Happy Families

by Tanita S. Davis

  “Well, that was—” I struggle to find a word.

  “Painful? Typical?” Mom sighs. “He was trying to make it easier on us.”

  “But I’m not sure things can be easier.”

  “And that’s why you’re my smart son.” Mom smiles. “Go get your sister. We’re going out to lunch.”

  The Thai restaurant Dad takes us to is filled with bamboo plants, splashing fountains, fish tanks, and statues and shrines behind the counter. Horrible easy-listening plays in the background as the hostess, in a gold-embroidered outfit, takes us to a back room to remove our shoes. Awkwardly barefoot and a little cold, we follow her up a short flight of stairs into the carpeted loft, separated from the lower tables by an intricately carved wooden banister.

  The hostess seats us at a table overlooked by a large golden Buddha. Dad sits first, easily dropping to the floor. The wooden coffee table where we’ll eat is centered over a rectangular hole in the floor where our legs go. Dad scoots to the cushioned seat nearest the wall, leaving Mom the one closest to the aisle. She kneels on the floor to sit next to him, then laughs as she pitches forward trying to get her legs under the table.

  We page through the menu, trying to figure out what’s good. A man bustles up with a tray of glasses and a sweating pitcher of ice water, garnished with wedges of lime and a sprig of basil. Mom starts asking him questions, and I tune her out as the waiter pulls a pad from the waistband of his apron and answers her. He’s scribbling and smiling, and then he reaches for my menu.

  I hand it back.

  “That’s it?” Dad looks miffed. “I was still looking.”

  “Well, I went ahead and ordered a bunch of stuff for us to share,” Mom says, looking guilty. “You’ll find something you like.”

  I just shake my head. Mom ordering for everyone like this is usually the cause for a small family war, since her idea of fun is to order the weirdest foods on the menu she can find. She calls it “eating out of the box.” Today, not even Ysabel comments. Instead, she and Mom sit and talk about the outfit the hostess is wearing and whether or not the lanterns on the wall are real brass or just aluminum. My father refuses to surrender his menu and keeps reading.

  “Dad?” I ask.

  “Hmm?” He looks up.

  “So, when are you moving back home?”

  My father sets down his menu. “Your mom and I have talked about that. Mom was looking at enlarging the closet and taking care of a few other things.”

  “Do you really have that many clothes?” Ysabel interrupts, abandoning her conversation with Mom.

  “No, I don’t have that many clothes,” Dad says, looking slightly offended. “That’s just one of the things we’re doing to prepare. It’s a lot of change to throw at everyone at once; we’re just taking it slow.”

  “Well, I hope you’re home before the Phoenix Festival,” Ysabel says. “I’m thinking about showing some bigger pieces this year, and if Mom’s got a weekend thing, I need a backup driver. Man, I can’t wait till I get my license,” Ysabel adds.

  “We’ll see how much driving school is this summer,” Mom says. “I don’t think my nerves can take anyone’s driving but my own.”

  “Dad could teach us,” I suggest. “You’ll be home by summer, right?”

  My father looks vague. “We’ll see. Hey, here’s our food.”

  The waiter sets a stack of plates and a rotating circular tray on the table. In the center are spinach leaves piled high and a bowl of sauce, surrounded by smaller bowls full of ingredients. “Miang kum,” the waiter announces. Pointing, he identifies the diced contents of each of the small bowls around the spinach. “Chopped peanuts, palm sugar, fried tofu, dried shrimp, shallots, ginger, hot chilies, limes, and toasted coconut.” He beams around the table and steps back. “Eat, enjoy.”

  There’s a brief, expressive silence as all four of us stare at the mound of dark green spinach in front of us. Ysabel looks at me in disbelief, then both of us look at Mom, who bursts out laughing.

  She stops quickly, her hand smothering the sound, but she’s smiling as she watches us. “You should see your faces.”

  “This is going to be like the time you got us dim sum,” Ysabel says plaintively. “Did you order anything we’ve had before?”

  My mother gives her a exasperated look. “This is as easy to eat as a burrito, Ysabel. Just put a little of each filling on a spinach, add the sauce, and roll it up.” Fumbling a bit, Mom makes a roll and hands it across the table to me. “Taste.”

