“Ysabel!” My father’s voice hits me like a slap. “We. Are. Late.”
I blow out a breath and stomp toward the door my father is holding open. God forbid I should have a moment to myself. God forbid we should make Dr. Hoenig miss us for even fifteen seconds.
This is my favorite way ever to spend spring break.
Irresistible Force, Immovable Object
Justin
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JustC: So, is anybody here dating?
Viking: You asking me out? lol
JustC: Don’t swing that way. Srsly, how do u people date?
JustC: With the parent trans. How 2 explain?
Viking: IMHO, u don’t have 2 explain crap.
litgirl: … Viking, u don’t date, do u
“Silence is okay, too,” Dr. Hoenig says calmly, leaning back in her armchair. “You all must have had a busy Tuesday.”
If it would make a difference, I’d say I wasn’t tired, but I’ve figured out Dr. Hoenig. Anything I say can and will be used to worm inside my head. I keep my mouth closed, and my thoughts to myself.
Instead of texting Callista back last night, I finally called Mom—she acted like I’d given her a heart attack—read stupid jokes from Viking, and tried doing one of Mr. Lester’s freewriting exercises to help me think about the future. Maybe it was stupid to quit debate. Mr. Lester still wants me back next year. It might not be so bad to come up north and spend time with Dad—I could use Bethany’s help with calculus. Maybe she’s some kind of forensics expert, too, and she can give me some pointers to take back home.
And as long as I’m trying to reset my life, I should probably talk to Callista. I think it’s pretty safe to tell her that we’ve had some family stuff going on; it’s obvious Dad’s up here and Mom’s down south. If she’s even interested in there being some kind of … us, she’ll understand if I say I don’t want to talk about it.
Won’t she?
It felt good last night to focus on something other than right now. Maybe the only way to start being okay with my life is to just … live it.
“We went rafting yesterday.” Ysabel’s voice comes abruptly from the depths of her usual chair by the door. “It was great.”
“Whalin Glen really is restful,” the therapist says, tilting her head slightly. Her eyes are sharp, despite her mild tone. “At our first meeting, we talked about the number of things that get swept under the rug in this family. Is something new under there today?”
“Excuse us, Dr. Hoenig. I think we’re just running on too little sleep and not enough breakfast,” Dad says with a jokey little laugh, and I grimace. I hate it when adults say “us” and “we” but don’t really include themselves.
“Dad, I said I had a piece of pizza.” Ysabel’s voice is edged with anger, like a rattler’s warning. “It’s not my fault you can’t tell Justin and me apart.”
“Oh, I can tell you apart, all right,” my father says. “You’re the one who stays in bed until the last minute.”
Thanks, Dad. I roll my eyes. Ysabel glares at us both. “No, I’m the one who hates your nasty egg sandwiches!”
Dad throws up his hands in exasperation. “Have you never made a mistake?”
“You didn’t apologize, so how am I supposed to know it was a mistake?” Ysabel goads. “For all I know, maybe you decided we were all going to suddenly change what we do. Maybe I have to like egg sandwiches now.”
I stifle a laugh. Point goes to Ysabel.
Dad’s mouth opens, and closes. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and holds it, and I know he is warding off a headache. “Ysabel, I am sorry about your breakfast. I certainly won’t make that mistake again.”
“Thank you.” Ysabel blows out a breath and crosses her arms. “I’m sorry I stayed up late and overslept during spring break so we were two minutes late. Can we be done with this now?”
Dr. Hoenig’s brows climb to her hairline. “I’m not sure. It seems like a lot of unresolved anger just over breakfast and being a few minutes late.”
My father continues to pinch his nose silently. Ysabel gives a slight shrug.
“Well, it could be we’re running on too little sleep,” she admits.
I snort a laugh, then fake cough, keeping my hand over my mouth. Dad gives me a look that lets me know he’s unconvinced.
Dr. Hoenig swivels in her chair. “How are you this morning, Justin?”
“Fine,” I say quickly, ignoring the way her smile widens. I don’t want her attention on me, and she knows it. “I’m good.”
