The Rule of Threes

by Marcy Campbell

  I noticed a dribble of sweat creeping down my back and decreased my walking pace to a stroll. I didn’t need to hurry. What was I in such a rush for? My mom hadn’t even texted. I didn’t want to get there too early and have to edge past that basketball boy to get into my own house.

  I noticed a new “For Sale” sign on a brick ranch. The sign said Hartman Realty in big, red letters with my mom’s smiling face and cell number. Call Susan Owens. Another smaller metal sign hung below that, which said: “This one’s a charmer!”

  Mom had all these little signs she could attach below her phone number like: “Great starter home!,” “Deluxe Master Suite!,” or “This one’s going F-A-S-T!” She’d stopped putting up that last one, though, because she felt like, if it was up for more than a few weeks and the house didn’t sell, it would be false advertising, like she was a big old liar. She wasn’t the kind of person who went around telling lies, not normally, not that I knew of. Although I guess it was true that I’d called her a liar once, screamed it at her one morning in second grade.

  That was an unreasonably hot day in September just like this one, so hot that the tears felt like they were sizzling on my face as I walked to the bus stop that morning, by myself. I’d never walked to the bus stop by myself before that day, the day Mom told me after breakfast that she and Dad were having “some problems.”

  She’d said it really carefully, like it would be a surprise to me, but it wasn’t. I was seven, not stupid. I had seen Mom crying in the kitchen for months before that. Plus, I’d been tiptoeing downstairs after I was supposed to be asleep, always finding Dad in the dark on the couch listening to this same singer, always the same guy and same songs. It’s a marvelous night for a moondance. I remembered that. But mostly I remembered Mom telling me that fateful morning that she and Dad were going to live apart, and that I needed to decide who I was going to live with.

  And then she said Dad would prefer I lived with her, and I called her a liar and ran from the house and down the street, to my bus stop. I knew he’d never say that. I also knew, if I had to choose between them, that I’d pick him, which I figured was not the answer my mom, or anybody, probably, expected or wanted.

  There were a bunch of family meetings after that, with both Mom and Dad explaining to me that parents argue sometimes, and it’s scary, but they still loved me, and it wasn’t my fault. I’d never thought it was my fault before they said that, but then I did start wondering what I had done wrong. I wondered if they could read my mind and knew I wanted to live with Dad. It was a totally scary time, waking up and wondering, Will today be the day I have to pack? Where will I live? Will my dad get an apartment like my classmate Norah’s dad had done? Norah told me how gross and empty her dad’s place was. Every day, I’d get up and worry, and eventually I started to think: Let it happen today. Better to rip off the Band-Aid quickly than to painfully tug it a few millimeters at a time.

  But none of my fears ever came true. And slowly, my parents changed, became more like the in-love parents I remembered from my preschool years. One day, around the time the leaves had all turned colors and the sky became that bright blue dome you only really see that time of year, I saw them, my parents, hugging in the backyard, that brilliant sky behind them.

  And everything was like normal again. Mom wasn’t crying. Dad wasn’t staying up late. No moondances. Just normal, everyday, family stuff. Our meetings were less frequent, but they said I could talk to them whenever I needed to, ask them anything. I was glad not to talk about it. And now I couldn’t think of the last time I’d heard them argue. Before today.

  I stopped walking, dug into my backpack to see if I had a spare pair of sunglasses. I didn’t. When I turned the corner toward my house and saw that the red car was missing from the driveway, I picked up my pace, eager to get inside. Mom must have forgotten to text me. They were probably busy making dinner. I’d come in, and Dad would use that silly voice where he’d pretend to be a waiter at a French restaurant: “Welcome to Chez Owens! Tonight, ze chef has prepared ze most delectable spaghetti in all ze land!” I smiled at the thought of it, my stomach grumbling. The nauseous feeling I’d had at Olive’s was gone. I was really hungry, and really hoping for spaghetti.

