by Heidi Lang
Patrick laughed maniacally.
“Dad, no,” Claire moaned, hiding her face. She knew what came next. And sure enough, her dad started doing the thumb dance, his body swaying back and forth, right there in the middle of the museum lobby.
“Stop, Dad. Please,” Claire begged.
“The thumb leads and the body follows,” he said, moving his shoulders now, really getting into it.
“Excuse me, sir?” a museum attendant called. She was tall, Claire noticed, and pretty, with straight black hair that fell to her shoulders and pink-rimmed glasses.
Her dad stopped dancing, but didn’t look at all ashamed of himself. “Oh, was I being disruptive? Sorry, I was just trying to embarrass my daughter.”
“And succeeding,” Claire muttered.
The woman laughed. “You weren’t being disruptive. I appreciate your energy. I just wanted to let you know that the museum is closing early today.”
Now he looked properly horrified. “What do you mean, closing early? How early?”
“Like, in twenty minutes early.”
“But . . . but why?”
“Staff party. One of our children’s guides is retiring today. It’s too bad, because I can tell you would have liked him; he has a pretty mean thumb dance, too.”
“Of all the days.” He ran a hand across his chin. “So . . . we can’t look around, then?”
She shook her head.
“Do you have any idea what it took to convince my kids to come here? I had to bankrupt myself in ice cream.”
“I really am sorry. Feel free to look around the lobby. We do have some exhibits out here, and there’s always the gift store. Although you might want to avoid that, considering you’re already bankrupt.” She winked.
Claire’s dad put a hand to his heart, his classic “you wound me” pose, and the attendant giggled.
Claire’s mouth fell open. Was her dad . . . flirting? Eww! “Come on, Patrick,” she whispered. “We do not need to see this.”
“See what?” he asked, but he let her herd him over to a glass display case that reached all the way up to the very high ceiling. They looked at the skeletons and pottery before wandering over to the giant map in the middle of the room. It listed all the national parks of the United States.
“We should try to visit all of them someday,” Claire said.
“Maybe after California.”
Claire frowned. “California?”
Patrick shifted uncomfortably. “I was thinking . . . we’ll probably head there next. Right?”
She studied her brother. “You know, Dad hasn’t said anything about going there.”
Patrick shrugged, and didn’t meet her eyes. Did he know something?
Tell him. The words struck Claire so suddenly, she felt like someone must have whispered them in her ear. She glanced behind her. Her dad was filling out some sort of paperwork, still chatting with the worker. For all Claire knew, he was leaving his phone number. She turned back. Patrick was watching her, blue eyes wide.
He didn’t remember their mother at all. To him, she was just a character in another story, sometimes a spy, sometimes a princess. Sometimes a woman like Evangeline Rose. He had no idea why she left, and honestly, neither did Claire. And for once, Claire didn’t even care, not anymore. All that mattered was that her mom had left; she’d left and she wasn’t coming back. And Patrick needed to understand that, so he’d stop searching for some kind of fairy-tale ending to this particular tale.
Stories don’t always end the way we’d hope.
Claire thought of those divorce papers, that box checked so firmly. No child custody sought. Patrick deserved to know.
“Do you trust me?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said immediately.
“So, you’d tell me if you had a secret, right?”
To her surprise, Patrick’s face turned bright red, and he looked away.
“Do you have a secret?” she demanded, forgetting that she was leading up to her own.
“Do you . . . do you promise not to be mad?”
“How can I promise that until you tell me what it is?”
“If you don’t promise, then I’ll never tell you what it is.”
“Well that’s . . . not really fair.”
“It’s the only deal I’m willing to make,” Patrick quoted, grinning broadly. “Take it or leave it.”
“Fine.” Claire shook her head. “What is it?”
“Remember when you caught me going through your things? You know, back home?”
“Which time?” Claire asked dryly.
Patrick brushed that off. “I found the address you wrote down. The one in California. You know . . . for Mom.”
