Things You Can't Say

by Jenn Bishop

“The motorcycle one, right there.” I press my fingertip to the screen. When I pull away, it leaves a smudge on the glass.

  Audrey clicks on the article. Now it’s me doing the nightmare-dog-breath thing.

  “ ‘It’s a warm spring day in rural Iowa when Phil Pittman pulls up on his Harley and—’ ”

  “Audrey, stop! I can read, you know.”

  “Okay. Sheesh.”

  I tell her when to scroll down, and she does. I can hardly believe it. Some news reporter from Iowa interviewed Phil back in April about his motorcycle trip. He’s spending the whole year riding his bike across the country—every state except Alaska and Hawaii. So that’s why Mom couldn’t answer where he was living. For the whole year, his home is the open road. The bike ride is a fund-raiser on behalf of his brother, who—who died, named … Andrew.

  When I get to that part, I stop reading. If it were my finger on the mouse, I’d have closed the whole website. The browser, too. And walked away. But it’s Audrey’s hand on the mouse, not mine.

  All I hear in my head is Phil’s voice. What he said early this morning. It’s an amazing thing, life.

  “Can I scroll down more?” she asks.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I’m not supposed to have anything in common with Phil. But I do. He lost someone he loved too. Andrew.

  Phil’s brother’s name is the same as mine. That’s a little strange, right? I’m the only Andrew in my entire grade at school. I know my name’s not that rare, but still.

  Audrey’s eyes are so glued to the screen she doesn’t notice that I’ve stopped reading. That my gaze has shifted to the posters on the wall. That Darth Vader READ poster. Like he really sat around reading.

  I lean my chair back from the computer just as the elevator door opens. Mrs. Eisenberg pushes out a full cart of books. “Lot of returns in the late bin and our page is out sick,” she says. “Audrey, you think you can give me a hand here?”

  Audrey goes over to help.

  “Actually, Drew, as I was heading out the door last night, I noticed someone did a real number on the easy readers. Could you tidy up that section before story hour? It’d be a huge help.”

  “Sure,” I say, still thinking about that newspaper article and Phil’s brother, Andrew.

  When I round the corner toward the easy readers, I see that Mrs. Eisenberg isn’t kidding. Did a kid pull these off the shelf or was it an EF-5 tornado? They aren’t in any order at all, so I’ll have to start from scratch.

  I pull out a whole misfiled section and begin putting them in order by author.

  Are You My Mother? by P. D. Eastman.

  As I stare at the book in my hand, I feel suddenly kind of light-headed. Is it just me or did someone make the lights in here brighter? The buzzing, it sounds too loud.

  Mom used to read this book to me all the time when I was little. That little baby bird, wandering around, asking everyone if they’re its mom. A kitten, a cow—even an airplane. It used to make me laugh and laugh, because how could a bird be so stupid as to not know who its mother is? It’s a bird, dummy.

  But right now, the whole thing only makes me woozy.

  In my head, all I see is that strange look Phil gave me when he first appeared at my house and I told him my name was Andrew. That sort of smile, almost like he had a secret.

  What if he did have one?

  Come to think of it, Mom had that smile too the night that Phil came. Now’s not the time to tell him. She said that, on the stairs that night, to Phil. He’s not ready yet.

  The he … it’s me. It is, isn’t it?

  When I asked Phil yesterday if he had any kids, he didn’t answer the question. No, now that I’m really thinking about it, it’s so clear. He dodged it. He said he wanted a family someday. Wanted to be a father.

  Someday. Like now?

  I knew it didn’t make sense—him showing up all of a sudden. Mom never saying anything about his trip to us before. An old friend who’s close enough to come and stay in our house, but that we’ve never heard of? It doesn’t add up.

  Except maybe it does.

  If he’s just some friend passing through town, how come he keeps trying to connect with me? Like this morning, when he was doing his crazy exercise routine. And on that walk last night. If he’s here for Mom, why wouldn’t he just talk to her and ignore me and Xan? And heck, if he’s here because he wants to be part of our family someday, why all the focus on me? It’s way easier to get close to Xan. My brother’s the friendliest little kid on the planet. He’s BFFs with half the staff at Panera.

