by Jenn Bishop
“Nah. I’ll get some cereal.”
She pads down the hall to her bedroom, the door shutting with a click.
I head for the stairs, suddenly as hungry as I’ve ever been.
24
WE—MOM, XANDER, AND I—BEAT Phil to the Cantina. The host seats us at a booth by the front window even though we’re missing someone in our party.
Party of four, not three. Is that where this is all going? Does Mom want us to be a party of four again?
Xander plays with the hot sauces, making them dance and having them argue over which one is the hottest. Mom can’t stop fiddling with the paper covering the top of her straw, finally taking it off and sipping. She checks her phone again. “Sorry, guys. He should be here any minute.”
Me, I’m staring out the window. Phil wouldn’t just leave town, would he? Although it does seem like the kind of thing you do on a motorcycle. Make a clean getaway.
Maybe that’s what he thinks he needs to do. Maybe in his head it seemed easy to come back into town and finally tell me the truth, but maybe he chickened out. Maybe he’s heading back to Colorado, never to see any of us again. I wonder what Mom would do then. Would she start with the online dating all over again?
The bell rings by the door and Phil makes his way over to us, his hand reaching up to wave at Xan. Xan waves back, a hot sauce bottle still in his hand. I can’t stop a smile from spreading over my face, knowing that he didn’t leave. He’s here. Right here. With us.
Phil slides in next to Mom, across from my brother and me.
“Sorry for keeping you guys waiting.” He takes a sip from his water. “Who’s hungry for some burrrrritos?”
“Me!” Xan enthusiastically bangs the hot sauce bottles on the table. Mom snatches them away and puts them back in the little metal holder.
Phil scratches at his neck, and that’s when I notice. Something’s changed with him too. His beardy scruff—he’s shaved it off. He looks cleaner now. Less like a guy who drives around on a motorcycle and more like … more like Dad, actually.
The server stops by to take our drink orders, and Phil asks for guacamole and chips and salsa for the table, but the whole time I’m not even thinking about how much I want a Dr Pepper. Instead I’m watching Phil. Phil and Mom. Mom’s fingers, tapping on the table, that sparkly diamond catching the light. Wait a sec—when did she put the rings back on? After the shower? Phil fidgets with his napkin.
The server leaves us for the kitchen. Party of four again.
Phil clears his throat. “So I’ve been doing a lot of thinking the past couple days. That’s the thing about being on the bike, right? All that time alone with your thoughts.”
I take a sip from my ice water, but it goes down the wrong way, causing me to cough.
“You okay there, buddy?” Phil asks.
“Yeah,” I reply in between coughs, though of course the truth is no. Time alone with your thoughts? He’s not going to tell me the truth now, is he? At a Mexican restaurant, with my brother and everything?
“Anyway, one of the things I’ve been thinking about is how much I’ve enjoyed my time in New England. Especially out by the ocean. Coastal Maine, Massachusetts, Rhode Island. It’s quite a contrast to the mountains I’m used to back in Colorado. For almost a whole year now, I’ve been on the road. I’ve seen it all, so to speak. My sabbatical from teaching only lasts the year, so I’ve got to go back, but I’ve been thinking about coming out this way next summer.”
For a second there, I thought he was going to say he wanted to move here. To stay.
Mom leans back in her seat. “Really?” She’s got this smile on her face, bigger than I’ve seen in—actually, I can’t remember the last time I saw her smile like that.
“Now, I don’t want to put you all out again. I’m sure there are plenty of great Airbnbs. Just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking about it. And that I appreciate the hospitality … and the company.”
The server returns with our drinks and takes our orders. The Dr Pepper hits me fast and the cold makes my teeth ache, for a second distracting me from what Phil just said. He’s still leaving—he’s a grown-up with a job, after all—but … he might come back. Next summer. I can’t wait a whole year to know.
Xander blurts out, “You’re going to come back?”
He’s always a few steps behind.
“Next summer,” Phil says. “If you’ll have me.” He and Mom catch each other’s eyes.