Claire froze. She’d forgotten she’d written it down. After Ronnie had found Catherine online, Claire had jotted down her mother’s name and address on a piece of paper and stuffed it in a drawer, then did her best to forget about it. She didn’t plan to look her up or anything. She just liked holding on to something she knew was true. “Look, Patrick—”
“Ready to roll, kiddos?” Their dad dropped a hand on each of their shoulders.
Claire jumped. “We’re leaving now?”
“Yeppers.”
She sighed. “Dad, add that to your list.”
“You have a list?” The museum attendant came up next to them.
“This is Audrey,” their dad said. “Audrey, this is my delightful daughter, Claire, my charming son, Patrick, and yes, I have a list of words I am not allowed to say under any circumstances. This list now apparently includes ‘yeppers.’”
“My daughter made me a list, too.” Audrey looked Claire over. “Let me guess . . . thirteen?”
“Twelve,” Claire said.
Audrey nodded. “You’re mature for your age, aren’t you? I can tell.”
Claire stood up a little taller. “Thank you.”
“Well, we’d better head out. Audrey, it truly was a pleasure.” Her dad did that embarrassing thing where he wrapped both of his hands around the other person’s hand, and then shook. Ugh. Why couldn’t he shake hands like a normal adult? But Audrey seemed to like it, because she smiled again.
“I’ll let you know if anything opens up,” she said, waving as they headed toward the door.
“Opens up?” Claire asked her dad.
“Eh,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Claire frowned, suddenly very worried about it. Whatever it was. But before she could argue more, her dad was pointing and saying, “Would you look at that view!” and Claire couldn’t help but look.
One full wall of the lobby was made of glass, giving her a clear view of the mountains nearby. They were golden brown against the bright blue of the late-afternoon sky, standing up like a dramatic wall. She imagined climbing up those mountains, exploring the trails that had to be woven through them. “I’m sorry we didn’t come out here and visit Aunt Jan before this,” she said.
Her dad winced. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess I am, too. Although . . . let’s wait and see what our reception is like, eh?”
“She does know we’re coming, right, Dad?”
“Well . . . I got a new phone before we left, and I never saved her number into it. So . . . it’ll be a surprise.” He grinned. “Won’t that be an exciting adventure?”
CHAPTER 29
Claire couldn’t remember ever having a more awkward dinner. Even at Julian’s house. He might have offered her and her eight-year-old brother a beer, but at least he talked. Aunt Jan hadn’t said more than a dozen words since she’d first welcomed them inside her surprisingly large house. Apparently she’d known they were coming only when the guard at the gate phoned her for permission to let them pass.
At least the food was good: pad Thai, brown rice, and some sort of spicy green curry. It was a nice change from peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and the occasional diner meal.
“You’re an excellent cook,” Claire said.
“I’m not,” her au
nt said flatly. She looked almost exactly the way Claire remembered: short, with hair dyed red from a bottle, wearing a T-shirt and jeans like she was a teenager. Except in Claire’s memories, her aunt was smiling.
Not today. Today, she looked like her lips had been nailed to a Popsicle stick.
Claire glanced at her dad. He stabbed morosely at his noodles with a fork; Thai food was not his favorite. Patrick ate a little of the rice and a few pieces of fried tofu, until he realized it wasn’t chicken. Neither of them was going to be any help at all.
Claire plastered on a smile and tried again. “But this food is really good.”
“Well, I didn’t make it. I ordered takeout.”
“Oh.” Claire’s cheeks burned. She hadn’t noticed any takeout containers. “Well. Um. It’s good . . . uh, takeout.”
Her aunt’s lips twitched. “You’re really trying, aren’t you? And I am just giving you nothing.”
Claire blinked. “Er,” she said.
“Exactly.” Aunt Jan managed to keep her face stern for another second, and then she snickered. It was the strangest sound, like a laugh and a whisper combined.
