Surprised?

by Nick Day

  “Well, it’s pretty obvious,” I said, my mouth half full of a delicious, greasy hamburger. Pete and I sat across from each other at Edzo’s, the best burger joint in Evanston. I clutched the giant sandwich in my hand, piled high with veggies and onion strings. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until that first bite.

  “It’s not obvious to me,” Pete said. He never talked with his mouth full, not ever. “Are you gonna go, or not?”

  I swallowed forcefully. I felt my muscles tighten all over my body. “Of course not,” I said. I couldn’t help but sound angry. I was. Really? You know how I feel about my dad.

  “I know, you guys have a bad history,” Pete said.

  “Dude, you don’t know the half of it,” I cut in. I took a huge bite of my burger and stared back at him, trying to will him to stop talking. This would not turn into a bigger discussion. “Outside of the alimony payments he has to make once a month and an Amazon gift card for my birthday every year, he hasn’t been a part of my life for twelve whole years. I really only have to think about him once a year, and even once is way too much. You think I want to see that person? You think I want to make that person happy?”

  “You’re just deciding so quickly,” Pete pressed on. “I know it’s hard, but—”

  “Dude!” I yelled, but instead of really saying a word, I just sprayed food across the table. Bits of half-chewed burger, avocado, and tomato rained down on the greasy tabletop.

  Pete guffawed, holding his hand up to avoid any shrapnel. “Nice!”

  My face turned hot, and I frantically grabbed napkins to clean up the mess. Pete and I were close but I still got embarrassed around him sometimes. After I had calmed down a bit, I tried again. “Why are you driving so hard at this? He’s a jerk, Pete. He totally ditched me and my mom and never looked back.”

  “I know,” Pete said quietly.

  “It’s like impressive or whatever that he wants to try again with me,” I said. “It’s big of him. But that doesn’t mean I have to do the same thing.”

  “Yep,” Pete said. “Totally.” We were quiet for a while, chewing at our food, our eyes searching the walls covered in kitschy Northwestern posters and crafts. I could always tell when Pete was thinking something. He bit at his lower lip ever so slightly, but I had seen him do it often enough by now that I could spot it in an instant.

  “Okay, what?” I said.

  “What?” he said, taken aback. “Nothing!”

  “I see you gnawing at your lip, man. Out with it, before you chew it off.”

  He smiled guiltily. “You know me too well.” He put down his food and looked straight into my eyes, unblinking. His emerald-green eyes caught the light coming in through the big windows, and just like earlier on the lake shore, that simple gaze made me feel like I was standing on rock-solid ground.

  “You’re an adventurous person, Sara. In everything you do. You take really hard classes and push yourself to take on ideas and viewpoints that aren’t your own. You go to parties where you don’t know anybody and you come out with ten new friends. And I get that this is a whole other thing, this is like . . . earth-shattering. But this is the kind of thing where you excel, where you’re better than most people. So just . . . ” He paused, gnawed at his lip again. “Okay, that’s it. Speech done.”

  My eyes turned hot, my vision turned blurry. Oh, God, I thought, don’t cry here, not in this greasy burger joint—get it together!

  “But what if it’s terrible? What if he just turns his back on me all over again? I don’t want to get my hopes up, because that could really easily happen, you know.”

  Pete nodded. “You’re right, you’re totally right.” He said nothing more, giving me time and space to think. He took delicate bites of his burger and patiently watched me think.

  “But what do I have to lose?” I asked. “At the very least I’ll just be able to make the decision for myself to never talk to him again, instead of letting my mom make that decision for me.”

  Pete smiled. “You’re Sara Jackson,” he said. “You’re untouchable.”

  I waved him off and smiled, despite myself. “Oh my God, whatever.” I drummed my fingers on the tabletop, ready to move on to another, more fun discussion topic. “Dessert?”

  As I made the familiar turns through my neighborhood, getting closer to my house—left on Sheridan, right on Wabonsia, second exit on the traffic circle—I planned out the conversation in my head.

  I’d start simple and strong. Mom, I’d say, I really want to go.

