Things You Can't Say

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Things You Can't Say Page 17

by Jenn Bishop

We were supposed to have so much more time together. It’s not fair that we don’t. I hate that he took that from me.

  “Maybe,” I say, “I kind of wanted it to be true. Because then that meant my real dad didn’t kill himself.”

  Mom pulls me close, folding me into her arms. “Oh, I know, Drew. I know.”

  She holds me for a while until finally I pull away. “Do you still … get mad at him?”

  “Not as much as I used to. Not every day anymore. There are moments sometimes—moments he should be here for. Like when you got that ‘most improved in math’ award at the end of the school year. Or that time two winters ago when all three of us had that stomach bug. It’s never just one emotion at a time. Sometimes anger mixes with sadness. And sometimes I miss him—just miss him.” Mom runs a finger under her bottom lashes. “Three years is a long time. But then some days it’s not. And everything feels raw, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I say, relieved at how good it feels to agree with her. To say it aloud. “I know.”

  Mom reaches out and brushes the hair that hangs over my forehead. “I’m always trying to get you to tell me how you’re feeling, but most of the time you never respond, bud.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “I want to be that person you come to when something’s troubling you. I know for a while there it probably felt like you had to be second in command, my copilot. But I’m the mom, Drew. And you can come to me with anything. Can we try harder at that? Please?” Mom must be waiting for me to look her in the eye, because when I finally do, the corners of her mouth turn up, and she’s almost smiling.

  “Okay,” I say. “But can you not ask me the second I’m back from school or the library? Just give me a few minutes?”

  Now she’s full-on smiling. “I think I can do that.” She stares off into the mess for a second, like she’s probably calculating how long it’ll take to clean it up. “Do you remember Pop-Pop?” she asks. That’s the nickname I had for my grandfather, for Dad’s dad.

  “Yeah,” I say. He died not long after Dad. Pancreatic cancer. “I mean, kinda.” We didn’t make it out much to see him. And he didn’t like to travel. Mom said he was very particular about things.

  “Growing up, your dad wasn’t encouraged to be open about his feelings. Pop-Pop used to say, ‘Real men don’t talk about the mushy-gushy stuff. That’s for the ladies.’ ” Mom cringes. “Sometimes I wonder if everything might’ve been different if your dad hadn’t grown up around that kind of thinking. It’s important for everyone to talk about their feelings. Boys included.” I nod, though all I’m thinking is how it’s not always that easy. Filipe and I used to be able to talk about all kinds of stuff, but our feelings? Really only when it was about one of our crushes, and even then, sometimes it felt kind of awkward. Like I couldn’t actually tell him the real truth. Like I was performing, a little.

  “One of the things I appreciate about Phil is how he’s a lot more in touch with that side of himself.”

  “Maybe too much.” I let out a little laugh.

  “Maybe for some people,” Mom says. “But honestly, I’ll take it. Better than the opposite. The past few years, for better or for worse, between Mrs. Eisenberg and me, you’ve spent a lot more time around women. I was kind of hoping some of that might have rubbed off on you.”

  “I think it just means I get to hear about her hot flashes.”

  Mom laughs. “Really?”

  “There was this one day last summer where she must have taken her cardigan on and off like a hundred times. I think she just wanted me to know she wasn’t going crazy.”

  “Well, we’re all a little bit of that.” Mom crosses her legs.

  Are we, though? Is that a part of Dad that’s inside of me for sure? “Was that why he did it?” I ask. “Because he was crazy—I mean, depressed?”

  “I don’t think we’ll ever have a real answer to—”

  “No.” I’m struggling to get it out there, the thing I’ve been so hung up on. “I mean, I get that we’ll never know exactly why he did it. But, like, Dad seemed fine. He seemed okay. Happy. Normal. So was he just faking it? All the time?”

  Mom turns to me. “I’m not sure I understand …”

  “Was he just a liar? Or, like, a really good actor? Because I really thought he was happy. With us, I mean. But he wasn’t. Right?”

  “Oh, Drew. No.” Mom’s mouth hangs open. “No, no, no. Is that what you’ve been thinking all this time?”

