by Beth Vrabel
“That’s good,” Mom said under her breath. Her face had that just-slapped expression again.
I shrugged off her grip and charged toward my room.
Mom called after me, “Caleb, I didn’t mean it like that! I only meant it’s good because they could never handle—” I slammed my door, cutting off her words.
A long time later, she knocked, but I didn’t answer. She eased the door open a couple inches and glanced at my TV. “Captain America again?” she said. “I don’t understand how you can watch the same movie over and over.”
I flopped on my side so she couldn’t see my face, even though the movie was at my favorite part—when Cap gets the serum and busts out of the machine taller, stronger, and new. I threw the blanket up over my shoulder. I wasn’t crying or anything. I just didn’t want to see Mom looking at me. “Leave me alone,” I groaned into my pillow.
“I gave you an hour instead of ten minutes,” she said softly.
I flopped onto my back and stared at the ceiling. “What do you want?”
Mom leaned against the doorframe. “You know what I said came out wrong. I was just surprised to hear your dad was adding to his… family.” The last word must’ve been sticky in her throat; she practically had to spit it out. “I don’t want to talk badly about your father, but he isn’t exactly good at taking care of others and Kristie is so young—”
“Whatever, Mom.” I rolled back onto my side. Something hard jabbed at my ribs. It was Mom’s book, The World of Faerie.
“Is there anything else bothering you? Anything else you want to tell me?” she asked.
I shook my head, still not looking at her.
Mom stood in the doorway a long time without speaking. “Derek’s going to be here soon. I expect you up and pleasant.” She picked up the remote and shut off the movie.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Derek held a bouquet of flowers. When I threw open the door at his quick rap, rap, rap, he thrust them toward me and then yanked them back. “You’re not Steph,” he said.
I didn’t answer, just stepped back to let him inside.
“I bet you get that a lot,” Derek said as he passed. He smelled like soap instead of cut grass. The few times I’d seen him he’d been wearing jeans and a T-shirt; he moved stiffly like the khakis and button-down he wore now didn’t quite move with him.
“How are you doing, Caleb?” he asked. “Still catching caterpillars?”
Without smiling, I said, “No.”
“Ah.” Derek rocked on his heels. We stared at each other for a couple minutes. Listen, I wasn’t against Mom dating. She deserved to be happy, right? But suddenly having him standing there in the foyer, I hated him. I didn’t understand it. I knew it didn’t make sense. But I hated him. I hated him as much as I hated Dad. Maybe more.
Perfect Patrick swept in to save the day again. “Hello, Derek. I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, holding out his hand to shake Derek’s.
“Patrick, right?” Derek said as he took Patrick’s hand. But, judging from how Derek wagged his hand a little after Patrick let go, I got the impression maybe Patrick wasn’t entirely sold on this whole Mom-dating thing, either. “Strong grip,” Derek muttered.
Mom rushed out then, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Derek!” she said and then stopped short. “Yellow roses! My favorite! How did you know?”
“Ah, you mentioned them once a while back.” Despite his deep tan, Derek’s cheeks turned pink as he handed Mom the bouquet.
Mom held the flowers in front of her, staring at them with shining eyes and a huge smile. Then she brought them closer. For a second, I thought she was going to hug them despite the thorns, but instead she buried her nose in the petals of one rose and breathed deeply. “I mentioned them more than a year ago—when you asked what we should plant by the side doors.”
Derek shoved his hands in his pockets. “You said yellow rosebushes, but the others were worried patients would prick themselves.”
For a second Mom just stared at Derek with the goofy grin on her face. Big deal. So he remembered something you said. But Mom was acting like it was an absolute miracle. “I thought you liked those carnations with blue tips,” I said, thinking of the ones made out of tissue paper that had been in a vase in the bathroom since I brought them home for Mother’s Day in third grade. “You said they were your favorite.”
“Also favorite,” Mom clarified, without turning her eyes from Derek.
Patrick cleared his throat. “Do you want me to set the table, Mom?”
