You’re not a good father.
I didn’t argue with her. It’s hard to be a good father when you only see your daughter every other weekend and the entire time her ears are plugged up with those white buds, her fingers moving at light speed, typing god knows what to god knows who on her phone. I would sometimes try to glance over Ellie’s shoulder to make sure she wasn’t sexting, as I had read an article about that in the Washington Post. She may well have been and I wouldn’t have known it, because all I saw were a bunch of uppercase letters that didn’t make words. It was like code, and I puffed up a bit wondering if maybe she’d have a future writing HTML in Silicon Valley.
Anyway, when Ellie and I had our massive falling-out four months ago, I picked up on another implication, without Stephanie’s saying a word—which I fought the urge to point out to her because I thought she would have been impressed by my progress: it was all my fault.
I should have tried harder. I should have been there more. I should have somehow made my fourteen-year-old daughter take those earbuds out and have a real, live conversation with me. Because now she won’t even speak to me. Not even via coded text.
And maybe that’s why I’m so desperate to have Aja respond to every single one of my questions. I’ve only officially been his father for two years—Two years? Has Dinesh been gone that long?—but I know the parent-child connection is so very fragile, like a soap bubble, and it doesn’t take much to break it.
“Eric?” Aja keeps his eyes trained on the Rice Chex box.
“Yeah, bud?” I say, hating the overeagerness in my voice.
“Did you find a wheelchair yet?”
I take a long sip of my coffee, not wanting to get into this conversation so early in the morning. Or ever. Aja got in his head last week that he wanted to be Professor X from the X-Men for Halloween (which, it should be pointed out, is nearly two months away. Aja likes to plan ahead). I readily agreed, without realizing the costume required a wheelchair. I told Aja I wasn’t sure it was appropriate, seeing as how he doesn’t have a disability and it could be offensive to people who actually do. “But Professor X does,” he said matter-of-factly. I let it drop, too overwhelmed by the move to argue about it.
“Not yet,” I say, and before he can ask a follow-up question, I close the gap between us with a few steps and bend at the waist so I’m eye level with him, all four of our eyes now trained on the cereal box.
“Any luck today?” I ask. It’s the exact opposite of what I was told to do by the therapist I took Aja to after his parents died. Don’t feed into his delusions, she said in her obnoxiously nasal tone. But it seemed overreactionary. Or maybe it was that drug, that Risperdal they gave him that made him so drowsy, he slept seventeen hours a day and barely ate, that felt overreactionary. I stopped giving him the pills and didn’t go back. Aja has an imagination. So what? What’s the harm in that?
He shakes his head. “I can’t even get a little spark, much less a flame.”
“A flame?” I’m a little alarmed at this. “I thought you were just trying to move it with your mind.”
“No, this week I’m working on the advanced levels, specifically telekinetic destruction.” He glances at me. “That means blowing things up.”
Oh. I scratch the side of my cheek and straighten up and glance around the small kitchen. My eyes land on the phone book that was on the counter when we moved in. I wonder who uses phone books anymore. And then I wonder where I put that therapist’s number.
Maybe it’s with the coffee mugs.
WHILE AJA IS brushing his teeth and finishing getting ready for school, I check back in on Squidboy. He is now decidedly belly-up. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I poke him with the pencil anyway, but nothing happens. I sigh. Maybe Aja won’t look at his bowl before we leave. Then I’ll have time to go to the pet store, pick out a Squidboy replica, and hope he doesn’t notice that either.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I set the pencil on the shelf next to the fishbowl and retrieve my cell.
“Hey, Connie,” I greet my sister. She’s the reason I moved to this quiet borough just eight miles away from the Manhattan skyline. New York itself was out of the question due to the outrageous rent and even worse public schools, but I would have probably chosen a more popular—and populated—city like Hoboken or Elizabeth if Connie hadn’t been living in Lincoln for the past eight years. It’s like a throwback to a different time, she said. The downtown is so quaint, with cute little shops and gorgeous views of the river. And the schools are really good. I couldn’t care less about the river, but she had me at the schools—and the fact that she would be a few miles away and could jump in and help with Aja if I needed it.