  I sniff. “Kind of. Yeah?”

  “Your dad wasn’t the kind of person to struggle openly. I think that had a lot to do with how he was raised. So you’re right in that sense, Drew. You didn’t see that side of your dad, but I did. For a lot of years there, most of your childhood, your dad was doing a really, really good job of managing his depression. Up until the fall. But hiding a part of yourself, that’s different from lying. Your dad and I—we were trying to protect you. It was out of love that we kept that from you. It doesn’t mean his happiness was an act, or that the joy he found in you and Xander was pretend. Drew, none of that was pretend. None of that was a lie.

  “James was doing the best he could with what he had. But I hate that it wasn’t enough. And I hate that he didn’t ask for help this time. And I hate that he made the one mistake you can’t right. I hate that so, so, so much.

  “But your dad was more than how he died. You need to know that.”

  I swipe under my nose again. “Okay.” There’s this question I’ve wanted to ask forever, but it never felt like the right time to ask it. But Mom wants me to not keep my feelings to myself, and maybe that means my questions too. “Have you forgiven him?”

  “It took me a while to get there, but yes, Drew. I have.”

  As I watch Mom’s face, I know one thing for sure. She’s not lying. She’s telling me the truth. And if she can forgive him, that means that someday I can too.

  Mom stares out at the mess again, and I notice one stack of boxes in the back corner that is still upright. They probably wouldn’t be if Audrey hadn’t gotten here when she did.

  “You know, there’s a lot of stuff in here. Some of these boxes go way, way back. Stuff from Colorado from when he was your age, from high school, college. It’s all here when you’re ready. I saved it for you and Xan. I know some of it might not make much sense without him here to explain it, and of course I can go through any of it with you.”

  I didn’t know anything in here went that far back. All the way to my age.

  “And I know Phil, when you’re ready, he wants to be there for you. To help you know those other parts of your dad. Okay?”

  “Do you think …”

  “Yeah?” Mom asks.

  “Well, I don’t know if he’d want to. He probably still thinks I’m a jerk after how I was when he first came here. Phil, I mean.”

  Mom’s face breaks into a smile, but she fights it. “I think he’ll be able to look past that.”

  29

  MOM HEADS INTO THE HOUSE for a dustpan, a broom, and some trash bags, and then we go to town on the shed, trying to get it in decent shape before she has to go pick up Xander.

  It seems crazy now that I could have ever believed my real dad was Phil. But I guess I was no different from that baby bird in Are You My Mother? So desperately wanting a dad again that I’d take almost anyone.

  Though in my defense, at least Phil is the same species as me and not an airplane.

  By the time Mom leaves for the Y, the shed looks sort of okay again. Trash bags filled with old files sit by the door, along with a box full of broken glass because Mom didn’t know how to throw out glass, and honestly, I have no idea either. Stacked by the back window are ten boxes of Dad’s personal stuff that Mom is going to save for Xander and me. One from elementary school, one from middle school, two from high school, three from college, and three more from later years.

  When I peeked inside, there was too much stuff in there to even know where to start. G.I. Joes and baseball cards,
playbills and rolled-up posters for bands I’ve never heard of, heavy plastic envelopes full of photographs, notebooks and papers from school, video games and Hot Wheels, snow globes and cheap plastic souvenirs from trips, comic books and ticket stubs and medals and awards, handwritten letters and tiny folded-up notes on lined paper, school pictures, CD cases and VHS tapes and cassettes, old coins and gemstones and honestly, I think some just straight-up rocks. He held on to all of it. All these years.

  I removed one thing from his high school box—his yearbook from senior year—and brought it up to my bedroom, where I lie belly-down on my unmade bed. I crack open the yearbook and flip back to the senior wills, searching for Dad’s.

  Always remember: Phantom, Nirvana, Red Rocks, NYC, the Crew.

  Thanks to: Kayla, for everything.

  I search for Mom in the index—Kayla Pinkerton—and turn to the pages that have her. Tennis. French Club. The Literary Club. She wasn’t in the same grade as Dad and Phil—she’s a year younger, just a junior in this yearbook. Her hair is longer and she has big poufy bangs. It looks weird, but all the other girls had them too then, so maybe everyone thought they looked cool or something?