“Oh yes!” Mom smiled at the flowers one more time and then turned back to the kitchen. “Follow me, boys. I thought we’d eat on the back deck. It’s so lovely outside tonight.”
Derek motioned for me to go ahead of him to the kitchen. Mom trimmed the bouquet and put it in a big mason jar. “I’ll just pop these back in my bedroom.”
“Your bedroom?” Derek glanced at the table.
Cue Perfect Patrick for the explanation. “Standing water, like in a vase, can grow some nasty bacteria and can’t be around Caleb.”
“I didn’t realize,” Derek said. “Sorry, Caleb. I wouldn’t have brought flowers if I had known.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I cut in. “They’re for Mom, not me.”
I sat down in front of the bowl of mixed nuts Mom had set on the counter. Next to it was a little container of hummus and pita chips. A coughing fit hit me just as I swallowed some of the snacks. I tried to cover my mouth—honestly, I did!—but flecks of partly chewed peanut hit the table. Derek grabbed a napkin from the little pile next to the bowls and swiped it up without pausing.
“Wow,” Derek said, as he dipped a chip into the hummus. “This looks amazing, Steph.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said as she glided back in. As if she had made the hummus instead of dumping it into the bowl from a Stop & Shop container. She picked up a tray of grilled chicken breasts. “Let’s go have a seat on the deck.”
“Can I help?” Derek asked.
“Sure.” Mom motioned to the bottle of wine and two glasses next to the hummus. “Pour us some drinks? Boys,” she said to me and Patrick, “bring out the platters.”
Derek grabbed the glasses in one hand and the bottle in the other and followed Mom outside. Patrick grabbed a huge bowl of pasta salad, overflowing with chunks of cheese, pepperoni, and vegetables. I sighed and grabbed another bowl, this one full of potato salad and topped with more cheese and bacon bits.
Mom laughed all through dinner at Derek’s stories about strange things landscaping clients requested—like the one customer who asked that the workers only wear teal and orange because those were her favorite colors, and another who demanded “nothing green” be planted in the yard because it was “overdone.”
Mom told stories I had never heard before about her job when she was a teenager, when she took orders for a catalog company, including one about a woman who claimed to be a psychic. “She told me to watch out for ice. No other details! What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Is that why you never take us ice skating?” I blurted, forgetting that I had decided not to talk during dinner.
Mom covered her mouth with her hand while she laughed. Dad once told her she was nothing but teeth when she laughed, and I guess it became a habit to cover it up. Derek reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing it. “I like seeing your smile,” he whispered.
Maybe I didn’t hate him entirely.
Mom bit her lip and turned back to me. “Yes, if I’m being honest. That’s exactly why!”
Derek dropped his hold on Mom’s hand. He folded his napkin and laid it next to his plate. “I have a lake in my backyard. It’s perfect for skating. We’ll go this winter, if you want.”
I nodded and glanced at Patrick. Not that I needed his permission or anything to like the guy, but I wanted to see if he had noticed how much Mom was laughing. But Patrick stared intently into the woods.
Derek noticed, too. “Is there a bear or something, Pat
rick?”
“No.” Patrick shook his head. “For a second I thought I saw a… Never mind. It was nothing.”
I squinted into the tree line. Was it Kit? That didn’t make any sense; I knew she was hanging out with her mom all weekend. Maybe it’s Queen Titania. I shook my head at the thought.
“Did you see it, too, Caleb?” Mom asked.
“No,” I said. “Nothing but trees.”
“Cool trees, too,” Derek said. “Check out the root systems.” Derek stood and walked down the deck stairs to the lawn. He was halfway across the grass before I got up to follow, shuffling quickly to keep up. Derek knelt by a huge maple and ran a hand along where its roots burrowed into the ground. “Look,” he said, and pointed to another root crisscrossing it.
“What’s so cool about that?” I asked. Derek raised an eyebrow at me. I gulped and tried again. “I mean,” I said, in a softer voice, “what makes that special?”