  No, he’s not just here for Mom. That’s obvious. But what if he’s here for … for me?

  Before Dad died, Mom used to joke that I was her mini-me while Xan was all Dad. Dad’s stick-straight brown hair. Dad’s restless sleeping. Dad’s love of all things history. What did I get from Dad anyway? It’s not like Dad could cook. He was basically useless in the kitchen. At Thanksgiving, Mom would put him in charge of mashed potatoes like it was a seriously big deal, and even then they always came out either lumpy or soupy.

  But Phil cooks. Phil loves to cook.

  Like me.

  What if I’m not half-Dad at all? What if—

  No.

  No.

  Is that why my name is Andrew? Did Mom name me in honor of Phil’s dead brother because Phil’s really my—

  I press a hand to my forehead. It doesn’t feel hot.

  What if I’m the real reason Phil came here?

  I want to pinch myself. This is not real life. No way.

  But maybe?

  Maybe.

  That ball in my throat is back again.

  What if Dad isn’t actually my real dad?

  My palms leave little sweat streaks on the front cover of Are You My Mother? I wipe the book on my pants, trying to dry them off.

  What if my real dad is Phil?

  14

  NO. NO WAY. THAT’S … IT’S crazy.

  But the thing is, maybe it’s not. It would definitely explain why he’s here. And why Mom was so weird about it. It’s not exactly an easy thing to do—bring by the guy who’s your son’s real father.

  Though why now? Why did it take him this long?

  I sit down on the floor, giving my wobbly knees a break, and turn back to see what Audrey and Mrs. Eisenberg are up to. Audrey’s tongue sneaks out of the corner of her mouth. She’s deep in concentration as she puts the books in order by Dewey decimal number. Mrs. Eisenberg is at her computer, flipping through a magazine.

  I turn back to the mess in front of me and take a deep breath.

  Phil can’t be my dad. It’s biologically impossible.

  But what about what Audrey said just a few minutes ago? Affairs happen all the time. What if Dad never even knew? What if Xander’s not really my brother? What if—

  Okay, now my hand’s trembling too. I grab onto the cool metal edge of the bookshelf and grip it hard. Get it together, Drew. Then I start laughing. A laugh I can’t control. Xander and I have the same mom. He’s still my brother, no matter what. Sheesh, Drew. Come on!

  “What are you laughing about?” Audrey asks from across the room.

  “Nothing.” I pop my head up for a second. “Just a funny book.”

  Audrey huffs. “Are you done putting the easy readers in order yet? This cart is huge and we need to shelve it before the first story hour.”

  The easy readers still look like a tornado hit them. “Be there in a sec,” I yell back, quickly grabbing the As and Bs and slapping them on the shelf.

  The thing is, though, the more I think about Phil being my dad, the more it starts to almost make sense. There was so much that Dad wasn’t truthful about. Maybe he always knew he wasn’t my real dad, but he played along—pretended—that he was. Just another one of his lies.

  The possible truths stretch out, bending and branching off like limbs on some gnarled, twisted old tree.

  Still, there’s this one thought about Phil being my real dad that I can’t let
go of. That simmers on the back burner of a very crowded stove in my mind. I don’t even know what to do with it, but it’s there all the same. If Phil were my real dad, that would mean my real dad didn’t kill himself. That no part of someone who could do that to himself was in my DNA. I wouldn’t have to worry about turning into him anymore.

  That’s the one thought that gives me relief.

  * * *

  For the rest of the day at the library, I keep these thoughts a secret. I mean, it’s not like I can just say, Hey, so Audrey, I think my birth dad might not actually be my real dad. And remember that guy we just Google-stalked this morning? I think it’s him. Plus, I lied to you and my real dad is dead.

  Even Audrey would do that slow, slightly terrified backward walk in order to get away from me as quickly as possible before never talking to me ever again.

  You can’t say that kind of stuff to anyone. Period.

  Instead I spend the rest of the morning and afternoon thinking about it. The kind of thinking that takes up nearly all of your brain power and makes you do stupid things, like walking into the women’s restroom instead of the men’s room and not knowing what’s so weird until you’re asking an old lady using the hand dryer about where the urinals went and she gives you a look like you’ve got two heads.

