Questions I Want to Ask You

by Michelle Falkoff

  Dad laughed. “No, I didn’t forget to feed your mommy. But she’s gone, just like Charlie, and she isn’t coming back. You can tell Ms. Silver that, if she asks again. And say thanks for me.”

  I didn’t understand that last part then, but I do now. We’ve only talked about my mother a couple of times since, enough for me to understand that she died after I was born and Dad really, really doesn’t like to talk about it.

  Which is fine. I don’t need a mother. Dad and I get along great, at least most of the time. He’s pretty much my best friend, aside from Maddie.

  I remind myself of that the next morning as I leave to meet him for breakfast. I’m still not convinced the letter is real, but Maddie’s prodding does make me wonder why he’s never told me anything about her. If I can get him to talk now, maybe it will convince me the letter is bogus. Worth a shot, anyway.

  Dad and I meet at Spiro’s, the Greek diner downtown, where we always go. It’s set up like a cafeteria, with a line where you order your food from a woman who looks like someone’s grandma, complete with dyed black hair showing white roots, and two black moles that I swear get bigger every time I see her. We order the same food every time: I always get the veggie omelet special with no cheese, but Dad isn’t nearly as Paleo-committed as I am, so his omelet has like five kinds of dairy in it. We go through the line while the cook works on our eggs, me grabbing black coffee and fruit salad while Dad waits on a grilled bagel. “This is why I’ll never go full Neanderthal,” he says.

  We bring our trays over to a booth, with plastic seats and a plastic table that’s supposed to look like wood. Spiro’s is hopping, as usual; I don’t think I’ve ever been there during a time it wasn’t busy. At lunch it’s famous for enormous roast-beef sandwiches on old-fashioned bulkie rolls; at night it serves homemade spanakopita and shepherd’s pie with lots of cinnamon. I haven’t eaten a meal other than breakfast here in years.

  I dig into my fruit salad and Dad bites his dripping-with-butter bagel as we wait for the rest of our food. “Happy birthday, buddy,” he says, still chewing. “Sorry we couldn’t do something yesterday, but I’m guessing Maddie took care of you.”

  I’m sure Dad knows she stayed over, but we managed to get out of the house before he came home. He knows we’re sleeping together, too; he gave me a million lectures about sex way before anything actually happened. He started with the basics when I was a kid and all squicked out by the details, but then he told me about birth control (“Duh, Dad”), about respecting women (“They’re just girls,” I said, but he shook his head and told me I should always think of them as women, especially if I was contemplating something as adult as sex), and especially about consent (“You don’t know the terrible things I’ve seen,” he said, “and don’t think I’ll be one of those parents who sticks up for his kid when he’s done something as horrible as that”). I took his lectures to heart, and Maddie and I made the decision together to start doing it, when neither of us could wait anymore. That was over a year ago.

  “She made me dinner,” I say. “It was a good day.” Here’s my chance to tell him what’s on my mind, but I’m having trouble getting started, and then the food comes. We both start eating right away, and I’m grateful to have a little time to come up with the right questions to ask.

  By the time we finish our omelets I’m no closer to finding the words, so I just jump in. “Dad, the whole birthday thing—turning eighteen and everything. It got me thinking about my mother. I don’t know anything about her, really.”

  Dad stops mid-bite, holding his fork in the space between his mouth and his plate. He swallows, then says, “You never seemed all that interested in her before.”

  That’s fair. Maddie asked me more questions about my mom than I ever asked my dad. “Well, I am now. How did she die?”

  Dad takes another bite of bagel, and I wonder whether he’s doing it to buy time. “You sure you want to know? It’s not a great story.”

  “I want to know everything.”

  “Better start from the beginning, then.” He signals to the waitress for a coffee refill. I wait quietly until Dad pushes his tray forward and then places both hands on the table, as if steeling himself against a possible blow. “Neither of us comes off so good here,” he says. “Your mother and me, I mean. There’s a reason I haven’t told you much. Figured I’d wait until you were older, thought I’d know when the time was right, but you stopped asking, so I thought maybe it didn’t matter so much anymore.”

  “I get it, Dad,” I say. “It matters now, though.”