  I got to my house and was just reaching out to turn the knob to the side door by the kitchen when Dad opened it. I smiled at him, waiting for his funny voice. But he didn’t smile back. And I didn’t smell garlic bread or anything. Dad just stared at me, like he wasn’t sure if he should let me in. When he finally spoke, he said, in the most un-funny voice ever, “Mags, we need to talk.”

  I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.

  When Pigs Fly

  The kitchen light shone behind my dad’s head, creating a halo around his black curls. Neither of us said anything for a moment. I wanted to go in, but he was blocking my way.

  “What is it?” I asked, wondering if I would finally get the “family business” discussion my mom had promised earlier. Maybe they’d sit me down in the dining room and do the good-cop, bad-cop routine, like when I got in trouble for using my phone after bedtime. Mom would accuse me of breaking the rule, and say they couldn’t trust me, and Dad would step in to smooth everything over and insist it must have been an honest mistake, that I needed to text someone about homework, and he was sure I’d never do it again. The truth was usually somewhere in the middle.

  Dad was still staring at me. “What is it?” I asked again. “What do you need to talk to me about?”

  I had my backpack on, but I felt like I should take it off and hold it in front of me, like I needed to somehow protect my heart. Dad threw a glance over his shoulder toward the hallway, like something was behind him, but I saw nothing except our family photos on the wall, our worn carpeting. Then he finally stepped aside so I could come in. He spoke softly.

  “That boy you saw earlier? When you left for Olive’s? The one who was waiting outside, wearing the blue sweatshirt?”

  “Yes,” I said, impatiently. How many strange boys sat on our front stoop? What other boy would it be?

  “Well, sweetheart, the thing is that . . . I don’t know how to say this so I’m just going to say it . . . he’s my son.”

  Just like that, the basketball boy poked his head around the corner like he’d been summoned. He stood there with his hands in his pockets. A brother?

  “That’s crazy.” I shook my head. “I mean it’s possible . . . when pigs fly. Right Dad?”

  Dad opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I glared at the boy, and he glared back. Like he was mad at me! Like I’d done something to him!

  Mittens sauntered in and did her figure-eight around my legs. The boy smiled at her, so I picked her up before he could get his grimy paws on her. I held her close, feeling her soft fur tickle my chin. It seemed like the room was shrinking around me, and my backpack weighed a hundred pounds.

  “You’re kidding, right? Good one, Dad. Very funny.”

  “No, Maggie. I’m not joking.”

  He looked slumped, bent. My dad—who was actually six-foot-something, who worked as some kind of manager at the power company, American Power, who liked to flex his bicep when he left for work saying he was going to American Power! and pretend to zoom out the door like a superhero to make me laugh—he looked very, very small.

  “I don’t . . . I don’t understand,” I said.

  I blinked. I set Mittens down, and she ran for the kitchen, where I could hear water running into the big spaghetti pot. Oh great, spaghetti. At least one thing I’d hoped for was actually happening, though everything else was going wrong. My eyes went all swimmy, filling with tears, but I could see well enough to notice Mom come out of the kitchen and gently take the boy’s shoulders, steering him out of the room.

  Dad had reached out to take my little, shaky hands into his big, steady ones. “I know this is impossible to believe,” he said. “I know that, but you have to at least let me try to explain.”

  I closed my eyes, thinking may
be when I opened them, I’d find myself in my bed, realizing this had all been a dream.

  He said, “You remember back a few years, when you were little, and your mom and I were having some . . . some difficulties . . .”

  My eyes were still leaking, and his words sounded far away, like I was underwater and he was standing on the shore. I could not listen to this, so I let go of his hands and ran to my room, my footsteps heavy, stomping up the stairs. I closed the door and inched myself into my packed closet, nestling between a dozen stuffed animals. I did not turn on the light. I sat in the dark.

  There was no lock on my closet door, but nobody came in here other than me. I had put a homemade door-hanger on the knob, decorated with a sequined skull and crossbones and the words “Health Hazard. Do Not Enter.” My parents thought it was funny, and they never made me clean up, as long as the mess stayed inside and didn’t seep out into my room.