Claire and Patrick exchanged glances, and then they both started giggling, and a second later all of them were laughing. All of them except Claire’s dad, who sat there looking confused.
Aunt Jan took one last shuddering breath, and then beamed at everyone. “Ah, that felt good. And Scottie, I’m still mad at you. But I shouldn’t take it out on the kiddos. Kiddos, it’s not your fault your dad’s a . . . well. Let’s just say he’s not my favorite person right now.”
“Hey, that’s something Claire says a lot,” Patrick said.
“Does she? Intelligent girl, your sister.”
Claire grinned. “Thanks.”
“I am sorry, Jan,” Claire’s dad began.
Aunt Jan held up one hand and made a sharp slashing motion. “I don’t want to hear it. Years. Years! You just stopped visiting. You stopped inviting me to visit. And all I got was the occasional phone call? A letter here or there? You know, I had to read about the plant shutting down in the papers! I didn’t even know you’d lost your job until—” She stopped, her eyes narrowing.
Claire glanced at her dad. He wasn’t looking at any of them, but instead fiddled with his fork.
“How bad did it get, Scottie?”
“It was fine.”
“You didn’t want my help. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Can we maybe talk about this later?” he asked.
Aunt Jan nodded. “Oh, we’ll talk.” She made it sound like a threat.
“Does that mean you’re staying mad at Dad?” Patrick asked.
“My sweet nephew, I’m always a little mad at your dad.” She grinned. “But I got some satisfaction out of ordering Thai food. He always hated anything with even the tiniest bit of spice. Such a baby.”
Patrick winced.
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey. You don’t like it, either?”
“It’s just the tofu.” Patrick wrinkled his nose. “It’s like eating baked snot.”
“Well, that’s a horrifying image. Scratching tofu off my to-eat list for a while.”
“Sorry,” Patrick said. “The spice is okay, though.”
Aunt Jan laughed. “Tomorrow I’ll let you choose the restaurant. How’s that?”
“Jan,” Claire’s dad said. “We’re not staying long.”
“Oh, nonsense. You can’t wander around in a van forever, Scottie, and where else do you have to go? I mean, what with the house foreclo—”
“Jan!”
Claire froze. The house what? Her dad’s face had gone pale, all except for two spots high on either cheek. Her aunt, by contrast, had gone almost as red as her hair.
“How do you even know about that?” he asked.
“It’s called the internet, Scottie,” Aunt Jan said. “I do try to keep tabs on you, you know.”
“What are you talking about?” Claire asked. Her dad looked like he’d suddenly swallowed his tongue, silence falling thick and heavy across the table.
“You haven’t told them?” Aunt Jan asked softly. “Oh, Scottie.”
“Told us what?” Claire asked.
More silence.
“Told us what?” Claire demanded, slamming her hands against the table hard enough to make their dishes rattle. All her earlier frustration with her dad and his stories roared back through her veins. She knew he was keeping secrets. And she was tired of it.
“We’ll talk about this later, honey,” he said.
“No,” Claire said. “I want to talk about it now.”
“Claire—”
“Don’t you trust us? Why won’t you ever tell us anything true?” Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes, and she had to blink rapidly to keep them in. She didn’t want to cry right now. She didn’t want to be sad; she wanted to be angry.
Her dad massaged his neck, then sighed. “I didn’t sell the house.”
Claire caught her breath.
“I lost the house, okay? I’m not proud of it.”
“You . . . lost the house?” Claire whispered.
“I couldn’t make the mortgage payments. I . . . haven’t been able to make them for a little while, actually, and finally the bank decided they’d waited long enough. So they took the house.”
“That’s why we left?” Patrick asked, his lower lip quivering. “It’s not a Grand Adventure?”
“Oh, it’s definitely a Grand Adventure.” Their dad tried smiling. It was awful, and Claire looked down at her plate. “It’s just . . . a well-timed adventure. I knew we’d have to move eventually, but moving is expensive and I wasn’t sure where. So when Meredith called me about the van, I thought . . .” His shoulders slumped. “I thought it was the answer.”