  In the face of her forceful enthusiasm, I take a reluctant bite, wincing at the blend of sweet and sour spiciness exploding on my tongue. Ysabel picks up a spinach leaf and examines it closely, possibly for insect life.

  “Try one. The only thing you don’t want is the shrimp,” Mom encourages her.

  “That’s not the only thing,” my sister mutters.

  Dad gives a pained smile and nibbles on a peanut. “Vegetables, huh?”

  “Just try one.” My mother hands another roll to Dad and looks across the table at me. “Isn’t it good?”

  We all make positive noises, and Mom turns to Dad, who shrugs. “It’s great. You got some pad thai, though, right?”

  My mother puts her head in her hands and groans.

  * * *

  After our dessert of mango and coconut sticky rice, Mom decides to take a walk to the Asian market at the end of the block and asks Dad to pick her up from there. Ysabel follows. I stand in front of the restaurant and wait for my father to pay for our food.

  Dad is sucking on a mint from the bowl of candies at the cash register. He hands a candy to me, and I concentrate on unwrapping the brightly colored plastic, deliberately looking away from my father’s face.

  “So, do you not want to move back in with us?”

  Dad hesitates mid-step. “What?”

  I shrug uncomfortably. “Just wondering. Every time I mention it, you kind of dodge the question.”

  “I’m dreading being home alone Saturday night,” Dad says, his brown eyes serious. “I don’t know how I’ll fill my time without you guys.”

  “Then why don’t you come back with us?” I ask him. “Mom said she didn’t even ask you to leave.”

  Dad looks away, his shoulders stiff. “She should have. Your mother is a saint.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything.

  Eventually, my father exhales, a long, shuddering sigh. “You know how you keep your running shoes in the box they came in?”

  I give Dad a look. “Yeah? What about it?”

  “You want to keep them nice, right? You want to keep them pristine, so when it rains, you run on the paved track in the gardens at Heather Farm, right?”

  “Um, Dad—”

  “That’s how I feel about my family,” Dad says, his voice crowded with emotion. “None of this was ever supposed to touch you. You were just—”

  “Supposed to stay clean in our box?” I ask, bewildered. “Dad, I don’t see what that has to do with you moving back home.”

  Dad shakes his head, his face tense. “I can’t do it yet, Justin. I miss all of you every day, but I can’t change the way things are overnight. Do you understand?”

  I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say. “I don’t think any of us can change the way things are,” I say finally.

  “I know, Buddy,” Dad says, looking away. “I know that better than anything.”

  Confused, I get in the car. Dad drives down to pick up Mom and Ysabel, and when we get home, he hands Mom the keys to the house.

  “I’ll be back,” he says shortly. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “Do you have your phone? Make sure you don’t get lost,” Ysabel calls jokingly, but Dad just waves without turning back and disappears onto the walking trail.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Ysabel asks, but I’m still not sure. I do know that we need to keep talking in order to find out.

  Mom settles onto the couch with the newspaper. I sit at
the dining room table and wait for my dad.

  At five, Dad calls and says he’ll be late and not to wait for him.

  At nine, Mom stands up and hands me the television remote. “It’s all yours,” she announces, and heads for Dad’s room. “I’m going to bed.”

  Sometime after eleven, my fingers twitch as I feel the remote removed from my hand. By the time I open my heavy eyes, it’s full dark, and a soft fleece blanket has been pulled over me.

  I sit up. “Dad?” But I’m alone in the dark.

  Happy Endings

  Ysabel

  It occurs to me that I might actually miss Dr. Hoenig, in the way that you miss a little splinter you had in your hand once you’ve dug it out. Dr. Hoenig is definitely like a little splinter. She didn’t actually hurt that much, but just the annoyance of seeing her every day makes me glad that today is the last time.

  Dr. Hoenig has out her lined yellow legal pad, and she’s wrapping up her thoughts, talking about what we’ve said in the past and where we are now. We’re just moments away from getting the heck out of here and heading to the beach.

