Things You Can't Say

by Jenn Bishop

  I follow after her, dragging my feet in the dry dirt. Won’t Vovó wonder why Filipe isn’t here with me? Will she think it’s strange? Or did she hear about what happened earlier this week? Did Filipe tell his parents? Did Anibal?

  But when we’re up at the window, I can tell she hasn’t heard a word about the fight because she gives me a big smile and talks excitedly with Audrey about the great food at their booth. “Oh, you must try bifana,” she says to Audrey. “It’s Drew’s favorite. Two bifana!” she shouts back into the prep area.

  Filipe’s grandma turns to me. “I haven’t seen Filipe at the fair yet. Is he with you?”

  I shake my head. Just hearing his name makes my right hand ache. It never bruised exactly, but it is kind of sore when I think about it.

  “Well.” Vovó glances at Audrey just as one of the women from the kitchen slides our two plates of pork sandwiches in front of her. “It’s sure nice of you to show Audrey around. Hope to see you later this summer. You better not miss our Labor Day barbecue! I want a rematch at cornhole.”

  Filipe and I creamed her and his vovô last summer. I don’t know what to say back to her, though. What if Filipe doesn’t want me to come to their Labor Day barbecue anymore? Maybe he wants to bring Theo this year. Maybe that fight was it between us. The end of everything.

  I reach into my pocket for some of the cash Mom gave me.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Vovó says. “Those two are on the house.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “See you around, Drew! Nice to meet you, Audrey.”

  We take our sandwiches over to an empty picnic table. Vovó’s bifana is my favorite. Even though I don’t know what’s going on with Filipe lately, the first bite I take into the sandwich, it’s like everything bad just melts away. There’s nothing like sweet caramelized onions and salty mustard on top of the juiciest pork loin. Brown juiciness drips down my chin, but I don’t stop to wipe it when I see Audrey’s in the same boat as me. Funny, I never pictured her as someone who could be a messy eater.

  “What do you think?” I say when I finally finish chewing.

  “Beats chocolate-covered opossum any day.”

  Now I’m rolling my eyes at Audrey. She hands me a napkin and I wipe my face and hands.

  “Okay, so I’m not hungry anymore,” Audrey says. “But I am thirsty.”

  I point to a familiar cart with a green-and-yellow awning. “Want to get Del’s and then go check out the farm animals?”

  “Deal.”

  This time I don’t have to tell her which flavor to order. She knows. On our way over to the animal barns, I catch that she’s really improved her slurping technique. I’d almost call her a natural. Almost.

  “Hey, Audrey,” I say, just before the brain freeze hits.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry about what I said last week at the library. It wasn’t nice. I don’t even think that about you anyway. I don’t really know why I said it.” It’s funny how the words tumble out with Audrey, but when I’m with Filipe, they get all stopped up. “Anyway—it doesn’t matter why I said it or didn’t, just that I’m sorry.”

  Audrey goes quiet for a few seconds, though maybe she’s just enjoying her Del’s. Mine is a really good one, one of the best ever. Top five for sure.

  “Thanks, Drew.”

  She doesn’t have to say anything more than that. We slurp our way over toward the barn with the rabbits and chickens. We’re nearly there when Audrey grabs my arm. “You weren’t kidding,” she says. To the right of her is the station with the huge mother cows. Their stomachs look so heavy I’m surprised they didn’t give birth months ago. Hung from the rafters are flat-screen TVs in case the crowd gets too big, and everyone’s craning their neck for a view.

  “Of course I wasn’t,” I say. Did she think I just made up a cow birth joke on the fly?

  A tall man in denim overalls and a Red Sox cap turns around. “Just missed a good one,” he says.

  Audrey makes a face like she just ate a whole lemon. “Maybe let’s save the cow births for later.”

  Chickens and rabbits are probably the better way to ease her into the cultural experience, anyway. They’re in one of the biggest barns, I guess because there are a heck of a lot more types of chickens and rabbits than there are cows. Row and rows of them, each in their own cage. There’s a little card attached to each that talks about which farm it’s from, how old it is, and what breed.