  Yeah. It’s been that kind of afternoon.

  By the time I get in the car with Mom to head home for the day, I’m ready to collapse into my bed. I’m all thunk out.

  I’m clicking my seat belt into the buckle when I notice Mom staring at me. “What?” I ask.

  “You’re looking at me funny,” she says.

  “No, I’m not. You were just looking at me funny.”

  “Only because …” Mom places her hands on the wheel and sighs. “Okay, fine. Maybe I was. But it’s just—you’re awfully quiet for the end of the day.”

  I shrug.

  “It’s fine, really. I don’t need you to talk. Honestly, after a whole afternoon of listening to Loretta on the phone trying to find a new podiatrist, I can’t say I mind the quiet.” Mom shares an office with Loretta, and Loretta’s always driving her crazy.

  The quiet doesn’t last long. A few minutes later, we pick Xander up from the Y and he’s talking enough for the both of us. Telling us all about how Sammy Weathers puked right after afternoon snack and how the puke looked, in great detail.

  “You know, I think we’ve had enough—” Mom tries to cut in.

  “No, Mom, I haven’t gotten to the best part yet.”

  The best part of a barf story? Okay, now I’m a little intrigued.

  But just as we’re pulling into our driveway, Xander cuts his tale short. “Wait! Where’s Phil’s motorcycle?”

  Mom turns the car off, glancing at my brother in the rearview mirror. “I’m so sorry you didn’t get to say goodbye to him, hon—”

  “He’s gone?” Xander’s smile evaporates.

  He’s gone.

  “He swung by the library around lunchtime to say goodbye. We’re in such a nice stretch of weather, he decided to head up the coast for the next week—”

  “No fair.” Xander crosses his arms. “He said he was going to take me on his motorcycle.”

  “Well.” Mom reaches for her purse in the back seat. “We never discussed that, actually. And anyway, he’d need to put on a car seat of some sort and you’d need a helmet and—”

  He’s gone. I stare out the window at the grass he was mowing just yesterday, the lines already fading. How can he be gone already when I still need to know who he really is to me? There’s a pinch in my gut. Maybe he wouldn’t have left if you’d been nicer to him, Drew. Maybe he’d still be here, or at least have come downstairs to say goodbye.

  Xander’s opening his car door and running across the yard.

  “They form attachments so easily at that age.” Mom undoes her own buckle, turning to me. “Not like you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I step outside and stretch my arms above my head. Xander’s still yammering on and on about how bummed he is to not ride the motorcycle.

  Mom shuts her door. “Just that …”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” she says quietly as we head toward the garage. “In any case, you must be thrilled.”

  “Thrilled?”

  “You didn’t exactly hide your feelings about Phil.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you should’ve asked me and Xander before turning our house into a hotel. It’s not fair for Xan, you know? Having new people come and go like that. He’s just a kid.”

  Mom fumbles with the key. “I’d hardly call it a hotel, Drew.” She pushes the door open. “Hey, who’s the parent here, anyway?” She says it with a smile, like it’s the kind of question that isn’t actually a question. What’s that called again? Oh right. A rhetorical question.

  But I have a different answer. “I don’t know sometimes,” I mumble.

  Mom slams her keys down on the counter, startling me. “I’ve had about enough of that attitude. Now, I let some of your behavior slide because Phil was here, but that’s not the case anymore. I’d hate to have to take your cell phone away.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She slides off her dress shoes and slips into a pair of flip-flops, rubbing at her temples. “I’ve got a bit of a headache. Loretta, you know? I’m going to lie down before supper. You mind keeping an eye on your brother?”

  “Fine,” I say, knowing there’s no other acceptable answer.

  Mom heads up the stairs without another word. As I fill up a glass of water at the sink, I peer out the kitchen window into the backyard.

  Xan bounces a tennis ball on the patio. Bop, bop, bop. With each bounce, a different question pops into my head. Was it me who scared off Phil? Bop. Why did he show up now? Bop. Will he come back? Bop. Can I have a second chance? Bop.