“First day of school,” she says, skipping the greetings and jumping directly into the conversation in her lawyerly fashion. Yes, my parents raised an accountant and attorney, and though they often tell us at our WASP-y holiday gatherings how proud they are of us, I sometimes wonder if they’re not a little disappointed by how boring their children turned out. “Is he ready?”
I glance down the hall. He’s still in the bathroom. “Just about. Although I think he may have a potentially dangerous new interest in blowing things up.”
“Don’t all boys?”
I try to recall a fascination with explosives from my own childhood. “I don’t think I ever did.”
She snorts. “No, I think you’d qualify as the outlier in the risk-taking department.”
“Oh, I would?” I say. “Hey, speaking of—how was your skydiving trip last weekend? And the rattlesnake farm? Did you handle a lot of them?”
“Ha-ha. Very funny.”
“Just saying. Pot, kettle. All that.”
“Yeah, but we’re not talking about me.”
“No,” I say. “We never do seem to talk about you, lately.” I look for my coffee on the shelf next to Squidboy’s bowl and realize I left it in the kitchen.
“Well, my life isn’t the one that’s imploded on itself.”
“Thanks. That’s very helpful.”
“No problem,” she says. “But seriously—how are you holding up?”
“Fine,” I say, walking into the kitchen and setting my sights on my mug on the table. I drain the last few gulps and reach for the pot on the counter to pour a second cup. (I’ll stop at two today. Surely cutting back slowly is a better way to break a habit than cold turkey.) “I can’t find my other coffee mugs,” I tell Connie. And then I laugh.
As if the disappearing coffee mugs are the most severe of my problems. I moved four states away from my ex-wife and my daughter who’s not speaking to me. I uprooted my son—who, admittedly, doesn’t handle change well—from the only town he’s ever known, the only friends he’s ever known, the city where his parents are buried for Christ’s sake, and am starting him in a brand-new school with kids he doesn’t know. Oh, and he’s into blowing things up.
And the fish is dead.
“It’s only for six months,” Connie says, ignoring my coffee mug comment and shooting right to the heart of the matter, like she always does. “You did the right thing.”
The right thing. It’s like a slippery salmon I’ve been trying to catch from a stream with my bare hands for my entire life. The right thing is why Stephanie and I got married directly out of high school when we found out she was pregnant with Ellie. The right thing is why I adopted Aja when Dinesh and Kate died in a commuter-plane crash, even though Stephanie was against it. The right thing is why I let Ellie live with her mother after the divorce, even though no part of me wanted to be without her for even a day.
But moving to Lincoln, New Jersey, so I can work in my firm’s New York office filling in for the senior financial analyst during her maternity leave—even though I told myself it would not only put me one step closer to making partner, but it would be nice to have a fresh start, be an adventure for Aja, and put us closer to my sister—is starting to feel a little bit selfish, and a lot like running away, and not even remotely like the righ
t thing for anybody but me.
“Ellie,” I say, immediately visualizing her upturned nose, the wispy caramel curls that frame her round face, her doll-like eyes. But no. I’m picturing her as a child. Not as the fourteen-year-old she is now, her thinned-out face revealing defined cheekbones, her locks trained to lie flat—all hints of curl erased from existence with a metal iron, as is apparently the style. When did she become this person, this young woman? And how did I miss it?
I don’t realize I’ve said her name out loud until Connie’s voice softens.
“Oh, Eric,” she says. “I don’t think it much matters to Ellie right now where you live.”
And though I know it’s true, I can’t explain why hearing it hurts quite so much.
THE SEPTEMBER MORNING is still and muggy, feeling more like the thick air of August than the crisp leaf-turning weather associated with back-to-school. As we pull into the Lincoln Elementary School car drop-off line, I swallow all of the hokey clichéd advice that my dad arbitrarily said over the years. Knock ’em dead, tiger. Never let them see you sweat. Be yourself.