  No, that wouldn’t work. She’d counter right away with Honey, I know you do, but trust me, I know your father. This won’t go as planned.

  Okay, maybe I’d start another way. Mom, Dad and I really talked for a long time about it. I actually think he’d be really heartbroken if I weren’t there.

  No, that still wouldn’t work. She’d say, Well, for God’s sake, don’t do it for him, you and I don’t owe him jack!

  I made a right at the light on Route 9, cruised past the Panera and the empty storefront where the ice cream place used to be. I was getting close to home, and I still didn’t know how I could convince my mom I should go.

  I wasn’t sure I had even convinced myself. Did I only care about pleasing my dad? I certainly didn’t owe him anything—but I really didn’t even know him. I was a completely different person now than I was when he left. Maybe this version of me could handle this trip. Could it be fun? Or would it just be painful? Would I feel included? Or completely lonely?

  Yet, despite all that, something pulled me towards saying yes. No matter how much I tried to convince myself it would be too sad, too unsettling . . .

  And there it was, my childhood home, one seventy-nine Glenwood Avenue. And looking at the little white house, I realized it was the same as my dad would remember it, from twelve years before. Not even a fresh coat of paint to cover up the chipped wood siding since he left.

  I parked the car in the driveway, launched myself out of the driver’s seat, and bounded towards the door. No time like the present, I said, trying to strengthen myself.

  But as soon as I opened the door, I was ruined. My strength left me. There was my mom, sitting on the couch, a box of Kleenex in front of her, stray tissues balled up around her like little lonely clouds.

  “Whoa, Mom, is everything—”

  “Oh, honey!” my mom exclaimed, brushing off her cheeks. “I wasn’t expecting you!”

  Before she could answer, Cooper and Ian bounded out of the back part of the house, charging towards me with all their might. They both jumped up on their hind legs to unleash a barrage of kisses.

  “Hi, hi!” I squealed, giggling. No matter how far away you went or how long you were gone, these boys would never hold a grudge. I wrapped my arms around them and rubbed their soft curly blond fur. Now this was home.

  But I knew I couldn’t relax while my mom remained on the couch, looking distraught. I let the dogs down and sat down on the couch next to her.

  “What’s happening? Why are you crying?” She looked up at me, her blue eyes wet with tears. She threw her arms around me and moaned. Her body felt small and bony and her arms and back were trembling.

  “Mom, what is it?”

  “He . . . Did he call you?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He told me about the wedding, he wants me to come. All the same stuff he told you, I guess. But I’m okay, don’t worry—”

  “Oh, I’m just so angry at him!” my mom bellowed. Her hands flew up to her face, pulled at her powder-gray hair.

  “For getting remarried? I’m sure that really stings—”

  “For manipulating you like that! He’s just doing it to twist the knife with me. I’m sure of it! But I let him sweet-talk me into giving him your phone number. This sob story about how he’s lost touch with you and this is such a big moment for him . . . ahh!” She sobbed, doubling over and holding her face in her hands.

  I sighed. This is gonna be much, much harder than I thought.

 
“Mom, relax,” I said firmly. She looked up at me like I had just insulted her. “If he is doing it to make you unhappy, I’m sorry, and that’s wrong of him. But I do think he really does want me to go.” I swallowed hard. Here it was. “And . . . I want to go. To the wedding.”

  My mother stared at me like she had just seen a ghost. Like I was some alien clone of myself. A thick silence hung in the air between us. Her upper lip trembled. Her eyes frantically searched the eggshell-colored walls.

  “Ah,” she stammered, barely audible.

  “I know,” I said.

  She snapped back to look at me, her eyes hard. “No, I don’t think you do,” she spat. “You can’t know—you haven’t even seen him in twelve years! I’m sure you barely recognized his voice today!” I had to admit, she was right about that.

  “But that’s why I want to go,” I said. “Don’t you think I should get to know him? He is my father, like it or not.”