  Once we’re a few steps in, the smell gets kind of intense. Sawdust and animal poop. I’m used to it after years of coming to the fair, but I worry it’s too much for Audrey.

  She sucks in a gaspy breath, and I expect her to complain about the smell when she catches me off-guard. “They’re so beautiful,” she exclaims, marching right toward the chickens. “Drew, look!”

  I hurry up and follow her over to a fluffy white one. A Silkie bantam, it says on the card. I can barely see its little black beak peeking out from under all those feathers. It’s like it’s part chicken, part … cat? Part stuffed animal?

  “People in Rhode Island have chickens?” Audrey says.

  “This family down the street from me has a coop in their backyard, and when they’re out of town, we get to collect the eggs.” I don’t tell her that their chickens look more like normal chickens, not this glorious fluffy white chicken model.

  “Do you think I could get one?”

  “I don’t think my mom’s going to let you take a chicken home in the car tonight.”

  “Not today, Drew.” She takes a picture of the little card stuck to the cage, which has contact information about the chicken’s owner. “We never had much of a backyard in the other places I lived. But we do here.” The chicken sticks its neck out like it’s examining Audrey. I can tell part of her wants to reach in and pet it, but the other part is worried her finger might get pecked off.

  She steps back from the cage. “There are so many. I could spend all night here.”

  “I told my mom we’d meet up with her and Xan at eight for the concert.”

  “Not literally, Drew.” Audrey eyes the next chicken. It’s not as pretty as the white one, but it is more talkative.

  We stay in the chicken half of the barn for at least forty-five minutes as Audrey falls in love with a dozen different chickens.

  Finally I see the time and remind her we’ve got to go meet up with my mom and Xander.

  On Friday and Saturday night at the fair, a musician or band from back when Mom was young plays on the main stage. Tonight it’s some band called Third Eye Blind. I’ve never heard of them, but Mom was very insistent on the car ride over that we needed to set down our blanket and claim a spot on time this year. Which was maybe referring to last year when Filipe and I got in a too-long line for the Ferris wheel and met up with them fifteen minutes late.

  We meet Mom and Xander at eight on the dot, exactly where she said. “You guys having fun?” she asks. Xander’s hugging a stuffed Pikachu that I have a feeling Mom spent too much money trying to win for him in one of those rigged carnival games. His face is painted half Spider-Man, half tiger. “Someone was indecisive this year,” she says with a laugh as she pats Xander’s back.

  “This fair is incredible,” Audrey says, answering for the both of us.

  “I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Mom says. “We’re always happy to have you tag along.”

  “She even found a chicken she wants to buy.” I help Mom stretch out the fleece blanket in a good spot not too far back from the stage.

  “Chickens, huh?” Mom smooths down the blanket, then takes a seat, stretching her legs out.

  “Actually, three different ones.” Audrey is careful to make sure every part of herself is on the blanket, and not the grass, as she sits down. “My favorites were the white Silkie bantam, the Barred Plymouth Rock, and the dominique.”

  I sit down between Audrey and Mom, making sure not to sit too close to Audrey and give Mom the wrong idea.

  “If she’s
getting a chicken, can I get one too?” Xander asks.

  “Xan, you are a chicken.” Mom ruffles his hair. “And Audrey’s got to check with her parents before getting a chicken. I drive a chicken-free car and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Of course,” Audrey says. “I plan to do a lot more research first. You can’t ask your parents for something like a chicken without doing your research.”

  Oh, Audrey.

  When Third Eye Blind takes the stage, Mom and all the other adults start screaming, but all I can do is watch this family with a blanket set up in front of us. There’s a mom and dad with their teenage son. He’s off to the side, flipping through his cell phone like this fair is the absolute last place he wants to be tonight.

  His dad’s really getting into the music, too. Waving his hands, singing right along with the band, bopping his head. Maybe the son thinks his dad is too embarrassing, too dorky.

  But if it were Phil? If Phil were my dad, I wouldn’t turn away. I’d never take it for granted, how good it felt to be embarrassed by my dad. How good it felt to have a dad.