  My closet smelled like my jasmine hand lotion and like bubblegum wrappers and a little like old dusty things, like the smell from the boxes in the attic where my parents kept stuff from their own childhoods—their yellowing report cards and sports trophies. They went through those boxes with me once, reminiscing, but Mom got sad when she opened a container with a corsage Dad had given her and saw that the flowers had disintegrated, leaving behind nothing but papery brown flakes. My closet smell usually made me feel comforted and calm.

  But not today. I was anything but calm. Were my parents planning to take this kid in, like a stray, like when we found Mittens eating out of a trash can in a parking lot? Who was the woman who’d dropped him off? And why hadn’t she kept him? Why was this boy here now? Where was he before? And was he staying??? He was NOT sleeping in my room!

  My stomach felt all queasy again, like I’d eaten a bucket full of Olive’s Twinkies. I realized I actually hadn’t eaten anything for hours. I didn’t know if I’d ever feel like eating again.

  I worked out the math in my head. The kid didn’t look much older than me, and it’s not like I didn’t know how babies were made. Ugh, yuck, so Dad . . . with some other woman who wasn’t Mom . . . I felt even sicker.

  I heard soft footsteps enter my room. I peeked out the crack in my door and saw Dad’s legs.

  This kid was what? My half-brother? Brother was such a foreign word, a word associated with other girls, like Olive and Rachel, but certainly not with me.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever meet him,” Dad said, from the other side of my door. I could see he was still wearing his shiny leather work shoes. “His mother moved away just after he was born. She wanted a relationship, and I, obviously, didn’t.”

  Dad was speaking quietly, like he was talking to himself, and that was fine with me because I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to hear it! Lalalalalala. I wanted to cover my ears, but instead I positioned my mouth by the crack in the door. There were things I needed to understand.

  “How do you know he’s your son?” I asked. That would get him. This was all a mistake, never mind the fact that the kid looked an awful lot like my dad, okay? That was just a coincidence. Everybody has a secret twin somewhere, sometimes more than one, who’s not even related to them. I’d seen a YouTube video about it.

  “We did a DNA test, when he was a baby,” Dad said.

  I nudged the door open a bit more with my foot. I knew about DNA. We’d actually extracted some from a strawberry in science class last year, but it was weird to think of the same stuff inside me, and Dad . . . and that boy.

  I could see all of Dad now, but it was shadowy in my room. There was no more halo behind his head like there had been from the kitchen light when I’d come home. Dad ran a hand over his face like he was trying to sculpt a new, less tired and helpless expression. It didn’t work.

  “Oh, Mags,” he said, “so much has happened today.” He started pacing across my small room, three steps one way, then turn around, then back.

  “His name is Anthony, but he goes by Tony. He showed up at his school, Bircher, and he was hungry and not looking so good, so Children’s Services went out to his apartment and found his mom, who was not doing well at all, and his mom gave them my name, which for the life of me, I can’t understand, since I didn’t think she wanted me to have anything to do with him. But I guess she was out of options. Then the social worker had to check out everything over here.”

  It was like listening to Olive. I waited for him to take a breath, like I do with her, but got impatient. I pushed the door open some more, until we could see each other, eye to eye, his eyes brown and mine green. I had my mom’s eyes.

  “How long is he staying?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. His mom is going to get some help. She’s hoping to get him back soon.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” I asked.

  “Drugs,” Dad said softly.

  I picked at a loose piece of carpeting. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was going to. I wanted to, earlier, years ago actually, after I saw his mom in a store, and so I knew she’d moved back, and I saw . . . him . . . but, Mags, you were too young to understand.”

  “And what about Mom?” I said. “What about your wife?” How could he act so cool and collected when this whole thing was insane!

  If he didn’t like my tone, he didn’t let on. “Mom and I worked this out a long time ago.”

  “How old is he?” I murmured.

  “Thirteen.”