  “Honey,” my mom started, obviously trying to calm down. She grasped my hand in hers, which were cold and clammy and still trembling with emotion. “I know you think that is what you want, but trust me. It’s fine if you want to get to know him. I won’t get in the way of that. But this isn’t the way to do it.”

  “Why?” Though I was feeling sorry for my mom and how sad all this had made her, I was starting to lose patience with getting shut down again and again.

  “It just isn’t! Honey, I’ve been on this earth a little longer than you have.”

  “That isn’t a reason! I’m an adult now, I can make my own choices, and I choose to go, to meet his wife and her family—and, honestly, meet him for the first time.” I didn’t lose eye contact with my mom. I stayed strong. “Almost everyone I’ve ever known has a dad. Or two parents, at least. And it’s not that you weren’t enough, Mom, it’s not about that. But I’ve always wondered what having someone else would be like . . . and now I get to find out. Does that make sense?”

  Slowly, Mom matched my gaze, but looked distant. Maybe she was finally coming around.

  But instead, after a moment, she said, “Do you want some dinner? There’s a whole plateful of spaghetti carbonara I couldn’t eat, I was so full.” Before I could answer, she got up and walked into the kitchen. I flopped back on the couch, letting her have some space.

  As she clattered around in the kitchen, I found my thoughts drifting back to a softball game in sixth grade. It was one of the few games my mom couldn’t come to. For the first time, I had nobody in the stands. And when the game ended, and everybody’s parents came and patted them on the back, all I could do was watch. I had walked the mile home that night—slowly, trying to picture where my dad was and what he was doing instead of emptying the Gatorade cooler with the team or playing catch with me as we walked to the car under an orange sky, the air filled with the buzz of cicadas.

  But it’s hard to picture someone you barely know.

  I walked into the kitchen to find Mom gingerly stirring a pot of pasta. “Mom,” I said softly. “Heat’s not on.” She blushed and looked under the pot.

  “Oh,” she said. “You’re right.” She turned the knob and the heating coil slowly turned red. We were silent again for a minute, until she murmured, “I guess I always hoped I was enough for you.”

  A lump bubbled in my throat and my eyes watered. I grabbed her hand. “Mom, of course you were! You are! I’m not doing this because you’ve been, like, inadequate or something.”

  She looked up at me, tears in her eyes. She was fumbling for words.

  “I really think it could be good, Mom,” I said. I wasn’t going to let this go.

  “Honey,” she started, taking a deep breath, “I know you do. And I love you for that, I love your optimism. But, so sue me, I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You might.”

  I felt my blood start to boil. She still wasn’t listening to me! I forced myself to take a deep breath. “You let me go off to college this year. And I’ve done pretty okay there, right?”

  Mom didn’t answer. She just kept stirring the pasta in slow circles. “Right?” I offered again.

  She shook her head gently, a small smile creeping across her face. “You amaze me.”

  “I know,” I said. I hugged her, squeezing her bony shoulders tight. “Wow, I am so much taller than you. When did that happen? Either I’m still growing or you’ve started shrinking!”

  “Oh, stop,” she said, batting me away.

  While I ate my mom’s leftover pasta—alongside a glass of chocolate milk, nothing stronger allowed in Mom’s household—we kept talking. After she had at least tentatively given her support to the Texas trip, we managed to talk about other, more fun things. About school, about my friends, about the A I got on a paper defending Harry Potter as a work of third-wave feminist fiction. The warmth of home finally crept in, as the hours ticked by: nine, ten, eleven, twelve . . .

  My mom started yawning at twelve-thirty, so I decided bedtime was in order. But I realized there was one thing we hadn’t discussed.

  “How long would it take to drive there?” I asked. “Plane tickets will be too expensive, so . . . ”

  “Whoa, honey, that’s a long way—”

  “Two days? Maybe three?”

  “But I don’t want you doing that on your own. That’s not safe. You’re a pretty young woman and you’ve never done a road trip on your own—”

  I already knew what I would do. “I won’t be alone. I’ll take someone with me.” It was so obvious. He would say yes, no doubt.