“Well, that would be—” Mom takes a sip of her horchata. Her eyes start to water, even though the server hasn’t brought out the salsas yet. She stands up from the table. “I’ll be right back, guys.” She nearly walks into a server carrying dirty dishes. “Sorry! So sorry about that.”
“Is Mom okay?” Xander asks me.
“She’s fine,” I tell him. Though the truth is, I don’t know. It’s almost like the second Phil mentioned coming back, she cycled through every emotion possible. From excited and maybe a little bit in love to overwhelmed and possibly sad to—well, honestly, by the end she mostly looked panicked.
I meet Phil’s gaze, wondering if he’s thinking what I’m thinking—that one of us should go check on Mom. But before either of us does anything, the server returns.
“And here’s your guacamole and chips. Now, as for the salsas, the green one’s mild, but that red one, now watch out, because that one has some kick.” Our server lays it out in the center of the table, the kind of spread I could easily devour in five minutes.
All three of us just sit there and stare at it.
Xander jabs me in the ribs and whispers, “Do we have to wait for Mom?”
I shake my head. “She’ll be back soon. Go on, have a chip.”
Xan picks out a small one and digs it through the guacamole, nabbing a huge chunk of avocado. Sure enough, it’s not even halfway to his mouth when the guac splatters onto the table.
Xan stares at me.
I stare back at Xan.
“Five-second rule?” Xan asks.
“Sure.” With another chip to assist, I get that guac back on his chip. Way more than five seconds have passed, but it’s not like anyone’s got a timer going.
Xan munches happily. Phil still hasn’t grabbed even one chip. He’s staring off into the back of the restaurant, probably searching for Mom.
If I were her daughter, I probably would have gone after her by now. But I’m way too old to wander into a women’s room on purpose.
Phil finally reaches out for a chip, dipping it in the spiciest salsa. “Ooh,” he says, waving in front of his mouth. “You’re going to like that one, Drew.”
I glance up at him, searching in those brown eyes. You can see them better than you could Dad’s. No glasses in the way.
No glasses.
When do people get glasses, anyway? Is eyesight … Is it hereditary?
I stare out the window, focusing on the leaves, reading the sign across the street, the smallest letters. Twenty-twenty. Perfect vision, like always. Not like Dad.
But Mom doesn’t have glasses, not even after reading tons of books and staring at a computer screen all day at the library. So maybe—maybe I just inherited her good eyesight.
Mom slides back into her seat like nothing ever happened. “Oh, chips and salsa!” She rubs her hands together. “Doesn’t this hit the spot?”
“Sorry about that,” she says to Phil, shifting in her chair. “We’d love to have you come out for a week or so next summer. There’s so much you didn’t see. With more time, we can make sure to show you our favorite spots, right, boys?”
“Like the zoo?” Xander says. “And a baseball game. They give you ice cream in a hat!”
“In a real hat?” Phil asks.
“No!” Xander giggles. “It’s a small one.”
“A plastic hat,” I clarify.
“I figured,” Phil says. “They serve those at Rockies games too.”
“When are you going back?” I ask. “To Colorado, I mean.”
> Phil doesn’t look right at me when he answers; he looks at Mom. “I was thinking Tuesday morning, assuming the weather’s good. That all right with you?”
It only leaves one day for the yearbook to get here. It’s cutting it awfully close.
“We’ll be sad to see you go, but I guess it had to happen eventually, right?” I’m surprised when Mom glances at me as she says it, not Phil. Does she think he wouldn’t leave if I knew he was my dad? That then he would stay? Or what?
Phil doesn’t say anything back.
The server stops by to tell us our burritos should be out soon, and tops off our tortilla chips. They’re warm and oily. I snag a big, curly chip—perfect for dipping—and pop the whole thing in my mouth. The habaneros in the salsa light my tongue on fire and my eyes smart. The best kind of tears come from food.
“Good, right?” Phil offers up a closed-mouthed smile.