  There’s a picture toward the front of the yearbook, taken at homecoming. Mom is dancing with her friends and there’s this guy with his hands around her waist who looks like Phil. There’s no caption, though, and it’s dark in the photo, so I’m not sure.

  I go back through all the pages, searching for Dad. It’s like Facebook, almost, except Dad was never on it. He thought stuff like that was for people with too much time on their hands. I find him in the cast picture for the spring musical, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Dad was Pharaoh.

  But the pictures are only the beginning. Inside the cover and sprinkled all over are notes and signatures scribbled in blue and black ink from dozens—no, maybe a hundred—different people.

  I’m so lost in trying to make out someone’s illegible handwriting I don’t even hear Mom return with Xander until there’s a tap on my door. No way Xander’s that quiet.

  I close the yearbook. “Yeah, Mom?”

  “I just ran into Mrs. Nunes while I was grabbing the mail. Anything you want to tell me?”

  I flip over, leaning back on my elbows. “I haven’t seen Filipe today.” It’s not a lie. I haven’t talked to him in almost a whole week—since last Tuesday.

  “I didn’t mean about today. She mentioned a scuffle between the two of you last week. That ring a bell?”

  “Oh. That.”

  Mom raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, that. What’s going on between you two? Any other summer, he’d be over nearly every night. No wonder I haven’t needed to buy as much ice cream lately. Drew?”

  I shrug.

  “It’s just me.” Her voice is gentle. “You can tell me what’s going on, remember?”

  I fix my eyes on the part of my rug where Filipe would lay out his sleeping bag those summer nights when he’d had too much of Anibal picking on him and just wanted another place to crash. “I don’t know what happened—he just—he doesn’t think I’m cool enough to hang out with him anymore.”

  “Since when is—”

  “Mom, stop. You don’t know who’s cool in my grade, all right?”

  “Okay. Well … his loss, then. I think you’re plenty cool.”

  “You’re my mom. You have to think that.”

  “But what happened? A real fight? You’ve never … you’ve never hit anyone before.”

  “And I probably won’t again. I sucked at it.”

  “Drew.”

  “No, really. Trust me. I think I hurt myself more than I hurt him. Look, no offense, Mom, but you just … you’ll never really understand this. I promise next time I’ll tell you, like we said.”

  “Would you want to talk about it with Mr. Nunes? Or Anibal?”

  “Mom. Come on. They’ll just take his side.”

  “I don’t know. You need to talk to somebody about it.”

  “Maybe …” A week ago, I would’ve said no way. Just over two weeks ago, I didn’t even know the guy. But now, after everything? Phil spent the day exploring Providence, but he’s probably wrapping that up soon and coming back this way. At least, I hope. “Is Phil having dinner with us tonight?”

  “Actually, he should be here any minute.” As Mom stares back at me, I think I catch her eyes tearing up. Just the tiniest bit.

  30

  “THIS IS DELICIOUS, KAYLA. REALLY,” Phil says as he slices through a seared scallop.

  “All credit to my sous chef.” Mom nods my way. “Last week Drew spotted this new David Chang cookbook on display at the library. Good to try new things, right?”

  Xander wrinkles his nose. “Not if the new thing smells like pee.”

  “That was just the fish sauce,” I say. “I swear, not one ounce of pee in this recipe.”

  “Drew!” Mom swats at me playfully.

  “You know, Drew,” Phil says. “They make—” He stops what he’s saying and looks up at me right then. “Never mind.”

  “No, tell me.” With my napkin, I wipe the corner of my mouth.

  “I don’t want to step on your toes.”

  “You’re not.” I smile to let him know I’m serious. That there’s no beef between us, no competition in the kitchen anymore. “Just say it.”

  “There’s a type of fish sauce that doesn’t have that, ah, how do we say, eau de urine.” I catch Mom scrunch her nose—probably ’cause she’s about had it with our pee talk at dinner. “I’ll write it down for you.”