  I wouldn’t even care why he’d left before. So long as this time he stayed.

  23

  LATE SATURDAY NIGHT, I WAKE up to the thrum-thrum of Phil’s motorcycle pulling into our driveway, followed by Mom’s footsteps on the stairs as she goes down to let him in.

  He’s back. There’s a tingling feeling in my arm. Maybe it’s because I slept on it funny and it’s just waking up, or maybe it’s something more. Like my arm knows—remembers—flailing in the air with him that morning out in the backyard.

  I roll over in bed to check the clock. Even though it’s eleven, I want to see him. Maybe I should go down for a glass of water. Downstairs, they’re talking. Not the quiet nighttime whispers Mom and Dad used to use ’cause they were afraid of waking Xander and how long it took to get him back to sleep, but normal daytime voices.

  Walking down the hallway, I peek into my brother’s room. His arms are splayed out, his panda bear, Mr. Diaperpants (don’t ask), beneath his feet.

  I sit at the top of the stairs, hugging my knees to my chest, and listen.

  “It was amazing, Kay. These people, they hear Andy’s story and they open their doors to me. I didn’t know how deeply his story would affect them. I didn’t … I’m so glad I did this, you know?”

  It grows quiet for a moment. I can’t go downstairs and interrupt this. If only I could go down there without being seen. Wear an invisibility cloak or something. Except, no, I guess I don’t wish that. What do grown-ups do when they get quiet, anyway? (Kiss?) No. Ugh. No! Not that. Maybe it’s one of those uncomfortable silences. It has to be.

  “So, how long till you have to hit the road again?” Mom asks.

  “Just can’t wait to get rid of me, huh?”

  Before, I would’ve said, Yes. Please. Leave right now. But now?

  Stay.

  “That’s not it at all. Quite the opposite, actually.”

  Quiet again. Too quiet. There’s a lump in my throat. I try to swallow it away, but it stays right there. I shift and the stairs creak below me. Oops.

  Holding my breath, I listen closely for any movement downstairs. I could hop right up and be in my bed, fifteen seconds flat. They’d never know if it was me or Xan. I could pretend to sleep. After Dad died, I got to be an expert at that.

  But nobody moves.

  “I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it,” Mom says. “Not being the only adult in the house. It feels unbalanced, you know? It was that much more obvious once you’d left.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Almost three and a half years.”

  “Jeez, Kay.”

  “I know. It feels like forever ago. And then … some days, like it was just yesterday.”

  “Have you—have you seen anyone?”

  “A therapist? Of course.”

  “No—I mean, have you dated?”

  “I’ve been out on a few dates. Internet dates.” She laughs. “It’s almost comical how these guys present themselves online, and then when they actually show up in the restaurant, it’s like two completely different people. Not like you.”

  Silence, again. Part of me wants to run down there and stop them. But the other part is frozen in place, not sure what’s going to happen next. Afraid if I say the wrong thing, I’ll scare Phil off and he’ll bolt. And that can’t happen, not if he’s my real dad. I can’t let that happen all over again.

  “I’m serious. I know it’s Facebook, but you … you’re more honest. Not trying to pretend your life is fun and picture-perfect one hundred percent of the time.”

  “I didn’t realize you looked.”

  “Of course I looked.”

  “No—I mean, you never liked anything or commented.”

  “Well, wouldn’t that be creepy? I don’t know, Phil. These things weren’t around when we were teens. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. Or what the conventions are.”

  “You never cared for the conventions back then.”

  “No, I guess I didn’t.”

  “We both didn’t.”

  The quiet again. I close my eyes and try to imagine back to when it was Dad on the couch down there with Mom. She’d nag him for always bringing work home. Trying to stay up on the latest exciting developments in the world of dentistry. Couldn’t he just leave work at work? To get him to put that stuff away, she’d turn on one of their favorite shows—the kinds they only watched once Xan and I were in bed. I’d fall asleep to the muffled sounds of the TV, of Mom and Dad laughing, Mom shrieking every now and then because something was too horrifying or funny or—well, who knows.