I’m not sure which phrase would be most appropriate, anyway. Certainly not Be yourself. I love him, but if I’m being objective, I have to admit that sometimes when Aja’s himself, he can come across as a little patronizing and antisocial, and, well, weird—which isn’t the best foot forward with fifth-grade boys you want to befriend.
My palms get sweaty as the car inches up, closer to where Aja will get out. I glance over at him. He’s sitting stone still, his eyes trained straight ahead.
“I’ll pick you up today,” I say, just to break the silence, even though we talked about it all last night. “But you’ll be riding the bus home starting next week.”
He doesn’t acknowledge me, and I know it’s because he hates when I repeat instructions.
The carpool line attendant—a grandmotherly woman with crinkly eyes and an orange sash draped over her large belly—opens the door of the car in front of us, and a man steps out of the backseat, slinging a backpack on his shoulder. A slight panic sets in—am I supposed to be walking Aja in? They didn’t mention that in any of the information packets.
The man shuts the door, and I wonder where the kid is. And then my eyes bulge as I get a glimpse of the “man’s” cherubic face. He’s just a child. A huge, gargantuan child. Is this what fifth graders look like nowadays? I glance back at Aja, who looks even tinier in his bucket seat. Fragile. I wonder if it’s too late to jerk the wheel and peel out of the parking lot. Possibly drive all the way back to New Hampshire.
I wonder if Aja is thinking the same thing.
“Hey, Eric?” he says in a small voice, and my heart breaks a little.
“Yeah, bud?”
He turns to me with his big eyes, and I steel myself with all the confidence I don’t feel, to assure him that this is the right thing. That he’ll have a great day. That the hulking fifth grader who probably lords over children like Aja on the playground stealing their lunch money and giving them wedgies is actually going to be a nice kid who’ll bond with him over their mutual love of the X-Men.
“Can we get a dog?”
“What?” I say, tearing my eyes away from the frightening man-child who’s now shaking hands with the principal on his way toward the entrance. They’re almost the same height. I shudder and hope that Aja doesn’t notice.
“A dog. Can we get one?”
“What? No.” I pull the car up to the curb in front of the school’s entrance and put it in park. The carpool attendant reaches for the handle to open Aja’s door, but it’s locked.
“You promised,” he says, ignoring the attendant looking expectantly in his window.
“When? Unlock your door.”
“You said when the fish died, we could get a dog,” he says. “And the fish is dead.”
“He is?” I say, hoping I sound surprised. I tap the “unlock” button on my door panel, and the elderly woman tries the handle again, but Aja promptly pushes the lock back into the down position.
I give her a forced smile and hold up one finger.
“Yeah. I don’t know how you didn’t notice that when you were feeding him this morning.”
“Huh,” I say.
The driver behind us leans on the horn. I glance in the rearview and see a mother glaring back at me. My heart starts thudding. “We’ll talk about this later. You gotta go into school.”
Aja adjusts his glasses and crosses his arms. “Not until you say we can get a dog.”
The horn blares again.
“Aja! We don’t have time for this.”
I press the unlock button again. Aja relocks it. The attendant looks perplexed, as if she’s never encountered a child who won’t get out of the car before. I look past her and see the principal start to walk toward the car. A bead of sweat runs down my forehead.
And then I remember the wheelchair, and I’m struck with inspiration. Or at least another bargaining chip.
“How about I find the wheelchair and I’ll think about getting the dog?”
Beep-beep-BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. I resist the urge to roll down the window and scream for the driver to keep her pants on by gripping the steering wheel so tightly all the blood leaves my fingers.
Aja’s face lights up and I think I’ve won. But then he crosses his arms again and settles his butt more firmly in his seat. “The wheelchair and the dog,” he says over the sound of the horn that is now just a constant tone. I had no idea suburban carpool lines were so aggressive.
“Aja! Get. Out. Of. The. Car.” My teeth are so clenched it’s like my jaw has been wired shut.