“Okay.” The therapist opens her notebook and flips back a few pages. “Before, we went over part of Justin’s Bill of Rights. Ysabel, no progress on your list yet?”
“I don’t think I’m doing one,” Ysabel says.
“Ysabel.” Dad sighs.
“It wasn’t a requirement,” Dr. Hoenig interjects smoothly. “It was intended to be a communication tool. So.” She looks down at her notebook again. “Let’s see—”
“Dad was telling us Mom wasn’t selling the house.” I throw the words into the pause, unwilling to leave the choice of topic to Dr. Hoenig. “You said you didn’t know why Realtors were still calling.”
Dad nods. “About a month ago, your mom and I wanted to price houses in our area because she was thinking it might be less expensive to move than to build an addition. In this economy, I don’t think moving is the answer.”
“Wait, why do we need an addition on the house?” Ysabel looks bewildered. “Are we taking renters?”
“What? No.” Dad laughs, but gives her an odd look. “No renters. We’re putting in another closet, or maybe a big dressing room off the master bedroom. I don’t think we can rent that out.”
My mouth dries. “The new closet’s for Christine.”
“What?” Ysabel’s eyebrows pinch.
Dad’s expression is confused. “Yes. I thought that was understood. I told you that no one was moving or getting a divorce, and your mother and I explained that we’re working on being a family.…” A curtain of wariness falls over his expression. “You thought I would stay away from you.”
There is an abrupt silence.
“Justin,” Dr. Hoenig begins, but I ignore her. Mom’s enlarging the closet. For Dad.
I hear the creak of Ysabel’s leather boots as she leans forward and the quiet sound of the couch springs. “Wait—” Her voice cracks. “You’re moving home? To stay?”
“In the long run. That’s the goal,” Dad says, turning to face her. “No one has set a date. We’re not going to rush into this. But we thought our family should be together. I want to work on that … to be home with all of you.”
Another drawn-out silence. Ysabel is perched on the edge of her chair, watching Dad. She looks serious, almost scared. “Well, cool,” she says, and her voice squeaks.
Dad rubs his jaw. “Cool, huh?” he repeats with a half smile. Ysabel rolls her eyes.
Dad turns to look at me, and I flinch. Dr. Hoenig tilts her head, trying to see more of my face. I can’t stop looking at the patterns in the beige carpet, feeling put on the spot.
“Buddy. Justin.” Dad’s voice pulls my attention. “Is there—?” He stops, clears his throat. “I’d like to know what you’re thinking.” He smiles, but tension dissolves it.
I don’t know what to say. “Dad, I’m—”
Dad interrupts, his forehead wrinkled with worry or determination. “Doesn’t matter if it’s not what you think I want to hear. We can’t work anything out if we don’t talk anything out, right? So—let’s hear it. We’ve got time.” He tries the same tentative smile, and though it lasts longer, there is a raggedness to it, as if I’ve already said something to claw it away. As if I’ve already wounded him.
Words are colliding in my head, like they do before a debate event. I try to breathe and find my Ze
n, like Mr. Lester taught me, but it’s taking too long, and I can’t wait.
So, I steal.
“Okay. What I’m thinking is, why shouldn’t you move home? You’re always going to be my dad, right? I mean, even in high heels—you’re half my DNA … you’re part of the reason I’m here. Nothing changes that. So.” I blow out a breath. Ysabel glances at me, probably hearing the echo of Bethany’s words in mine, but I know Beth would forgive me.
I don’t know what else to say. I can’t hurt Dad, when he wants to come home. I can’t hate him for confusing all of my plans. But he has. I was going to be okay. I was going to talk to Callista. I was going to just live my life.
I don’t know how I can do any of that with Dad back at home.
As all this tumbles through my brain, Dad just breathes. It’s as if his whole body changes as he sucks in a shuddering breath. He practically melts into the couch as his shoulders lower.
“You know I love you both.” Dad’s voice is hoarse. He looks from me to Ysabel, his words forceful and emphatic. “I don’t think you can ever know how much.”