Derek’s mouth twitched. “These trees, they’re different species. They’d all grow fine on their own, but they grow better when their roots coil. They share nutrients.” He stood and held out a hand to help hoist me up.
I dropped his hand the moment I stood. Derek continued, “When I studied landscape architecture in college—”
“You went to college?” My face flamed as I realized how rude that sounded.
Derek chuckled. “Yes, landscape architecture is a learned skill. So is owning a business.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“No worries. You’re looking out for your mom.” Derek cleared his throat. “Anyway, in college, I learned that for a while landscape architects planted trees far apart, thinking trees each needed space to grow well. But those trees’ growth couldn’t compare with what’s found in a natural forest. We realized this complicated underground network of roots share nutrients, information. Maybe even help trees communicate.”
I stopped in place. “Communicate? Trees?”
Derek laughed again. “I know. It sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Communicate in the sense that trees seem able and willing to figure out how to support one another. We’ve learned that trees will, in essence, feed stumps after their trunks are chopped or fall down. Without their branches and leaves, these stumps have no business growing—yet neighboring trees will leech their own resources and food to these stumps. I’ve got to think it’s because the damaged tree is hurting and the others somehow sense it. One in the Northwest even began to grow bark thirty years after it was chopped down. How could it be anything but friendship?”
“You told me about that before,” I whispered. “About trees being friends. Then you told me trees that like each other bend away from each other.”
“Right,” Derek said, glancing at the setting sun. “To give each other sunlight. That’s true. But the roots—what goes on unseen—they hold on tight.”
Sunday morning, my backpack was packed and waiting for me on the kitchen table. Mom whistled as she wiped up breakfast crumbs from the counter. “Your dad will be here in an hour, Caleb!”
“You don’t have to be so happy about it,” I muttered. I coughed into my elbow and she handed me a tissue, then bent and kissed the top of my head. Her nose wrinkled. “You know to use shampoo when you’re washing your hair, right?”
“Yes!” I groaned, even though I totally hadn’t used any.
“I’m sure it won’t be too bad.” Mom squeezed my shoulder. “It’s just a few hours.”
Patrick slumped into the seat next to mine. He flipped through e-mails on his phone. “Can I have the car?” he asked. “That way Caleb and I can leave whenever we want?”
“Sorry, kiddos,” Mom said. “I’m low on gas and don’t get paid until Tuesday. I need to have enough fuel to get me to work the next two days.”
Patrick sighed. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t pick us up in that ridiculous—”
Right on cue, Dad pulled into the driveway in Kristie’s convertible.
“Oh, joy,” I muttered. “They added a pink pinstripe.”
A minute later, Dad strolled into the kitchen. “Ah! Coffee!” he exclaimed without saying hello to anyone. Mom, no longer whistling, crossed her arms as he opened the cabinet above the coffee pot and pulled out a mug.
“I’d appreciate it if you would please knock.” She turned her back to Dad and continued wiping the counter.
“I’m still paying the mortgage, aren’t I? Still my house.” Dad turned and took a long swig of the coffee. He grimaced and put down the cup. Mom made the vanilla-flavored stuff now. “Besides,” he said, “who else would it be?”
“Mom has a boyfriend,” I blurted. “It could’ve been Derek.”
“Caleb!” Mom gasped. Patrick kicked me hard in the shin under the table.
“Derek, huh?” Dad said. “The guy who cuts the grass?”
“He’s a landscape architect,” I snapped.
Dad snorted and dumped the coffee into the sink. Mom, two angry red blotches on her cheeks, swiped the mug he had left on the counter into the dishwasher. “Beep the horn from now on. The kids will meet you outside. This isn’t your house. This isn’t your coffee. I’m not your maid.”
A second later, her bedroom door slammed shut.
Dad rolled his eyes and clapped his hands. “Let’s go.”
Behind Dad’s back, Patrick’s shoulder slammed into mine. “Nice,” he muttered.
Before the torture of going to Dad’s house, I had the pre-torture of going to Patrick’s track meet. Mom was there, too, sitting on the other side of the bleachers. “Can I go say hi to Mom?” I asked.
