining my mom going on a date. I kept silent and finished eating my dinner. Talking about Mom’s love life did not appeal to me. Although, I secretly hoped the date would be a bust and she’d have a horrible time. I didn’t need a new dad. I’d had the best dad I could imagine. Nobody would ever replace him.
Chapter Eight
Rice Krispies swelled with milk in the same white bowl I used every morning. Not always Rice Krispies. Also partial to Froot Loops and Honey Nut Cheerios, depending on my mood. I pushed my spoon around in the bowl, debating whether to dump it or eat it. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I wanted to talk to Mom.
She’d come in last night close to midnight. She’d hummed, so I’d imagined her date had gone well. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d hummed. As much as I didn’t want to hear about her date, I couldn’t help my curiosity. I wanted to know more about this guy. Even though I already hated him. I wanted more reasons to hate him.
I decided to eat the cereal. Soggy rice crisps filled my mouth and, in a few bites, had disappeared. I stood to deposit the empty bowl in the already overflowing stainless-steel sink. If I was nice, I’d wash the dishes. I nestled the bowl between a plate with remnants of last night’s macaroni and cheese stuck fast to the surface and a chocolate milk-stained glass. Mine from last night. I turned and walked away from the dishes. No, I did not feel nice.
I flopped on the sofa and waited. About ten minutes passed until a creak signaled her moving around in her room. Five minutes later she was in the kitchen, her bathrobe tied up tight, and she yawned.
“Tired?” I remarked.
She jumped and looked over at me. “Oh! Emily, you scared me. I thought you were still in bed.”
“How was it?” I wasn’t going to waste any time. I had to know how the date went.
Mom put the teakettle on the burner. She always drank hot tea with honey in the morning. Her lips curved into a smile. “It was really nice, Emily. Really nice.”
I wasn’t sure about her description of really nice, a phrase I may use to describe a shirt or a pair of shoes. But her smile told me everything I needed to know. She’d had a good time.
“Will you go out with him again?” I hated asking this question. Basically, because I dreaded the answer. In my mind, however unfair, she shouldn’t want to date anybody other than Dad. Ever.
“Yes.” She nodded. “I think so.”
I didn’t say anything. The words I wanted to say were on the tip of my tongue, threatening to spill out. Once that happened there would be no return. I grunted quietly under my breath. Not quietly enough.
“What?” Mom asked.
“Why do you have to go on a stupid date with some stupid guy?” I shouted at her, unable to hold back my feelings. I hated her for doing this. I was sick of changes in my life that I had no control over.
“Calm down, Emily,” Mom said. “It was just dinner. One or two dates is harmless.”
“No it’s not! What about Dad? How could you do this to him!”
Silence filled the room. Uncomfortable silence. Mom bristled and gripped her hands on the stainless-steel kitchen sink, staring out through the laced-curtained window above it. I watched her, dressed in an old powder-blue bathrobe with a fraying left sleeve. She’d had that robe forever. As long as I could remember. She twisted a strand of material hanging below her wrist. She swirled around and returned my stare. For a long time.
“Look at what he did to me, Emily,” she said in a low voice. She always spoke in a low tone when she was really angry. Tears formed, but none fell. Her eyes, shiny and bright, continued to stare at me.
“He died,” I said flatly.
“He left me. Alone. With nothing but piles of bills and old memories,” Mom said, shaking her head. “No life insurance. Nothing. I told him over and over again we should have life insurance. But he wouldn’t get it. A waste of money, he said. That man could be so damn selfish!”
“He wasn’t selfish. He didn’t know he’d get sick.” I hated what she was saying about Dad. Like he’d planned on dying or something. He hadn’t wanted to die. He hadn’t planned on leaving us.
“I know. But he’s gone now. And I thought I’d die when I said goodbye to him. But I was wrong. I die a little bit every single day.”
“Why?” I’d never seen her like this. So angry and sad. I’d seen her angry. One time especially came to mind. Five years ago, Dad had come home towing a boat behind his truck. He’d paid three thousand dollars for it. A huge sum for my ears. Mom was livid. And the next day Dad tried to return the boat. But they wouldn’t take it back. We were stuck with a boat and out three thousand bucks.
And I’d seen her sad. Hunched over my father’s casket, unwilling to let go. Aunt Holly had to pull her away. Tears wreaked havoc on her eye makeup. Black streaks had run down her face as the tears flowed freely.
Mom walked over to me and sat on the sofa. She studied my face for a moment. Her voice was slightly softer. “I know you miss your old life. I know you miss Dad. I do, too.” Her voice wavered. “So much. This is no way to live.” She gestured with her hands. “Living in this dump. Working every day like a dog. It’s depressing. I hate it. But it’s what I need to do for all of us right now. And if going out to dinner once in a while makes me smile, please be happy for me.”
I looked away from her. I did hate it here as much as she did. But I wasn’t going to blame Dad about it. This whole dating thing made everything worse, not better. She was never here now. If she went out all the time, I’d never see her. And I’d never be happy about her dating. Never.
***
I pulled my hair up in a high ponytail. After sliding the elastic band around the hair, I stood back and looked in the mirror. I was ready.
Excitement tingled through me. Aunt Holly was taking me and Sam to an amusement park for the day with two friends. I’d asked Tommy to go, but he’d said he was busy. So, Kara, a friend from my old school, would go with us. Probably been six months since I’d seen Kara, and I was excited to see her again.
Kara had shown her comforting side when Dad died. Not in the way most of my friends had. She hadn’t hovered over me like I was some kind of glass figurine about to break. Instead, she’d just done nice things for me. Like always saving a seat for me at lunch and bringing an extra chocolate chip cookie for me every day because she knew I liked them. Or helping me with a science project I had no energy to complete. Little things that meant a lot at the time.
Aunt Holly had the air-conditioning cranked up in her light-blue sedan. So much so, I shivered sitting between Kara and Matt, Sam’s friend, in the backseat. I grinned at Kara, who kept smoothing down her flyaway hairs and shooting darting glances at Matt. She looked different from the last time I’d seen her. A lot different. She used to wear her hair bac
k in a clip most of the time. But today, even though we’d be riding roller coasters and sweating in the ninety-degree heat, she’d flat ironed it until it fell in perfect smoothness around her pixie face. Except for those few flyaways. Dark kohl lined her eyes. Her outfit, very short shorts with a low-cut tank top, showcased her quite ample breasts. At least for a thirteen-year-old girl.
I, on the other hand, no makeup, my old cutoffs, and a T-shirt that said Henley’s Insurance that my mom got from work.
The trip turned out to be a waste of time. All Kara wanted to do was follow Matt and Sam around or any cute guy who walked past. She didn’t want to go on the rides because she didn’t want to mess up her perfect hair. We ended up sipping lemonades inside the arcade. I listened to her go on and on about how she wanted a boyfriend. Apparently, she’d had a boyfriend a month ago. I remember her telling me this. A guy I recalled who used to pick his nose all the time in fourth grade. Now he was cute, according to Kara. But she couldn’t stand how he kissed. Like he was trying to touch her tonsils with his tongue. Wet and sloppy, too.
“I just started thinking about his tongue all day,” Kara said, twirling her hair. “Not in a good way. I mean, his tongue disgusted me. It made me feel nauseous every time I thought about kissing him. I knew it was time to break up with him.”
I nodded, registering that Nose Picker was also a lousy kisser. Poor guy. He didn’t have a lot going for him.
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