How (Not) to Fall in Love

by Lisa Brown Roberts

  Whatever, Mom. Just go ahead and check out. Dad did; you might as well, too.

  After Mom went to bed, I opened my laptop with Toby curled next to me. After watching a few puppy videos that made me almost smile, I typed in a new search.

  There he was. My dad, sort of blurry and poor audio quality, but that was definitely him. He paced the stage, lit by spotlights. I wasn’t sure which arena he was in, but it was a big one. The camera cut to the audience where thousands of people hung on his every word. A picture of my old pink bicycle flashed on the screen behind him.

  Dad told the audience how J.J. had taught me to ride a bike when I was six years old. My dad couldn’t do it because he’d been very ill. So sick he almost died. This was the famous brush-with-death speech. He told the audience how his illness made him see what was important in life, how it inspired him to follow his dreams, and to teach others how to do the same.

  I kind of remembered my sixth summer. J.J. visited often, and one day he brought me a Barbie bike with pink and white handlebar streamers. He ran behind me for days, holding onto the back of the bicycle seat until I mastered the sidewalk on my own.

  “No training wheels,” he’d insisted to my worried mother. “They’re a crutch. She needs to learn to trust herself.” That was part of Dad’s spiel, too, how J.J. reminded him that we rely too much on training wheels in life, that we need to learn to balance on our own.

  The camera panned the audience for close-ups. Most of the women and a few of the men were in tears, picturing me on my bike, my dad on his deathbed, J.J. reassuring my overwhelmed mother.

  When I was younger, Dad dragged Mom and me along during his summer tours, and this was the point when he made me join him on stage. Unlike Dad, I looked petrified, and more than once I reached around to pull my underwear out of my butt crack. Those videos had done wonders for my social life. Not.

  I stopped the video and leaned against a pillow. It was quite a story, at least the way my dad told it. I closed my eyes and remembered how proud I’d felt watching him from backstage.

  What had happened? What had caused him to run away? To go against his own philosophy of facing life head-on, no matter what curveballs it threw?

  I opened up Dad’s Facebook fan page. I scrolled the page, reading all the gushing comments about how awesome he was, how his philosophy had changed lives in dramatic ways. I scrolled down to the entries from before he’d disappeared, looking for some clue about what was going through his mind.

  “Is Ty okay?” Written by somebody named Bethany. “I’ve seen him speak so many times,” she wrote, “but this last time he seemed off, somehow. The fire wasn’t there.”

  I sat up, propping pillows behind me.

  “I thought so, too,” someone named Li Wei had replied. “It’s like he wasn’t all there. Like part of him was missing.”

  A chill ran up my spine. I looked at the dates. Three months ago. I’d been busy hanging out at the country club over the summer, swimming and playing tennis. I hadn’t thought about it since it happened, but now that I read these comments, I remembered coming home late one night and hearing a noise from Dad’s office. When I’d peeked in, he was at his desk, head in his hands. He looked up when the door opened, wiping his eyes.

  “Are you okay, Dad?” I didn’t think I’d ever seen him cry before.

  He’d flashed me his magazine cover smile. “I’m fine, sweetie. Just…tired.”

  I’d said good night and closed the door. And hadn’t worried, because my dad was always fine.

  How many other clues had Mom and I missed, or ignored, because we didn’t want to see them?

  I closed my laptop and tried to sleep, but my phone pinged with a text from Charlie. “R u ok? Saw the reporters on your porch on the news.” Punctuated with a frowny face emoticon.

  His concern was comforting, especially in light of Mom’s cranky exit.

  “I’m ok,” I typed, then amended it. “We both are.”

  It was a lie, of course, but what else could I say?

  Chapter Seven

  September 27

  Sunlight woke me earlier than I wanted, especially for a Saturday. I’d begged for blackout window shades so I could sleep in, but Mom always refused since they wouldn’t match the pastel and lace that covered every inch of my bedroom. Sometimes I felt like I lived inside a wedding cake.