Dad, arms crossed and eyes narrowed to where Patrick lined up for his first event, bit off his reply. “You saw her an hour ago.”
I waved at her from my seat instead, and she blew me a kiss.
Patrick glanced our way when Dad yelled, “Show ’em what you’ve got, Patrick!”
Across the bleachers, Mom cheered, “Do your best, love!”
Dad’s deep sigh drifted over me like a cloud. I shifted in my seat. I hated bleachers. They always made my back cramp up from sitting too stiff or made me curl over my knees like a bug. I rested my head on my legs. My shoelaces were untied, and Dad’s foot, his laces tightly double knotted, rested on top of one of my left shoelaces, locking me in place. For some reason, seeing his electric-blue too-cool-for-a-dad sneaker resting on top of my dirty white fraying lace made me think of tree roots. A little to the right of Dad’s shoe was a glob of chewed-up Double Bubble. When the horn blew and the race began, he jumped to his feet right onto it. Then I cheered a little, too, just not for Perfect Patrick.
“That’s my boy!” Dad whooped at the end of the race, when Patrick, of course, came in first.
When the track meet ended my back ached a little from sitting on the bleachers. I strayed behind Dad as he rushed to the snack shack.
Back when Dad first left home, he and Mom took us to a family counselor who told them it was important for me and Patrick to have traditions and rituals with both parents as we “transitioned into our new normal.” Dad took exactly none of that to heart, except that after every race he went to, he bought Patrick a Gatorade.
I rubbed at my back, eyeing the soft pretzels, cans of pop, and packs of candy. “Can I—”
“Did you just participate in a race?” Dad snapped. “Do anything but make sad faces and complain?”
I rolled my eyes instead of answering. A couple seconds later, when Dad was about to pay for the drink, my throat tickled and I coughed into my elbow.
“Nice try,” Dad muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He didn’t look at me, just turned and rushed toward Patrick, who stood with a tight smile on his face, which was glistening with sweat. Dad and I had to slice through a group of girls sending sideways glances my brother’s way to get to him. This time, I actually did cough on purpose, to get them to move aside.
Mom was already by Patrick’s side, giving him a hug. “You okay?” she asked me.
Patrick glanced at me as I coughed again (this time not on purpose) and thrust the bottle to me without taking a sip. “Here.”
I pushed it back, even though it was blue and I love the blue kind. “No, you have it. You’re the one who just raced. What did I do?” Dad sighed again.
“Have it,” Patrick insisted. “I bet your salt levels are low. It’s super hot out.”
“I forgot,” I said as I twisted the cap off. “You’re a CF expert now.”
Patrick sighed, sounding so much like Dad I sort of thought the family counselor had been on to something. This little tradition had brought them closer together.
“Fine,” Dad groaned. “I’ll buy another one. Happy?” he said to me.
“I didn’t ask—” I started to yell back.
“I brought him a water bottle,” Mom butted in, fishing the bottle from her huge purse and handing it to Patrick.
“Great,” Dad said as we both gulped down our drinks (and honestly, it did taste awesome), “let’s go. Kristie’s making us lunch.”
“Oh, joy. Lettuce sprigs and lemon juice.”
“Caleb!” Both Mom and Dad said together. They stared at each other a second, in shock that I was so rude, probably. (Honestly, I was pretty shocked that the words slipped out of my mouth, too. I could sort of picture Kit laughing, though.) I waited for the earth to shudder and open up or toads to fall from the sky or some other end-of-the-world-is-nigh follow-up to my parents actually being in sync for a moment, even if it was just to be angry at me.
Finally, Mom said, “His attitude has been an issue lately, if you haven’t noticed.” Then she turned and marched off in the opposite direction.
“Is that bacon?” I asked as I stepped over the folded down convertible seat onto Dad’s driveway. My legs had been practically jammed into my chest to sit back there; for a second or two I thought I must’ve been delusional from lack of blood flow. No way would Kristie be making bacon. That kale that scientists claim tastes just like bacon? Maybe.