I let the fire shift to my esophagus. “It’s great.”
25
AFTER LUNCH, PHIL HEADS INTO Warwick to pick up something he needs for his bike. Mom, Xander, and I drive back home. I sit up front next to Mom.
There’s a craft fair on the town common, causing a big traffic backup. We’ve barely moved for ten minutes and Mom keeps changing the radio station, trying to find music instead of the same old commercials.
“Do you think later today I can ride on the motorcycle?” Xan asks. “Please, Mom? Please?”
She gives up and leaves it on an oldies station. “Maybe if Phil promises to go really slow down a cul-de-sac. But we’ll need to find you a helmet first.”
“Yesss! Yesss! Can Drew come too?”
Mom glances at me. “I’m sure Drew can come if he wants to.” She lowers her voice. “How are you doing, bud? You’ve been quiet ever since we got in the car.”
“I’m just full,” I say. It’s the truth even if it isn’t the whole truth.
“Well, you didn’t have to finish Xan’s burrito. We could have had them wrap it up to take home.”
“No, no. It was good. I’m just …”
You know how there are those Sundays during the school year where it hits you right around six o’clock how much you don’t want it to be Monday tomorrow? This is the exact opposite of that feeling. I want it to be Monday so bad it actually makes my stomach hurt. The burrito—okay, one and a half burritos—they aren’t bothering me so much. It’s the wanting that hurts.
“Drew?”
“Yeah?”
“You know we can talk, you and I, if there’s anything you want to talk about. I know this whole visit with Phil didn’t go exactly as I imagined, and that it threw you for a loop at first. But I really appreciate how you’ve handled everything since he came back. It shows a lot of maturity.”
Up ahead the police officer directing traffic waves a bunch of us through.
“Is that Audrey?” Mom points to the sidewalk. A short man with gray hair and a beard and glasses and, oh yeah, that’s totally Audrey.
She toots the horn twice.
“Mom!” I shout.
Audrey scrunches her nose, looking left and right, trying to figure out who’s honking at her.
I turn my head so she won’t see me as we pass by.
“Oh, Drew. I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” Mom says.
We stop at a red light, a block down from where we saw Audrey.
“Didn’t know what?”
“Do you have feelings—”
“Ew. Mom. No. Stop.” I slide down in my seat and turn away from her. I try to melt my body into the door of the car, but it doesn’t seem to be working because somehow I’m still here and Mom’s still trying to talk to me about what happened.
“I’m sorry. I just—without your dad, I didn’t know when was the right time to …”
If Audrey really is just a friend, I’m not supposed to feel like this. Yeah, it’s embarrassing for my mom to honk at her out of nowhere, but not this embarrassing. I’m not supposed to feel it everywhere, the way you do when you have a crush on someone. Where it just takes over, like an alien temporarily hijacking your body. I cannot explain that feeling to my mom. Not now. Maybe not ever.
“Not in the car, okay? Jeez. Xander’s back there.” My one and a half burritos twist together in my stomach.
When we finally pull into the driveway, I’m the first one out of the car.
“Drew,” Mom calls after me.
I run to the bathroom, wishing that what I actually needed to do was poop forever. Seriously. That would be better than talking to my mom right now. I slam the door behind me and sit down on the closed toilet seat.
I can’t talk to my mom about girls.
Who am I kidding?
I can’t talk to my mom about any of these things. Me and Mom, we’re different. She’s always been so outgoing, getting along with everyone. She probably had a million boyfriends before Dad. And when it comes to the friends stuff, she and Julia never, ever fight.
Dad was more like me. More quiet and in his own head. He’d get what this is like, how I feel about Audrey, about Filipe—everything. Even him.
Except he’s not here. So I guess he won’t.
I hear the door open and Xander’s flip-flops as they smack on the floor. He comes to a stop outside the bathroom. “I’m sorry I made you eat my burrito and go number two.”
He really thinks that’s why I’m in the bathroom. What I wouldn’t give to be just six and a quarter again. “It’s okay,” I say.