He doesn’t budge—just looks at me, uncaring that an entire line of carpool parents are cursing us. I know that I shouldn’t budge, either. That a good parent would stand his ground, not reward such manipulative behavior by letting the child get his way.
Other horns join in. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
But screw parenting—all I want in life right now is for that goddamn horn to stop blaring.
“Fine!” I say. “The wheelchair and the fucking dog!” At the same time Aja pops up the door lock and swings the car door open, letting the F-word fly loud and free into the school-zone air.
The principal stops in his tracks and the attendant’s gray, squirrely eyebrows jump halfway up her forehead.
The horn is quiet, the air is still, and everyone congregated in the school entrance is staring at me. Aja, unruffled, hops out of the car and hooks his backpack over his shoulder, striding toward the front door.
I take a deep breath, my face bright red with embarrassment. “Knock ’em dead, tiger!” I yell at Aja’s back. Then I reach over and grab the handle, slamming the door shut, and throw the gearshift into drive.
BACK HOME, I pour a third cup of coffee and sit down at the kitchen table where Aja attempted to ignite the Rice Chex box just an hour earlier. In exhaustion—though it’s not even eight thirty—I rub my jawline with my hand, against the grain, already feeling the stubble emerge from my pores. My five o’clock shadow appears around noon, and I have yet to find a razor to combat that no matter how “cutting-edge” the shaving technology claims to be. (And really? Razor technology? Who’s inventing these things—NASA scientists?) Work doesn’t start until next week, but I almost want to go into the office, so I can at least feel competent at something.
Based on the morning’s events, parenting isn’t going to be that thing today.
And because things on that score can’t get much worse, I pull out my phone and tap out a text message to Ellie. She hasn’t responded in more than four months, but that doesn’t keep me from trying.
Just accidentally dropped the F-bomb, shocking Aja’s new principal and a grandmotherly crossing guard. Thought that might amuse you. Love you, sweet cheeks. Dad
I know I don’t need to sign texts—Ellie taught me that two years ago when she looked over my shoulder at a message I was sending and had ended with Eric. “D
aaa-aad,” she said, in that new You’re the stupidest person on earth way she had begun drawing out my name. “You know that when you send a text, your contact info automatically pops up? Everyone knows it’s from you?” This was also around the time she started ending every sentence with an upward lilt, as if every statement were, somehow, also a question. I soon learned from listening to her friends speak that this was typical adolescent-girl linguistics, and I wondered if they were handed an instruction book when they got to middle school on how to talk and dress and patronize their parents.
Anyway, I did not know about the redundancy of signing texts and was happy for the lesson—even if its delivery was a touch condescending.
But I still sign my texts to Ellie because now I like picturing her rolling her eyes at her dad’s buffoonery. I hope it might even make her giggle a little. And maybe I also like reminding her that that’s who I am. Her dad. Even if she doesn’t want to talk to me.
I hit “send.” And then I pour another cup of coffee.
Tomorrow. I’ll start cutting back on coffee tomorrow.
three
JUBILEE
THE MAILMAN IS late.
I’m trying to pay attention to the Jack the Ripper special on PBS, but my eyes keep roving to the clock on the wall. It’s 1:17. The mail comes every day between 12:00 and 12:30.
And I’m worried about him. The mailman. Even though I’ve never once talked to him. And I don’t even know his real name. I call him Earl, because one time I heard him through the door, belting out in his baritone: “Duke, Duke, Duke . . . Duke of Earl, Earl, Earl.”
Maybe he witnessed a purse-snatching and chased the would-be robber down on foot, tackling him to the ground to retrieve a stranger’s bag. That seems like something Earl would do—he has that kind of face. Decent. Good.
But what if it’s something worse? Like a stroke? Or a blood clot that traveled up his leg and went straight to his heart? He could be lying helpless on the street right now, under the vibrant blue sky, envelopes and packages spread beneath him like flotsam haphazardly floating in the sea.
Close Enough to Touch Page 3