  “That’s a year older than me! How could you and Mom not have told me all this time!”

  Dad got up and moved closer to the hallway. He had his back to me when he said, “To be fair to your mom, she didn’t know until a few years ago, until—”

  “Second grade.”

  “Yeah, I guess . . .” Dad’s mind was working, like he was trying to count backward. He wouldn’t look at me. “Listen, this is hard for me, Mags. This isn’t . . . I mean, this isn’t an entirely appropriate conversation to have, and—”

  “Appropriate? Geez, Dad, it’s too late to decide if it’s appropriate. It just is.”

  I remembered the family meetings we’d had back then. All the talk of openness, the encouragement to ask them anything. How our family was like a three-legged stool, and we needed all of us in sync to keep it balanced. All I knew was they were having problems and thinking about a divorce. I didn’t know there was another woman in the picture. I didn’t know there was a kid!

  “Your mom forgave me, you know,” Dad said, now looking straight at me.

  What was he expecting me to say? I wasn’t going to tell him I forgave him. I wasn’t that easy.

  “Well,” he said, “maybe we should just call it a night.” He sighed. “Want this open or closed?” He pointed to my closet door while I sank deeper into my nest of stuffed animals. I didn’t answer.

  “Try and be compassionate,” he said, “to Tony. He’s been through a lot. You have no idea.”

  He started walking out but turned back around. “I love you, Mags,” he said.

  I still didn’t answer.

  Eventually, the sun started to dip behind our neighbor’s chimney. My stomach was growling like crazy, but how could my stomach think about food at a time like this? Stomachs were so stupid. Everything was stupid. Still, I could smell the garlic bread, and it was making me drool. Maybe I could just tiptoe down and grab a plate, bring it back to my room.

  I went downstairs, walked down the hall, peeked into the dining room. Mom and Dad were sitting in their usual spots at either end of our rectangular wooden table. And there he was. Thankfully, Tony wasn’t in my chair, but the one opposite, the one in front of the large window. Outside was the pear tree with the bird feeder I’d given Dad last Christmas. Tony’s back was to the window. I wondered if my parents were playing the “One Big Thing” game with him, though it was pretty obvious what big thing happened to all of us today.

  My seat, on the other side of the table, always had a clear view of the outdoors so that, during dinner, I could see if any bi
rds came by to eat their own meals. I’d learned to identify the usual suspects, the cardinals and titmice and chickadees, house sparrows, robins, the occasional nuthatch. But now, if I went in and sat down, Tony’s big head would be blocking my view.

  Meanwhile, Tony’s view was of a large mirror on the wall that my mom and I had hung over the summer after we’d painted the room a pale yellow. The mirror brought the outdoors in, made the small room look bigger, but that was an illusion, of course, a decorating trick. So, not only would Tony be blocking my view of the birds, but he got his own view of them, reflected in the mirror. It wasn’t fair, none of it. Oh, how I wished Tony himself was an illusion, just a trick of the light.

  Tony saw me and stopped eating, his fork hanging in midair. Mom turned around and said, “Maggie, honey, why don’t you come in and eat with us?”

  “I’m not very hungry,” I lied. “I’ll get something later,” I blurted and ran back up to my room.

  I went to my desk and grabbed my shell, hidden behind a trio of accessories. The shell was small, barely two inches long and spiral-shaped. I ran my index finger down its side, feeling the bumpy ridges. I’d done this so much that the ridges were starting to smooth out and flatten.

  No one knew about my shell, not even my dad, even though he was the one who’d found it on our trip to Florida when I was eight.

  We had so much fun on that trip, my parents laughing with each other, and with me, in the waves, and I felt like everything was perfect, whereas just months before that, it had all seemed like it was falling apart. Dad had spotted the shell on the beach and pointed it out to me. He’d brushed off the sand and held it up in the sunlight, where it glowed a ghostly white. I told him it looked like a unicorn horn, and he said, yes, it had once belonged to the tiniest unicorn in the world.