  “RISE AND SHINE!” I CROWED OUT OF MY driver’s-side window. Pete stood in the driveway clutching an overstuffed duffel bag, squinting in the early morning sun. After we’d spent Thursday at home packing, Friday was here—the day we had to put up or shut up, and hit the road.

  “Hey,” he said happily. “You bring doughnuts?”

  “Yep, straight out of the ovens at Bennison’s,” I shot back giddily. It was barely seven, sure—and I’d had to drive an hour to Pete’s house in Lake Forest—but I had all the energy of a kid on Christmas morning.

  Pete approached the car and slung his bag in the backseat. “That thing’s packed to the gills,” I said. “What’d you bring, dude?”

  “I always overpack,” Pete said modestly.

  “This old thing gonna make it to Texas and back?” came a booming voice. It was Pete’s dad, Paul. (Pete’s mom was named Mary, and she and Paul were big fans of a certain folk group from the 1960s. Naming their only son Peter was the obvious choice).

  “Hey, Mr. Carlson,” I said, beaming. Pete’s dad was like Santa Claus on happy pills every day of the year. And just like his son, he wore Northwestern swag every day. Today was a big purple T-shirt pronouncing him a “Proud Northwestern Grandma,” something I figured he got on sale at the bookstore. Paul had a completely zany sense of humor that hadn’t quite been passed on to his son.

  “What is this, a ninety-nine?” he asked me.

  “Dad, chill,” Pete said, rubbing his temples.

  “A two-thousand one, actually,” I said. “Not quite so old.”

  “Ah yes, two-thousand one, a great year for Toyota Corollas,” Paul said, laughing. “Well, I won’t ask you how many miles you got on there,” he said, “but if the odometer has too many zeroes to count, I recommend you take a bus.” He patted the roof of the car, waiting for us to laugh. I offered a smile. Pete didn’t even take his eyes off the floor of the car, like he was trying to shut his dad up via Jedi mind trick.

  “All right, well, check in with us every so often, okay?” Paul asked, now a little more serious. “It’s a long drive—and Texans are a whole ’nother species!” he crowed.

  “Thanks for letting Pete come with me,” I said. “This whole thing is pretty crazy. Good thing he’s such an awesome friend.” I looked over at Pete as I said this. He blushed, like he always did.

  “Hey, our pleasure. We get pretty sick of him after a couple days!”


  “Thanks, Pops,” Pete said.

  “Well, you better get going, eh? Get some barbecue for me,” Paul said. “I love you, Peter, be safe.”

  “Yep,” Pete said.

  “He loves you, too,” I said, winking. I put the car in gear, and pulled out of the driveway.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “What? Oh, yeah. No, I’m fine.” Pete ran a hand through his copper-red hair and looked out the window. “Just tired!” He grabbed my phone from the cup-holder. “Want me to pull up some directions?” he asked.

  My stomach lurched. “Um, actually, could you use your phone? Mine’s already low on battery,” I said.

  I was lying. I didn’t want Pete looking at my phone for a very specific reason. I woke up to a few texts earlier that morning from Maria, asking about the situation with my dad. I told her everything, that he was getting married, that I was going to go, and that Pete was going to come with me.

  Wait . . . really? she asked.

  Uh . . . yeah? What? I typed back.

  Just you and Pete? idk that might be a little awk right?

  Why?

  Ugh honestly sara. He has such a thing for you.

  …?!

  Come on, you know it.

  But we’re just friends wtf

  Sara you can be friends and something ELSE too ya know

  You’re just assuming things. We’re close and everything ya but that’s not what’s up, trust me. You’re reading into things

  With that, our talk was over. And even though it was hours ago now, I was still a little edgy about it. It had really rubbed me the wrong way. Who was she to tell me about my friendship with Pete? He and I were closer than I’d ever been with any other friend. If people fell in love with best friends, those songs on the radio about how confusing love was wouldn’t exist. It was that simple.

  I forced the issue out of my mind. Here we were, finally hitting the road. There were doughnuts, there was a full tank of gas, and a long way to drive. And Pete was next to me. He was my best friend. Nothing more.