Ysabel ducks her head. I swallow uncomfortably as Dad continues, “If we hold on to that, we can weather this. I truly believe that. All we need to do is remember to love, and we’ll make it.”
“If you start singing that Beatles song, I’m leaving,” Ysabel mutters, and blots her eyes with her sleeve. Dad gives a shaky laugh. Ysabel ignores Dr. Hoenig’s subtle offer of tissues. Dad takes one, even though he only crumples it in his fist.
Dad blows out a breath. “Listen, guys, I know we’re not finished here—I know we have a long way to go before I’m home, before things feel right. But this means everything—that you’re willing. It’s such a gift. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t even say that. Don’t say ‘thank you,’ ” I blurt, honesty pulling the words from me. His gratefulness is like acid on my skin, and I feel a rush of confused rage. “I don’t want you to be grateful. I don’t even know how long I mean it.”
Dad smiles, his face weirdly peaceful. “I know,” he says, crossing the room to sink down onto the couch next to me. “I know,” he says, putting his arm around me and holding out his other one to Ysabel.
She immediately wedges in on the couch next to him and buries her face in his neck.
“I love you. We’ll get through this all right,” Dad says, and I try to breathe.
He’s wrong. It’s not all right. But that’s how we sit, with Dr. Hoenig’s box of tissues, until our time is up.
In the parking lot, I’m relieved when Dad asks, “Anyone up for a double feature?”
“Me.” I wave a tired arm.
“Definitely.” Ysabel perks up. “I need popcorn.”
Armed with red licorice and chocolate mints from the drugstore, we settle in at the four-screen theater to watch the horror matinee from the fifties. It’s all ants—giant man-eaters in black and white, and miles of Technicolor Amazonian ants that strip a rain forest.
We’re almost the only people in the theater. Dad props his feet on the seats in front of us and dozes through most of the second feature. I try to watch the movie and turn off my brain.
But my brain stays on, like it always does. When we get home, it’s midafternoon, and Ysabel sets up her torchwork on the back deck. Dad finds a ball game on TV, but it feels like too much effort to follow. I go downstairs and flop on my bed.
When my phone vibrates, I groan. I was supposed to call Mom and I didn’t. I’m not in the mood to talk to her now. The phone continues to buzz. Sighing, I pick up, knowing Mom will just keep calling or call Dad if I don’t answer.
“Yeah?”
“Uh, Justin?”
“Oh, crap. Callista.” At the familiar voice, all the air leaves my lungs.
A nervous laugh. “Uh, yeah. Hi.”
“Sorry.” I clear my throat. “I thought you were my mom.”
“Oh.” A pause. Callista clears her throat. “I hoped you’d get in touch last night.”
“Yeah.” I lick my lips. “Sorry, we were out late. I meant to get back to you.” I take a deep breath. “What’s up?”
Another pause. “Well, I don’t know, Justin.” Callista’s voice is thin. “I was kind of hoping you could tell me.”
My neck stiffens with painful tension. “Oh.”
Callista continues, her voice quiet. “I mean, not that you owe me an explanation or anything. I just wanted to talk … I mean, if you have a minute or whatever.”
I close my eyes, and the silence between us goes a heartbeat too long.
“Justin, is it something I did?” Callista sounds resigned. “I mean, if it’s a bad time—”
“No.” The word explodes from me, fueled by self-hatred and frustration. “You didn’t do anything,” I say. “It’s … complicated—” The minute I say the word, I feel sick to my stomach. “That’s a total cliché, I know.”
“Life is complicated, Justin.”
“I know. It’s … Callista, it’s not you, okay? I really like you. There’s just some … stuff going on. My—” I break off, swallowing the word. I can’t tell her it’s my family—what if she says something to someone at church? I can’t tell her it’s my father. I can’t tell her anything. “I just have to deal with some stuff.”
“Okay,” Callista says, and I hear something in her voice that makes panic tighten my chest. She wants more. She’s waiting for me to explain what “stuff” is supposed to mean.