  I wanted to wallow in the few blissful seconds between asleep and awake, where I could pretend Dad wasn’t a late-night TV joke, and Mom wasn’t keeping the liquor store in business, but I couldn’t. At least it was the weekend. I squeezed my eyes shut, picturing Chloe prepping the CNN report for my locker, maniacally waving her glue gun like a weapon.

  Downstairs, Mom was already dressed and drinking coffee.

  “Big day in the real estate world?” I asked, surprised to see her awake.

  She shook her head. “You and I are going to the cabin for the weekend. I don’t want to be here if the paparazzi come back.” She took a sip from her mug. “After everything that’s happened, you and I could use a break.”

  I usually whined about going to the mountains, but right now running away sounded good. When I was younger I’d loved our cabin trips, because I got uninterrupted time with my dad, who ignored the phone and focused on Mom and me the whole time. But the past couple of years, whenever we were up there all I could think of was the fun I was missing in town, like shopping with Sal and stalking Ryan.

  “Come on, Toblerone.” I raced upstairs to throw clothes and a couple of historical romance novels into my Hilfiger duffel. Toby licked my hand and whimpered. He knew my packed bag meant fun for him and he was eager to go.

  Mom was already in the Volvo with the engine running when Toby and I ran downstairs.

  “Change of plans,” I texted Sal as we drove, since she’d wanted to get together today. “Headed to mtns for wknd.”

  Her reply flew back. “R U OK?”

  Okay? My world was tilting on its axis and there was nothing to grab onto. I was flying into space, with no one to catch me.

  I was most definitely not okay.

  I snuck glances at Mom and her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel as we drove west on the highway, listening to a local band we agreed on. Toby let out an occasional bark when we passed other cars with dogs hanging out the window.

  Sal texted me so many times that I resorted to turning off my phone. I kept hoping Mom’s cell would blast out Frank Sinatra singing about being the king of the hill, Dad’s signature ring tone, but her phone never rang.

  We spent our weekend quietly: reading, hiking, and sneaking glances at our cells about every five minutes. I think we both thought Dad would call us. He had to know his absence had blown up in the media. On Monday, Mom called Woodbridge to excuse my absence, extending our escape from reality by an extra day.

  On our last night, we ate dinner on the cabin deck in the glow of candles, wrapped in fleece jackets. Toby snored at our feet as we shared a frozen pizza that tasted like paste. I missed Mom’s cooking.

  “Darcy, we’re going to make it through this. I promise you. I don’t know how yet. But we’ll survive.”

  “Please don’t tell me we will Tri!Umphant!ly survive.”

  Mom sipped her wine. “A lot of people use your dad’s philosophy to survive horrible situations and to turn their lives around.”

  I looked at my dirty Uggs. I really didn’t want a lecture on the genius of “Thoughtful! Responsible! Initiative!

  “But,” Mom continued, “it’s not the only way.”

  She had my attention.

  “Before I met your dad my life was simple. I taught kindergarten and lived in a small apartment with my best friend from college.” Mom smiled at the memory. Her eyes stared off toward the hillside, a looming, dark shadow under a sea of winking stars.

  “We lived on ramen noodles and the leftovers my friend brought home every night from her waitress job.” Mom poured herself an
other glass of wine as I watched her warily.

  “Who was your friend? Do I know her?”

  Mom paused. “No. She was still in my life when you were very young, but then she moved to Tucson and we lost contact.”

  “You should see if she’s on Facebook.” I grabbed another slice of pizza. I was going to gain ten pounds through this ordeal at the rate I was eating. Stress = ravenous.

  Mom shook her head. “You know I don’t do Facebook.”

  “Yeah,” I said around a mouthful of pepperoni. I was glad about that. I spent most of my screen time on Tumblr and Instagram, but the thought of friending my mom freaked me out. I followed my dad’s Facebook fan page, but we definitely weren’t FB friends.

  “Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I was able to earn a salary, to take care of myself.” She held my gaze. “I can do it again. I can help take care of us.” She took another sip of wine. “But I’m sure Dad will be home soon and get back to work at Harvest.”

  “If you have to work, why don’t you teach again?” I reached for another slice of pizza. Maybe this one would taste better. Toby looked up at me and whined. I snuck him a piece of pepperoni, which he inhaled without chewing.

