Happy Families

by Tanita S. Davis

  “Well.” Dad chews his bottom lip, and I realize I am doing the same thing. I stop and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Christine is, let’s say, an aspect of me. She’s both me and more than me. How’s that for confusing?” He smiles.

  “So basically you’ve got a split personality,” I say.

  Dad barks out a laugh. “You might look at it that way,” he says. “You’d be wrong, but you might look at it that way.”

  “Well, what’s right, then?” Ysabel asks, a little braver because Dad seems so unbothered by the question. “I mean, we have no idea, Dad. You laugh, but as far as we knew eight months ago, you were just Christopher Nicholas, one guy. Now there’s almost … two of you.”

  My father sobers immediately. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make light of this, Belly. It’s just that I’ve had the same questions myself along the way. It’s hard to think of yourself as sane when you feel like you’re two people. When I’m Christine, I am all of who I am. When I’m Christopher, I’m only … half of who I should be.” He says the words with conviction.

  “So, Christine is more than half of you.” My smile is twisted. “Which half of you is in love with Mom?”

  “Good question.” Ysabel is blinking hard, and her arms are wrapped around her abdomen again. “That’s what I want to know.”

  Dad looks visibly startled, though he tries to hide it. “Justin. Belly.” There’s a tenderness in his voice that makes my stomach hurt. He reaches across the table to grab my sister’s hand.

  “I said not to call me that.” Ysabel leans out of reach. “Answer the question, Dad. Which one of you is married? Which one of you fell in love with Mom? Which one of you has been with her all this time? Christine can’t be married to Mom.”

  My father rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead and looks uncomfortable. “Guys, that’s … I love your mother. That’s what I can tell you. Aside from that, questions about your mom and me are between Mom and me.”

  “That’s a cop-out. It’s not a personal question,” I object.

  “Actually, it’s—”

  “No. If you’re only half of who you are when you’re our father, are you saying you weren’t married to Mom the whole way?” I put down my fork and wrap my arms around my aching middle. “So, does that mean Christine can have a relationship with someone else who could be with all of her? Is that how it goes?”

  “Justin.” My father’s voice is thick with hurt. His mouth firms into a line, and he just stares at me for a moment, his expression caught between disbelief and frustration. “You know me better than that. You know I would never hurt your mother like that, never. Never.”

  “We know you ‘better than that’?” Ysabel’s voice is disbelieving. “Are you serious? Dad, who do I know? Half the time you’re this more-than-Christopher Christine. Eight months ago, I didn’t even know there was a Christine. What makes you think we know you at all?”

  “Ysabel, honey, you’re making this way too complicated,” Dad says, and rubs a hand over his face. He gestures, holding out his hands, trying to bridge the distance between us. “I know it’s tough to understand, but I’m part of Christine. Christine is still me. You know me. You know who I am.”

  “No, we don’t.” Ysabel and I say the words together, and she shoots a glance at me. I nod. It feels stupid to say to Dad, a man we’ve known all our lives, but it’s true. If he’s Christine, we have no idea who he is.

  “Sopa Azteca, señor?” our waitress chirps. A sizzling sound and billows of fragrant steam suddenly envelop our table. Dad nods, looking dazed, as she sets the large bowl of tortilla soup in front of him. The kitchen lackeys following her present Dad’s chipotle enchilada, my taco platter, and Ysabel’s veggie fajitas. All the while she’s explaining what’s what and setting down the sides and the other waitstaff are refilling our iced tea and bringing more chips, we all just sit there, silent. Ysabel stares fixedly at the tablecloth. My father smiles vaguely at the waitress, leaning away from the table so she can bustle around him, but there’s a stiffness to his face. The slope of his shoulders telegraphs hurt, and I look down at my plate, wishing I was hungry, wishing that we were just all here for real, being together like before.

  But Ysabel has it right—we’re here to say something to each other. And as the waitress bustles away, I decide there’s no time like the present.

  “We don’t know you, Dad,” I repeat quietly, looking up at him. “No offense, but … I don’t want to know, either. Not … the Christine part.” I shrug. “I’m sorry, but … it’s how I feel.”