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  Mom butts in. “So,” she says, raising her fork, “what’s the plan for tomorrow?” I steal a peek at her left hand. Her ring finger is bare. But then I notice a new necklace she’s wearing. Both rings dangle from the thin gold thread, and somehow that feels right.

  “You know, after a year of meandering around the country, I’m ready to take the easiest route home. Zip across I-90 over to 80. Little bit of pretty New England and then a whole lot of corn country.”

  My brother sighs. “I wish we could have corn instead of this.” He pushes the Brussels sprouts around on his plate. Now, I think spicy roasted Brussels sprouts and scallops are tasty, but I guess I forget he still has the palate of a six-year-old. Which means he’d choose mac and cheese or fish sticks over a four-star meal any day.

  “Try another few bites, will you?” Mom says to Xander. “And then you can go play Legos.”

  With an end in sight, Xander shovels in a few bites and is off running into the living room before Mom can shout, “Wash your hands, please!” She leans back in her seat. “Ooof.”

  “You two have done enough,” Phil says. “Let me do the dishes.”

  “No, no.” Mom stands up and turns on some music. “The dishes are my time to unwind. Kayla’s Zen time.”

  It’s just Phil and me now. That first night when he came over for dinner, I couldn’t wait to get away from the table. Phil awkwardly folds his napkin as he sets it down. I do the same. “Do you want to come out to the backyard? With me, I mean?” I ask.

  “Sure thing.”

  I wash my hands in the kitchen sink before leading Phil out back. We had dinner on the early side, so it’s still plenty light as we step outside.

  “So,” Phil says, slipping his hands into his front pockets as we slowly shuffle across the lawn.

  “Mom told me. I mean, I figured it out. About you and my dad. You were … you were friends, right?”

  “From birth, practically.”

  “Like me and Filipe.” The dry grass crunches under my feet. “Hold on a sec,” I say before sprinting across the yard, grabbing the sprinkler from the side of the house, and setting it in the middle of the lawn. I turn on the spigot by the house and water arcs out of the sprinkler.

  “Grass looked okay by Colorado standards,” Phil says with a laugh. “Now, Kayla mentioned you do puppet shows at the library. Back when we were growing up, your dad and I were really into
the Muppets. Kids still watch the Muppets these days?”

  “There was that one movie a few years ago. Mom and I watched it on Netflix.”

  “ ‘Am I a maaaan or am I a Muppet? Am I a Muppet?’ ” I can’t believe Phil is singing the song from the movie. And in falsetto! Phil laughs at himself. “Sorry, not really much of a singer these days.”

  “You weren’t half-bad,” I say. Better than I could do.

  “Thanks. That’s high praise, actually.” Phil clears his throat. “Your dad, he really idolized Jim Henson. You know who he is, right?”

  “He created the Muppets and Sesame Street.” I open the door to the shed and flip on the overhead light.

  Phil stops for a second, taking in everything. We cleaned up the shed pretty good, Mom and me. There’s no way he can tell what happened in here earlier today. Unless Mom told him. I search his face for a sign. No, I don’t think she did. At least, not yet.

  “These boxes in the back have all the stuff from when he was younger.” I pull down the top one, labeled Middle School, and set it on the floor. “I thought maybe, if it’s all right with you, you could, you know …” I glance up at him. “Tell me about the stuff. Like, what you remember. Stories about my dad. Not all the boxes tonight or anything. Just to start.”

  Phil clears his throat again. I think he’s tearing up, but maybe it’s just all the dust in here. “I’d love that, Drew.”

  I remove the cover, and for a moment we’re just staring at the jumble of items until I make the first move, reaching my hand in there. I pull out one of those thick plastic envelopes from CVS. Inside are dozens of photographs. “Do you know what these are from?” I hand the stack to Phil.

  He flips through them, letting me look along with him. A bunch of them are out of focus, a blur of flesh and black. Man, my dad was a terrible photographer back then. “Why are these so blurry?”

  “Oh man, Drew. Don’t even ask.” Phil chuckles. “If I remember correctly, your dad wanted to see if he could take a picture of the inside of his nose.”

  “What?” That sounds like something Filipe and I would’ve done.

 

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