  But the whole thing feels like a lie now. Dad lying to Mom. Pretending he was fine, happy. Dad lying to us.

  Or worse.

  Could it have really been Mom lying to me too? Letting Dad pretend he was my real dad when the whole time it was Phil? All this time? I can’t even let myself think that thought seriously for too long. It’s too much. Too big. Too scary.

  “I should get going.”

  “Tonight? Are you kidding?”

  “I made a reservation down the road.”

  “Oh, don’t be serious.”

  “It’s too much. With your kids, me being here. Maybe not for Xander, but for Drew.”

  Because I acted like I hated him? Or because … because what?

  “Plus, the guest room’s still made up. And Xan, he’ll turn inside out just seeing you in the morning. Please?”

  “Well, okay.”

  “It’s important for Drew to spend time with you. He needs this,” Mom says. “Even if it’s difficult.”

  I hear them getting up from the sofa, and I know I have to move. By the time I’m back under the covers, my heart hammers in my rib cage.

  Footsteps on the stairs. Doors open and shut. Water runs as Phil washes up in the bathroom.

  One more door closing. And then the quietest quiet fills the house again.

  * * *

  The next morning I wake up to the birds chirping in the oak tree outside my window as the sun comes up. It’s almost like my body did this on purpose. Like there’s something pulling me out of bed, tugging me outside to find Phil in the backyard and ask him for the truth myself.

  I peek into the hallway, but the door to his room is still closed.

  All of the doors are closed except for the one leading to the bathroom.

  I lie back on my bed, trying hard to stay awake, waiting for the sound of his door opening. I wait and I wait and I wait, but it never opens.

  And then I fall back to sleep.

  * * *

  When I wake up again, I can’t believe what my clock says. Nine a.m. On a Sunday? Are you kidding me?

  I dart into the hall. All the bedroom doors are open now, but the bathroom door is closed because someone’s taking a shower. I knock on the door. “Mom?”

  “In the shower, bud. Be out in a few.”

  I scramble d
own the stairs and find my brother on the floor surrounded by Legos and Playmobil and race cars. Curious George plays on the TV. “Where’s Phil?” I ask him.

  Xander shrugs.

  I peer out the window. His bike is gone. “Did he leave for good?”

  Xan stares at the TV. The man in the yellow hat is angry with George. When is the man in the yellow hat ever not angry with George?

  “Xan?”

  Nothing.

  “Xan!”

  Nothing.

  “XANDER.”

  The episode ends and he turns to me. “What?”

  “Did he leave for good?”

  “He went to …” Xan scratches his head. “I … forget?”

  “You’re hopeless!”

  “I have hope.” Xan stares back at me with a confused look on his face. “I do too have hope.”

  “Xan, it’s just—it’s an expression.” I take the stairs two at a time and bang on the bathroom door.

  “Almost done, bud. Just toweling off.”

  Steam pours into the hallway as Mom steps out, one towel wrapped around herself and another on her head. “Is the downstairs toilet clogged again?”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, so you just wanted me to see your cute face.… Good morning to you too, bud.” She tries to ruffle my hair, but I shirk her off. “Hon, what is it?”

  “Did he leave again?”

  “Phil? Oh no, did we wake you up last night?”

  “It’s okay—I just … Is he gone for good?”

  Mom looks at me funny. Then she shakes her head, and something calms down inside of me. “Phil’s got some stuff to do this morning, but he’s planning on joining us for lunch. We’ll meet up at the new Mexican place that just opened down on Maple. Sound good?”

  Mexican always sounds good. “Yeah.”

  “Is that it? Is there something else you want to talk about?”

  “Nope,” I say, swallowing down all the questions before they bubble out.

  Mom reaches a hand up to adjust her towel. Her left hand. I always thought it would be so strange not to see that plain silver band, stacked with that big sparkly diamond, but somehow it looks normal, seeing her finger bare. “Do you want me to make you some eggs once I’m dressed?”