  My father tries to smile, but the attempt falls short. His mouth twitches. “Well, that was the risk, wasn’t it?” he says finally, his voice threaded with weariness. “I had hoped that you would never … that we would never be …” He stops, and everything hangs, for a moment, in that silence, which goes on forever. I shift my feet and pick up my fork, drawing away a piece of shredded lettuce from my taco and chasing it around my plate. Dad finally clears his throat. I look up at him, and there is kindness and tiredness and grief in his eyes. “I hope you both get a chance to get to know me again.”

  I look away. Dad wants me to understand this and be okay with things, but I can’t. I can’t understand this … thing he’s doing. I don’t want to lose my father in a trade for someone named Christine, but he’s already gone. I don’t know how to take that, or what to do. I don’t know how to deal with this Christine person he’s left behind.

  I just want my dad back.

  Many Waters

  Ysabel

  Dad pulls into the garage and shuts off the engine. Justin and I climb out silently, and Justin carefully lifts the paper bag filled with our lunch from where it sat on the floor between his feet.

  Unlocking the back door, my father goes inside and drops his keys on the hook next to the door. He pauses in the living room as I turn toward the stairs, and Justin heads for the kitchen to put away the food.

  “I appreciated your thoughts today,” Dad says awkwardly. Justin gives a little cough and pauses at the counter. I take a step down into the stairwell, unsure what, if anything, I should say.

  “This conversation isn’t over,” Dad continues, making eye contact with both of us. “We can take a break right now and have some downtime, or we can keep on.”

  “Break,” Justin blurts. “I need to—I’m going downstairs.”

  Dad looks at me. “Ysabel?”

  “Break,” I agree heavily. Despite the fact that it’s early afternoon, I’m exhausted.

  “All right.” Dad nods. “I think I’m going to drive out to the reservoir for a run, then I’ll come home and we’ll try and eat lunch again.” He smiles wryly. “Can’t let my fancy enchiladas go to waste.”

  I nod and start down the stairs again. I have free time now and could set up some torchwork, or at least twist some of the copper wire I brought for earrings. But something about both the trip to Dr. Hoenig’s and the conversation over lunch has burned out any creative juices I had.

  “Justin?” Dad’s invitation is tentative. “Want to go for a run with me? The reservoir is beautiful—it’s a four-mile loop through parkland and trees. Some long hills, but nothing you can’t handle.”

  “Uh, no. Thanks,” Justin says, and I hear the fridge door close.

  “Maybe next time,” Dad says. A moment later, his bedroom door closes.

  I pause in the stairwell, waiting for my brother. He comes down the stairs, his face slack with weariness. He looks unsurprised to find me waiting. “I really need a break, Ysabel,” he warns, pushing past me.

  “I know,” I say, following him down. I follow him to his room and barely stop him from closing the door in my face. “Wait. Can I have five minutes?”

  “Fine.” Justin kicks his mattress until it aligns with his box spring, then flops down on his back, his arm flung across his face.

  I stand in the doorway, watching him, then cross and sit on the edge of the bed, scooting back a little unti
l my hip touches his leg. “So, you’re going to sleep for a while?”

  “Maybe.” Justin’s voice is a thread. “I need to shut down.”

  I understand how he feels. “Me too,” I say. “I only wanted to be sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine,” Justin rubs his face. “I just can’t talk anymore.” He rolls to his side, his back to me.

  I lean my forehead on his shoulder. “That’s okay. We don’t have to,” I say. I reach around him and find his hand, grasping his clenched fist until his fingers grip mine. We huddle, walled in by our own sadness, together, but on our own.

  What if we never get over this? All I can imagine is this loss infecting our happiness for years and years, like an abscess, and nothing making the pain lessen.

  I love Dad—more than anything. But right now, I would give anything to make this bad feeling go away.

  The crook in my neck wakes me, and I realize I am still in Justin’s room, sprawled awkwardly on the edge of his bed, my arm slung around his shoulders. I straighten stiffly, carefully getting to my feet so I don’t wake him.