  He counts as he keeps going, but then at seven he loses the ball and has to start the count all over again. He catches me in the window. “Drew, I did ten! In a row! Do you think I can do twenty?”

  “Let’s see,” I tell him through the screen.

  As I’m watching, I think I hear something. Is Mom on the phone upstairs? I pretend I’m watching Xan when really I’m straining to hear what she’s saying.

  He fumbles the ball right after sixteen in a row.

  “Hey, Xan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I have to pee. I’ll be right back.”

  “After, can you come outside? I’m bored.”

  “Sure.”

  I don’t go to the bathroom like I said I would. Instead I creep up the stairs, slowly, so they don’t creak. Halfway up I stop and sit.

  “It just felt so right, Jules. It’s hard to explain.”

  Mom’s voice goes quiet.

  “But then he left. And all rushed like that? What does that mean? I’m too old. I’m not good at this. I don’t remember how to play these games.”

  Games?

  “I know, I know. It’s just … he was so good with Xan. But you should’ve seen him with Drew, Jules. They’re so alike it kills me.”

  My stomach drops. Falls into the deepest pit inside me.

  “I know. I need to tell him. I’ve been waiting for the right moment, but it’s hard.”

  Is she saying what I think she’s saying?

  It’s impossible to stay still on the stairs when I feel like I’m jumping out of my own skin. So alike it kills me. Me and Phil?

  “No, you’re right. He asked if he could stop by again when he’s finished his New England loop.”

  So he is coming back. Here. My heart slows back to normal. I still have a chance with him.

  “Oh? Go, go, I don’t want to get in the way of your dinner. We can catch up later. I’m—I’m fine. Really. Okay. Okay. Bye, Jules.”

  And then it goes quiet again, the only sound the faint bop-bop of the tennis ball on the patio. Xan’s probably wondering where I went, but I can’t budge. I’m stuck in place, trying to imagine how it�
��ll be when he comes back. I can’t ask him point-blank. If he’s not my dad, he’ll think I’m delusional for ever thinking he could be. Mom too. I need to find some way that’s natural.

  The wooden floorboards creak under Mom’s steps. And then I hear her body hit the bed.

  It’s the next sound that I don’t expect. I heard it so many times in that first year that I’ll never, ever forget it.

  A muffled sob.

  Back then I would stroke her hair, rub her shoulder. The same things her friends did when she got like that. I didn’t know it was weird. It was what she needed, but now, looking back on it, it’s a little weird. A kid comforting his own mom? It’s supposed to be the other way around.

  Did she lie too?

  All those years, could she have tricked me? She would have known too, right, if Phil were my dad?

  I don’t know what to believe anymore. Has my whole life been a lie?

  The kitchen door opens, slamming against the wall. “Drew?”

  I’m down the stairs so fast, a finger to my lip. “Mom’s got a headache.”

  “Oh.” Xan lowers his voice. “Sorry. But you were taking forever and you only said a pee. Did you do number two? You did, didn’t you? You never, ever, ever say you do, but you do, otherwise you’d explode.”

  “You got me. I’m the biggest liar ever.” I hold my hands up. Guilty as charged.

  Except my lie wasn’t big at all.

  Not nearly as big as Dad’s lies. And maybe Mom’s, too.

  15

  YOU KNOW HOW WHEN YOU wake up in the morning, there’s a second—okay, maybe it’s longer than that, but it’s not as long as a minute—so there’s some time where you’re just lying in bed and you’re not really awake and it’s almost like the world isn’t real. You don’t know who you are or what’s going on. You’re barely existing. Caught in the space between the dream world and the real world, even if it only lasts twenty seconds.

  And then something real hits you. Maybe it’s Oh my gosh, I have a test today, and your heartbeat picks up. Or maybe it’s Yesssssss, it’s Saturday, no school!

  And maybe sometime, if you’re really unlucky, it’s that your dad is gone. He’s gone and he’s never coming back. And even worse than that: he left you. And it takes your breath away. You don’t really ever want to get out of bed, but you know you have to because your mom needs you. And your brother needs you. Your dad’s gone, but the earth keeps rotating on its axis.