“Me and Mom are going to the pool. Do you want to come?”
“I think I’ll stay behind.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t think I should go in the pool like this.”
“Okay.”
Smack-smack-smack.
I get up from the toilet and flush. And then I stand in front of the mirror and stare back at my reflection. I know it’s me, but the thing is, the longer I stare, the more foreign the person staring back at me begins to look. Almost like someone I’ve never seen before. That person can’t be me.
I look at my ears. Really look at them. Their shape, the cartilage, the lobe, the tiny hairs on the lobe.
And my nose. My nostrils—not triangular like Xan’s, but oval-shaped. The freckles on the bridge.
My eyebrows, not as thick as Filipe’s but not as thin as Mom’s, either.
I look at my face, the whole thing. How my ears and nose and eyes and eyebrows and cheekbones make a whole.
Who’s looking back at me in the mirror?
Am I Dad’s son?
Or am I Phil’s?
I’m in there so long that by the time I’m finally ready to leave, I actually do have to go to the bathroom.
After, as I’m lathering up my hands with soap, I remember where there is a candid picture of Dad.
Mom didn’t erase him from our life. Not all at once. But he disappeared, little by little. We all let him. The family photos in the living room that used to have the four of us got updated, the pictures in the frames replaced—all except our baby pictures.
I head up the stairs to my brother’s room and pick through his bookshelf until I find it.
Alexander McCormack’s Kindergarten Book.
Each kid wrote a book about themselves—well, “wrote”—and glued photographs inside. Pictures of their family, their house, their pets, favorite animals. The pages are laminated and spiral-bound.
Xander is not even a year old, sitting on Dad’s lap at the Fourth of July parade in Bristol. He’s drooling onto Dad’s hand and Dad is smiling like he doesn’t care at all. And it’s a lot of drool. Like, really, he should get a towel or a napkin or something.
He doesn’t look like me at all.
Or maybe … maybe he does?
I can’t tell. In the way back of my mind, there’s this stupid doubt that I can’t shake off. What if the yearbook comes in time and I can’t tell if Phil could really be my dad or not? What will I do then?
I stare back down at the photo of my dad. My dad?
I turn the page to a picture of the three of us from the last Halloween when we were all together. Xan was an Ewok, Dad was dressed as Han Solo, and then there was me with a scowl on my face, the world’s grumpiest R2-D2.
Halloween was Dad’s favorite holiday. He loved everything about it—telling scary stories, the candy (even candy corn, which, ick), and especially making costumes. In the evenings, we’d hang out in the shed, just Dad and me. Sketches of his costume ideas and inspirations were pinned up on the walls. He’d take all my measurements and try out the different pieces to make sure they wouldn’t rub my neck or fall apart once I started walking around. He let me help too, always finding some part of the costume that wouldn’t be too hard for a little kid to help paint or decorate. The only way to really do Halloween, he said, was to make your costume yourself. And so we did, every year. I’d hang out in there with Dad, with some warm cider or hot cocoa, and the hours would just disappear.
Except that year. That last Halloween, he kept putting it off. He’d say, we’ll work on the costume next weekend. And then next weekend would come and he’d be too tired from work, but he’d promise we’d get to it the following weekend. But then we had only one weekend left before Halloween. Dad promised. That weekend we’d get it done, even if it took all day Saturday and Sunday. I was ready, too. Excited. I had visions of it in my head—how I’d look so much like the real R2-D2 you’d have to do a double-take.
But when I got up on Saturday morning, his car wasn’t in the driveway and Mom told me he had an emergency surgery. But—but!—she said, she’d found the perfect R2-D2 costume online and they were rush-shipping it so it’d be here just in time for Halloween.
As if that made any of it okay.
Mom didn’t get it—not at all. That it wasn’t about the costume. It was about that time with Dad, that time alone, just the two of us making something amazing.
That was our last Halloween together. And he ruined it.
I peer closely at Han Solo Dad’s face. Did he know then what he was going to do just a few months later?