  The house is still. I walk up the stairs to the front entryway and crack open the door to the garage. No car. The clock on the microwave says it’s almost four, and for a moment, I feel a twinge of worry. Dad said his run was only four miles. How far away is this reservoir? What if something happened to him?

  A note on the fridge makes me breathe a sigh of relief. Picking up some stuff for breakfast tomorrow. Back in an hour. —Dad

  I wander into the living room and look at the deck, which is now in the shade of the huge live oak tree next to it. I consider setting up my kiln on the table there, but the idea of getting out my case just makes me tired. Instead, I settle for the brain-dead activity of the hour and search the living room for the TV remote.

  As usual, there’s nothing decent to watch at this time of day. I stretch out on the couch and consider going back to sleep, but quickly get bored with trying to think restful thoughts. I wander through the tiny dining room, fiddling with the pillow on Dad’s armchair, stacking up the coasters, and peering at the watercolors in their plain black frames. I open the drawers beneath the television cabinet and find them empty except for a whisper of dust. Finding myself in front of Dad’s bedroom door, I take a deep breath and turn the knob.

  It’s locked.

  I blink, shocked, and twist the knob one way and then the other. Mom and Dad’s door is never locked. None of us ever lock our bedroom doors at home. Baffled, I find myself rattling the knob again and stop, slowly releasing the smooth metal sphere. Obviously, things are different now. This isn’t Mom and Dad’s door; in this place, it’s Dad’s door. And Dad has something to hide.

  I back away to look for my father in his bland beige house. I snoop through the kitchen, opening every cabinet and all of the drawers, counting the silverware and the place settings. In the drawer beneath the phone, I find a phone book, a pad and pen, a few packets of breath mints, stray rubber bands, and all the mundane detritus of Dad’s austere life. I also see a yellow-handled screwdriver.

  The idea strikes like lightning, and I’m across the room almost before I can think it through. I want to find out who Dad’s become. It’s not like I’m looking for something bad; I only want to know. I ignore the whisper in my head, warning me to slow down and think. I want to know something more about Christopher Nicholas, something he can’t filter or decide not to tell. I want to know as much about him as he is holding back.

  There are only two cross-marked screws, and they’re tighter than I expected. Probably no one has taken the knob off of this door before. But it’s five minutes’ work, sweating and slipping and nicking my thumb, then my fingers are pressed against the rough hole where the handle once was, and I’m pushing open the door, and—

  The air crowds my throat with tears, and I stand in the doorway to my father’s room, staggering under the weight of memory, feeling my chest squeeze.

  It smells like him. Like his safe Dad smell of a citrusy cologne, the moisturizer Mom makes him use, his shampoo, and the ink from the pen he always carries in his jacket pocket, all concentrated into one place. The smell of coffee and wood and drafting lead, the smell of security and familiarity and routine. This room smells like home, like everything I’ve been missing for so long.

  This is the only room in the whole house that looks right. The pillows on the king-sized bed and the matching duvet are a deep navy, just like Mom and Dad’s at home. Though the bed is mostly made, the pillows are stacked haphazardly, and there are two alarm clocks, one on each night table. I wrap my arms around myself, staring. Did he lie? Is someone else sleeping with Dad?

  I barely take in the rest of the items on the night table—on the right, a box of tissues, Dad’s open Bible, and a notebook, closed. On the left, a desk lamp, a tidy stack of newspapers, and engineering journals. Beneath the window is a glass-topped counter that holds Dad’s computer and a blueprint. At the foot of the bed, there’s a dresser and a bookshelf, with a picture of Justin and me when we graduated from the eighth grade and another of all of us on our last vacation in Colorado.

  I pick up the heavy silver frame and study my father’s high cheekbones, his long, straight nose, wide mouth, and crooked smile. Mom says in college Dad looked like a dark-skinned Harry Connick Jr., all awkward long arms and big hands. She’d thought he was geeky until she’d seen him smile. She’d fallen in love with his dimples.