  Last night, Bethany phoned and invited us. She and her dad organized our friends from the TransParent group, and we’re having a going-away cookout. We’ll build a bonfire and watch the sun go down on the Pacific. I’m all for big fires and sunsets, and I admit I want to see Connor when he’s focused on me and not freaking about Justin.

  I’m just hoping Dr. Hoenig lets us out of here sometime before I turn twenty-one.

  “Dr. Hoenig, I’d like to ask a question,” Justin blurts, and I make a pained little noise. This is why I try my hardest not to be in any of the same classes as my brother. His “one last question” is just the kind of thing he’d do during the last five minutes of the last class on the last day of school.

  Dr. Hoenig smiles as I slide down the couch with a silent moan. “Sure, Justin. Shoot.”

  Justin glances at me. “We’ve told you what we wanted to get out of this week and what we got out of it. Would you tell us what you wanted us to get out of this week?”

  The therapist looks surprised. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  I do. “He wants to know the point of talking to you.”

  “Ysabel,” Mom says, frowning.

  “I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” Justin interrupts. “I just know there was an objective to all of this, right? A goal. Did we make the goal, or what?”

  I roll my eyes. Only Justin would check to see if we got the best grade in therapy.

  Dr. Hoenig looks thoughtful for a moment. “As a therapist who specializes in transgender family therapy, I want my clients to be able to communicate about their needs, and my job, as I see it, is to help them bridge who they are individually and who they are as a family.” Dr. Hoenig opens her mouth to continue, then stops. “Is that answering your question, Justin?”

  “I guess,” Justin says, then sighs. “No. Not like I wanted you to.”

  “What did you want me to say?”

  “I thought you’d say that you were a therapist who helps families get back together.”

  Dr. Hoenig nods slowly. “That’s a part of what I do, if the families are willing.”

  “Right.” Justin’s face is expressionless.

  “So, what, you think we didn’t meet our goal? Dad’s willing to be back together with us, right?” I straighten, looking anxiously at my father.

  “Right,” Dad says, nodding. “Absolutely.”

  Mom, who’s been very quiet, suddenly speaks. “The thing you have to remember, Justin, is that everyone has to find their own way back home, in their own time. Willingness is just the first step.”

  So, Dad is only willing? And “willing” isn’t enough? Uneasy, I study my father, who is staring at the carpet pattern.

  There’s a silence—uncomfortable, since Dr. Hoenig is scribbling a little on the notepad she always carries, which means that there will be more over-observant questions next time. For a moment I’m apprehensive, and then I remember: this is my last session.

  Which means her questions will all be for Dad. Good. For him, I have questions of my own.

  “Well, we’ve made a lot of progress this week,” Dr. Hoenig announces, closing her pad. She pushes to her feet and holds out her hand. “It was so nice to meet all of you.”

  Yes!

  After the fastest goodbye I can manage politely, I practically gallop down the stairs to get away from Dr. Hoenig’s office. I wait impatiently at the car for my parents to catch up, feeling a strange urge to move away from her office as fast as I can, to avoid finding out more things I’m not sure I want to know.

  Justin reaches the car just ahead of Dad. “Are we leaving right now?”

  “The beach at Goat Rock a two-hour drive,” Dad says, pressing the lock remote. “We’re going to take off at four, so we’ve got time to do some grocery shopping and run a few errands beforehand.”

  “Ooh, let’s make hobo dinners tonight,” Mom says. “I haven’t done those in years.”

  Justin makes a face. “I’m sure there’s a really good reason for that.”

  “Ha ha,” Mom says dryly, and puts on her seat belt. “Hobo dinners are what we had in Girl Scouts. You take veggies, potatoes, and sausages, add some butter or mayo, salt, and pepper, wrap them in foil, and then bury it in the coals of the campfire. In about an hour it’s done.”

  “Sounds good.” Dad glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Belly, you need anything special for your dinner?”

  “Just something with chocolate,” I say, and lean back with a yawn.

  “Oh, that’s the basis of a vegetarian diet, all right.” Mom shakes her head. “We might as well get the shopping out of the way right now.”