“It’s just some stuff,” I repeat stupidly. “It’s not something I can go into, okay?”
“Um, okay.” Callista’s voice is tiny, barely there.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Look, I’ll call you when I get home—”
“You don’t have to. I’ve got to go.”
“Wait. Callista, I’m sorry—”
When the lights turn off, I know there’s no reason to hold the phone anymore, but it’s hard to make my fingers let go.
My stomach burns, like fire is clawing up my throat. I want to break something, smash it into dust. Nothing is ever, ever going to be right again.
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JustC: *hates whole world*
Styx: no h8rs.
C4Buzz: woe. What’s up?
JustC: Not dating. Can’t let people find out about my dad. Just blew off a girl.
Viking: Did she ask about him?
JustC: No—he’s coming home. She’ll find out. Too smart.
Styx: if she loves u, yr dad dsn’t matter.
JustC: a lie. LOVE DOES NT FIX EVRYTHNG
C4Buzz: Lightn up.
Styx: all u need is love.
Viking: JustC, sent u my number again. Call me.
JustC: Can’t do this.
Viking: Call me.
Viking: JustC
Viking: CALL ME.
Viking: You still there?
Through the Fire
Ysabel
By a quarter to six, the sun shifts behind the hill, and it’s a little too breezy for me to stay on the back deck. It’s kind of tricky working with glass outdoors; while I’m pretty sure I’m gathering dust and other impurities into my beads, it might make them look interesting. I’ll check what I’ve got in the kilns tomorrow and see.
Dad’s dozing on the couch again, but I wake him up as I haul the chair back to the table and carry my stuff inside. He smiles at me blearily.
“Guess we should start making dinner, huh?” he asks, and yawns.
“Nah.” I shake my head. “I don’t know about Justin, but I’m not hungry. Too much popcorn. I’ll make a pb&j later if I get hungry.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Dad says, and his eyes slide shut again.
Poor Dad’s been dead to the world for most of the afternoon. Today was hard on all of us; I’m happy to just veg out and work, mess with
glass, design jewelry, and think of nothing emotional or important at all.
I drag my case back downstairs and think about setting up my station again, but I’m not in the mood. Instead, I get out my latest Beadworks catalog and pore over supplies and glass I can’t yet afford.
I’m surprised when my phone rings. The ring tone is the generic song that plays when someone I don’t know calls. I flip the phone open, frowning.
“Hello?”
“Ysabel? It’s Connor.”
“Connor! Hi!” I feel a rush of giddy disbelief. At home, guys never call me.
“Wow.” Connor’s voice is startled. “You sound happy.”
My face gets hot. “Um, I am,” I admit with a nervous laugh. “I’m glad you called.”
“Wow,” Connor repeats. “I— That’s—” He hesitates. “I need to find Justin.”
I blink, embarrassment igniting into irritation. “Connor, I know we’re twins and all, but we’re not identical, okay? Justin has a phone, and I know he gave you the number.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Connor’s voice is serious. “I wouldn’t call you to ask about him for any other reason, but I think it’s an emergency, maybe. I think I really pissed him off.”
I get up and cross the hall, rolling my eyes. “I’m sure he’s fine. Justin hardly ever gets mad. He’s probably just asleep. Justin. Phone!” I knock sharply and open his door. “Hang on, he’s not in here.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Connor says.
“What?” I look in the bathroom, which is empty, then go back upstairs. “What do you mean?”
“Justin got upset earlier on the Kids of Trans forum, and I asked him to call me, and he didn’t. He won’t answer his phone.”
Upstairs, Dad’s sacked out on the couch, the TV playing quietly in the background. There’s no one on the deck, no one in Dad’s room, and no one in the garage. I open the side door and walk outside, leaning against the warm plaster wall of the house. “He’s not here.” I shrug. “He probably went for a run. That’s what he usually does when he’s upset.”
“If he doesn’t turn up in an hour or so,” Connor says quietly, “I think you should tell your dad.”
Happy Families Page 13