  I stare at the picture, trying to find a resemblance to the jazz musician. Instead, I see an echo of my own sharp nose and wide eyes. I set the picture down, straightening it so it looks as if it hasn’t moved.

  I brush my fingers over the pages of Dad’s Bible, then hesitate over the notebook beneath.

  We always would see Dad writing things. He’d take a notebook to church and write. Sometimes in the summer he’d sit in the backyard and write in the morning while he was drinking his coffee. I was never really curious about it. After all, Justin and I had our own notebooks. Dad said his notebook wasn’t his diary; it was just full of things he was thinking about, things he wrote down so he could think them through clearly.

  My fingers itch to open the thin cardboard cover and see what my father has written on those neat blue lines. I want a clue to his thoughts—I want to know what’s in his mind now, where we’ll all end up. I want to know if he’s been alone in this bed. But as I reach for it, my conscience stings, and my hand drops.

  I haven’t really done anything wrong yet, not too wrong, really. But I know I cannot open that notebook. There is a line from curiosity to invasion that I just can’t cross.

  Sighing, I clench my inquisitive fingers and walk around the rest of the room. Dad’s bathroom door is open, and moist towels—only one set—hang on the shower stall. I tiptoe into the tiny space that houses the toilet and open the mirrored cabinets above the sink. One is empty, the other holds aspirin and cough medicine. The walk-in closet across from the sink area is illuminated by the warm lights above the mirror, and I move toward it instinctively, my hand brushing the wool fabric of slacks and jacket. I look up and see Dad’s hard hat on a shelf, the name of his company on the front. I push deeper, looking for secrets and answers. Does Dad have the Christine dresses in here? What if he has wigs?

  My heart freezes as my fingers encounter something silky. When I can force myself to look, I see it’s just Dad’s luau shirt, the bright short-sleeved, floral-printed one Mom bought him for our church beach party, but it’s enough to scare me into backing out of the closet, my pulse thudding a panicked tempo in my throat.

  I lean against the wall to catch my breath, my gasps quick and shallow. I realize I don’t want to know about my father’s other life. I don’t want to see him as Christine. I don’t want evidence that everything’s changed.

  I don’t really want to know him.

  “So, why are you in here, stupid?” I mutter to myself. I turn toward the door and find my glance captured once again by the notebook. I h
esitate, knowing I don’t want to know what’s in there. Still, the fear pulls me away as strongly as the desperate curiosity urges me forward.

  I step closer, lifting the Bible and disturbing the pages. A worn blue envelope slides from between the pages and falls. I bend and pick it up, my eyes widening. It’s addressed to Christine Nicholas.

  He said he would never hurt Mom. He said I knew him better than that.

  My heart pounding, I slip the pretty notepaper from the envelope, breathing in the faint perfume as I unfold it. I suck in air as I recognize my mother’s careful, precise script, and my eyes follow the lines:

  Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is stronger than death, and jealousy as cold as the grave; its flames burn with a mighty fire like the fires of hell. But many waters cannot quench love, and floods cannot drown it. If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love, his riches would be utterly condemned.

  The words are faintly familiar, and I realize they’re from the Bible. Beneath the verse, she has written just the word

  Always.

  Hastily, I refold the letter, fingers clumsy. What am I doing? I shouldn’t be here. I have trespassed into something hugely private between my parents, and I’m embarrassed—oh Lord, so embarrassed—and irritated with myself. If Dad ever read my journal or broke into my room, I’d never stop screaming about it. This was a horrible idea.

  And yet, as I lean against Dad’s open door, hurriedly fitting the screws back into the knob, I feel a strange center of calm. How can they be getting a divorce? Mom and Dad, in spite of this Christine thing, are somehow still in love.

  I refuse to hope for anything, but even as I try to smother it, a tiny spark remains.

  I drop the screwdriver and fumble after the last screw, feeling around blindly in the carpet under Dad’s desk. Scowling, I grab the knob and rattle it. Even without the last screw, it looks like it will stay in place, and if I can—