  Mom shook her head. “I don’t think I have the energy. Plus, I’d have to go back to school to renew my teaching license. I think real estate is the best choice.” Mom sat up a little straighter and raised her chin, almost daring me to disagree.

  The thought of Mom working for Chloe’s mom killed me, but she’d already made up her mind. Maybe it would work out.

  Mom’s eyes brightened. “Darcy, I can do this. And you can help.” I almost choked on my pizza crust, but she continued without noticing. “You’re so good on the internet and with your digital camera. You can help me take photos of the houses for online marketing.”

  I stared at my mom. It was bad enough she was doing this real estate thing, but dragging me with her? No way.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know anything about real estate and—”

  “You don’t need to. You just take pictures of houses and put them on a website. It’s probably just like what you do with all those online sites, right? We can start with the cabin.” She stared down at her hands. “We might need to put it on the market soon. That’s what J.J. recommends.”

  “Sell the cabin?” My stomach clenched. The cabin was Dad’s favorite place in the world. We couldn’t sell it.

  Mom nodded, her eyes welling with tears.

  I reached down to pet Toby. I’d give anything to trade places with him, to spend my time chasing squirrels and rabbits while the humans dealt with all this drama, which was getting worse by the minute.

  I frowned. “Is this whole mess J.J.’s fault? Did he screw up somehow?”

  She stared into her wine glass. “I don’t know.”

  My heart pounded. “So what he said about Harvest going broke? It’s really true?”

  Mom’s face sagged. “Oh honey, you have no idea how much I wish it wasn’t. But I’m afraid it is.” She poured herself more wine. “After meeting with the board, it sounds pretty bad.” She forced a wobbly smile. “At least your tuition is paid through the year, so you don’t have to leave your friends at Woodbridge.”

  Right. Friends like Chloe.

  “What are we going to do?” I didn’t recognize my own voice.

  Mom swirled the wine in her glass, not meeting my gaze. “Right now, we just have to put one foot in front of the other.”

  I glared at her. “You sound like Tri Ty.”

  Her smile was wistful. “It’s good advice, no matter who it’s from.” She shivered, rubbing her jacket sleeves. “Anyway. Dad’s old truck is here. You could drive it back to town tomorrow. It’s not fancy but at least it runs.”

  I thought of Charlie being car-free. I’d been so set on getting back my Audi, but now that felt selfish.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I think I remember how to drive that beast.” Dad had shown me how to work the gearshift when I’d first learned to drive. “Because you never know,” he’d said. “Life doesn’t always have an automatic transmission.” I smiled wistfully at the memory, at how my dad could turn anything into a “Tri Ty” cliché.

  Suddenly I was completely blindsided by tears. It was like a cosmic hand from the universe smacked me upside the head and I suddenly knew deep in my soul that all of this was true and I couldn’t stop it. I’d been living in some weird state of denial these past few weeks, but now I shook with sobs as reality sank in.

  Mom knelt next to my chair and hugged me. “Let it out, honey, just let it out. It’s the only way we’re going to make it, by facing this head-on. And it hurts like hell, doesn’t it?”

  In spite of my tears, I almost smiled when I realized Mom had cussed. That was twice in one week. She was making progress.

  “Mom is not going to be some fake-baked realtor like Chloe’s mom,” I whispered into Toby’s floppy ear. It was early Tuesday morning and I was sneaking in one last hike before we headed home. Toby wriggled out of my hug and took off, having caught the whiff of something much more interesting than me.

  Dad loved our mini-Stonehenge. He and I had built it the summer I was nine. We’d spent a whole weekend arranging rocks into a circle, laughing and messing around. Every time we came up to the cabin we checked on it, fixing parts that fell down and adding new rocks. Even when I whined about being away from my friends, I still loved our Stonehenge hikes.

  As I came around a bend in the trail, I saw the stones. Toby waited for me, panting happily. The circle was only about ten feet in diameter since the clearing was small. Rocks of all sizes balanced on top of each other. Dad and I had used a photo of the real Stonehenge as our guide, but our replica was hardly exact. I approached the circle and knelt to raise some of the fallen rocks.