  After a quick grocery run we return to Dad’s and unload. Mom gets me started measuring off squares of foil and scrubbing potatoes while she dices onions and carrots. Justin reluctantly cores apples with a newly purchased apple corer—Dad’s kitchen seems to be lacking in all the little gadgets Mom likes—and packs them full of cinnamon sugar and butter to be wrapped and roasted.

  “Real hobos would do this on the road,” Justin points out.

  “You’re more than welcome, if you want sand in your teeth,” I tell him.

  Dad runs back to the store to buy a bundle of firewood, charcoal for the grill, and ice for the cooler. He’s already packed up the sodas and his little grill by the time we’re finished with the bulk of the dinner packs. Mom makes a plate of sandwiches, and we stop and eat a quick lunch.

  “Don’t forget to wear something warm,” Dad advises as we grab blankets and tarps to protect us from the sand. “The fog is tricky this time of year: you never know how cold it’s going to be.”

  “I’ll get my sweatshirt,” I say, and head for the stairs.

  “Justin, you can borrow my old running shoes again,” Dad begins.

  “No, thanks,” Justin says, crumpling his napkin. “I’ll just wear mine.”

  Dad blinks. I burst out laughing. “Oh, right, Justin. You suddenly don’t care if your shoes get dirty?”

  Justin tosses his napkin into the trash. “As long as I can run in them, it doesn’t matter either way.”

  “Well, they’ll last longer if you keep them out of the sand and the wet,” Dad says, still dangling the shoes. “May as well avoid replacing them as long as you can.”

  “They’re just shoes,” Justin says, looking away. “It’s no big deal to wipe them off after I wear them.”

  “Okay, who are you, and what have you done with my brother?” I joke.

  “There is no need to ruin your shoes just to make a point,” Dad says roughly. “Just take the shoes, Justin, and let’s load up the car.”

  “Dad, I don’t want them.” Justin’s voice is low.

  “Suit yourself,” Dad says tersely. He disappears into his bedroom.

  Eyes wide, I turn to Justin. “What was that? What point is Dad talking about?”

  Justin scowls.
“Nothing. I’m not trying to make a point. I’m just not going to be weird about my shoes anymore, that’s all. It’s not that big a deal.”

  “Well, how do shoes—” I begin, but Mom pushes a box of foil-wrapped corncobs into Justin’s arms and shoos me downstairs.

  “Ysabel. Sweatshirt,” she reminds me.

  “I’m going, I’m going. Hey, Dad?”

  “Yep.” My father reappears with an armload of sweatshirts and the hat Justin wore on the raft trip, looking grim.

  “Do you have a little shovel or something if we want to make sand castles?”

  “Think so,” Dad says, brightening a little. He drops the clothes on the couch and heads for the garage.

  Downstairs, I dig into the box of spiral flower beads I made. I didn’t think to bring any ribbon with me, but a thin leather cord makes a decent hanger. I don’t have wrapping paper, either, but I fold an origami envelope out of a piece of printer paper upstairs. I stick the package in the pocket of my sweatshirt and head for the car.

  We’re about to drive past the store when Mom starts her usual worrying. “Did you pack the salt?” she asks my father anxiously. “The pepper? Did you get the bottle of hot sauce off of the counter?”

  “We’ve got everything but the fridge, Stacey,” Dad says soothingly. “We don’t have to feed the whole beach, and it’s a potluck—other people are bringing things.”

  “I know.” Mom leans her head against the seat. “It’s just that when everyone knows you’re a caterer, you want to make a good impression.”

  “Mom, nobody will care,” I assure her. “It’s a beach party.”

  “Remember the time Mom made that banana dish at the park?” Justin asks suddenly.

  Dad chuckles, and Mom groans. “You guys aren’t ever going to let me forget that bananas Foster!” she exclaims. “It’s not fair to keep bringing it up!”

  “But it was so cool,” I protest. “You were the only mom at the eighth-grade graduation picnic who brought a dessert you could set on fire.”

  “Just because it was a picnic didn’t mean it wasn’t a special meal,” Mom says a little defensively. “I just thought it should have a special dessert.”