“It is the answer, Dad,” Patrick said. “Even Claire likes it now.”
“It’s not really a permanent answer, though. Not with the two of you. I’ve been trying to find work along the way, but all of my contacts have been less than helpful.”
“So, your friends we visited along the way . . .” Claire began.
“They were all people who, in the past, had said they’d help me get a job. But”—he shrugged—“so far it hasn’t really panned out.”
“But the van, Dad,” Patrick tried again. “Hashtag vanlife—”
“Isn’t going to work for us forever. I realized that once we met up with Celeste and her family. The last thing I want is to use the two of you like some kind of props to sell merchandise. That’s not what us Jacobuses are about.”
“Not all the vanlifers were like that,” Patrick protested.
“Oh, true. But the others we met were all retired, or temporarily traveling. None of them had—” He stopped.
“Children,” Claire finished for him. “None of them had children.” A sudden image flashed through her mind, of Wrong Way Jacobus choosing his two calves over that fortune he’d been seeking, and suddenly everything clicked into place. Her dad was struggling to find work . . . because of them.
Claire had been so busy asking him why their mom had left, she’d never bothered to ask why he’d stayed.
“I was planning on telling you about the house later,” he said.
“No, you weren’t,” Aunt Jan said. “This is how you are, Scottie. Anything you don’t want to discuss gets conveniently glossed over.”
“I knew coming here would be a mistake.” He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.
“Scottie, wait.”
But he strode from the room and out of the house, slamming the front door behind him.
Patrick turned wide eyes on Claire.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Dad just needs a little time to cool off.”
“We’re not going to California,” Patrick whispered, and it wasn’t a question. “We’re not going to find Mom.”
Now it was Claire’s turn to hesitate, because this time the words didn’t come to her.
But then her a
unt spoke up. “Your mom?” She pursed her lips. “That woman was like a butterfly, always fluttering about. You’re better off without her skipping in and out of your lives.”
Patrick nodded slowly, moving his head up and down like he was eighty and not eight. “I’m going to go check on Dad. Just in case.”
“You might want to wait a—” Aunt Jan began, but Patrick had already gotten up and sprinted outside. The front door slammed again. “Like father, like son, eh?”
Claire didn’t know what to say to that, so she didn’t say anything at all.
“I make you uncomfortable, don’t I?” her aunt asked. At Claire’s startled expression, she smiled. “I have that effect on people. It’s because I don’t like to waste time dancing around answers. Growing up, I always felt like your father did enough of that for the both of us.”
“I . . . guess I can see that.” Claire studied her aunt. “What happened, between you and Dad?” Claire tried to imagine a future where she and Patrick didn’t see each other for several years. Sometimes she thought it would be nice to get a break from him. But, like, a week. Maybe a month . . . okay, two months, tops. But definitely not years. Just the thought made her heart ache. She’d lost enough people.
“I told your dad not to marry your mom.”
Claire blinked.
“I told you, I don’t like to dance around answers. Also it’s late and I’m tired. But I think that’s where the rift between us started. Obviously, he didn’t listen to me.”
Even though Claire never wanted to see her mother again, hearing this new information felt like getting smacked in the face with a bucket of cold water. “Why didn’t you want him to marry her?”
Aunt Jan sighed. “I told him that Catherine was not the girl he imagined her to be. But you know your father. He builds up these elaborate stories, and then he starts to believe them.”
For a second Claire was six years old again, and digging in her backyard. She’d been so excited to look for a spaceship, she hadn’t cared about the dirt or the hot sun or the blisters. There was that surge of disappointment when she’d discovered the sewer, but mostly she remembered how much fun she’d had while digging, how she’d spent the time imagining where she’d go, which planets she’d see . . . In the end, the fact that she hadn’t actually found a spaceship didn’t really matter. It was only years later, when she looked back and realized how he’d made everything up, that she had gotten angry.