  “Stay, Toby,” I commanded. He stayed, not venturing into the circle. He’d destroyed it once as a puppy, crashing into the circle and sending the rocks tumbling. He sighed heavily and flopped to the ground, sending up a cloud of dust while I busied myself with the stones.

  It felt good to lift and move the rocks, to feel their rough surfaces anchoring me to a place where I felt safe. In the middle of the circle lay a small stone Dad and I had found years ago. It was a perfect skipping stone, flat and smooth, yet somehow it had morphed into almost a heart shape. Dad and I took turns holding it each time we visited, making wishes.

  Today I hesitated to pick it up. It felt off somehow, doing this ritual by myself, but I needed to feel the smooth stone for myself. I held it in my hand and traced its shape with my forefinger. “Dad, please come home,” I whispered. “You’re the one who always says we can handle anything, as long as we face it together.”

  I closed my eyes and pressed the stone to my chest, stone heart to human heart, and sent a prayer, a wish, a plea to the universe, to God, to whoever or whatever was listening.

  “Bring him home. Even if we lose everything else, please bring my dad home safe.”

  As I packed to leave the cabin, I glanced around my bedroom, at the bulletin board full of bumper stickers for Greenpeace, Wahoo Fish Tacos, and the Broncos, the posters of Phoenix, Snow Patrol, and my favorite movie stars. There were photos of Dad and me building a snowman, of Mom and me decorating a Christmas tree by the cabin’s fireplace.

  I zipped up my duffel and then ran my hands along my bookshelves full of all my favorite series, especially Harry Potter, which I re-read every winter break in front of the cabin’s roaring fireplace. I didn’t want to believe this was the last day I’d spend at Camp Covington, but I feared it was.

  As we drove back to town, me following Mom in Dad’s ancient Ford truck, I practiced visualizations like Dad told people to do on his DVDs. I imagined his BMW in the garage. I saw him closeted up in his office on the phone with J.J., somehow fixing this disaster. I pictured him greeting us with bear hugs, grinning like he always did under the spotlights.

  I hop
ed that if I wished hard enough, my wish would come true.

  Chapter Eight

  September 30

  The Grim Reaper, as I’d decided to call the truck, was a champ. We made it down the mountain with no problems. The only thing wrong with it was the sound system. My parents had actually driven that thing around listening only to AM radio? How had they survived? I mean, I wasn’t expecting an MP3 jack but at least FM?

  After listening to some political blathering on talk radio for a few minutes, I turned it off and looked at Toby. “Guess we’ll just have to sing to ourselves, Toblerone.”

  And so we did. I sang most of the Wicked soundtrack, which I’d memorized during the hours spent listening to Sal rehearsing it. Toby chimed in with a howl every once in a while.

  My dad had been so mad when I taught Toby to sing. “Don’t encourage that god-awful howling,” he’d growled at my nine-year-old self.

  “It’s not howling, it’s singing,” I’d protested.

  At the time, Toby and I were singing along to pop music Dad hated. Looking back, I think that was the problem. If we’d been singing to music Dad approved of, like the Rolling Stones, he might’ve cheered us on.

  We must have been a funny sight driving down the highway, Toby and me singing in an old truck that belched an occasional blue puff of smoke with a BMPRCRP license plate. Dad said it meant “Bumper Crop” for Harvest, but in my mind it was always “Bumper Crap.”

  Once we hit civilization again, Mom and I pulled into a 7-Eleven to gas up our vehicles.

  “I’m going into Pam’s office for the afternoon,” Mom said. “But you don’t have to go back to school. Enjoy your mental health day.”

  “Thanks.” I grinned at her. It felt good to play hooky on a school day, since I never did.

  Back in town, Toby and I stopped at the Chewybacca Boutique. My former allowance of one hundred bucks a week had dwindled to an occasional twenty from Mom. I’d saved enough to buy a bag of the good stuff for Toby. Next, I ran into the grocery store to grab some Doritos and fruit. Mom had said to buy healthy food, thus the fruit. Now I’d used up most of my cash. God, I needed money.