  He runs his hand over his head, tousling his thinning blond hair. We might be built the same, but we don’t look much alike—my hair is dark and thick and curly, though I’ve clipped it down to almost nothing to keep it from soaking up sweat when I work out; my eyes are dark, too, unlike his, which are almost green. I never thought about the fact that I probably look more like my mother. “Natalie—your mother—we met when we were pretty young. We went to high school at the same time, but she was a year or two ahead of me, and we didn’t run with the same crowd, so we didn’t really know each other. We met after I graduated from the police academy and came back to Brooksby to join the force. She’d gone to college for a year but got into some kind of trouble and took time off, though at the time I didn’t know what kind of trouble. She was trying to get it together and worked at this coffee place near the station. Tom and I used to flirt with her, but she wasn’t having it. Then one day I asked her out when Tom wasn’t around and she said yes. I was surprised—I didn’t think she’d be into dating cops. We’re not always the easiest guys to get along with.”

  I laugh, since that’s both completely true and totally wrong. Dad and his friends can be obnoxious and aggressive and competitive and sometimes inappropriate, especially when they don’t think I’m listening, but they’re also hilarious and hardworking, and being around them always makes me feel safe. Tom especially has come to feel like family—he’s the closest thing to a relative I have.

  Dad doesn’t smile, though. He seems determined to get the story out as quickly as he can. “There’s no classy way to tell you this part,” he says, turning his head away from me. “We started getting together a lot. Mostly late at night, when my shift was over—I worked second shift then. I had a place downtown—it wasn’t much, but she still lived with her parents. I gave her a key and she’d be waiting for me when I got home. We didn’t go to dinner or to the movies or even to bars. We just . . .”

  “You’re saying she was your booty call.” I don’t get why he thinks this is so shocking. Does he think I made up some fairy tale?

  Dad looks relieved. “That’s not exactly how I’d put it, but you get the idea. I thought we’d been careful, but one day she told me she was late. We talked about what to do, but for me there was no question. Irish Catholic families take care of their own. Her family was Catholic too—Italian—so I thought it would be obvious to her. But she wasn’t so sure she wanted to be a parent, and it wasn’t like we were going to get married. I said I’d take care of you and she didn’t have to be involved, and she agreed as long as I gave her some money for college—she’d have to quit her job and put off going back for another year. I didn’t have any money, but your grandfather was willing to dip into his pension, so that’s what we did. He wasn’t too happy with me, though, and we’ve never really gotten past it. But I’ve always been grateful he put up the money. It’s what your grandmother would have wanted.”

  It kind of sounds like he bought me. I’m not sure how to feel about that. But if he bought me, then my mother sold me, and I’m quite sure how I feel about that. There’s just one thing to ask now. “So she didn’t die? She just left?”

  Dad shakes his head. “I wish that were the end. After you were born and she got the money, she left town. I heard she hadn’t used the money for college at all. She’d gotten back into her old habits, and word was she died of a drug overdose. I’m sorry to have to tell you that, kiddo. But that’s why I
’ve always been on your ass about staying away from that stuff. And about birth control. I don’t want you repeating any of our mistakes.”

  Now I don’t know what to think. It sounds like Dad really believes my mother is dead. But it also sounds like it’s possible she could be alive. I hadn’t thought both things could be true at once.

  “How you doing there, bud?” Dad asks. “I know it’s not a great story, but you can see why I didn’t rush to tell you.”

  “Doing okay,” I say. I might even mean it. I understand why it would have been hard to explain the situation to me when I was a kid. Dad’s mom died when he was young, so maybe me growing up without a mother doesn’t seem so strange to him.

  “What if we head home and I give you your birthday present?” he asks. “Or were you going straight from here to the beach?” He knows all about the plan to spend the next few days at Good Harbor; he did the same thing when he was a senior at Brooksby High, way back when.

  “I was going home first,” I say. “Got to pick up my stuff, change into a bathing suit.”

  Dad shivers. “Way too cold for that, kiddo. But you’re old enough to make your own decisions. I’ll meet you at home. Just hang back for a few minutes, let me get things together, okay?”

  “No problem.” I stay at the table and text Maddie as Dad leaves the restaurant. Talked to Dad about my mother.

  She texts back immediately. And? Don’t leave me hanging.

  Confusing. Complicated. Fill you in at the beach. Meet you there in an hour or so? Have to get the boys/beer.

  She writes back in emoji, alternating hearts with an image of a sun, the beach, an island with a palm tree. It’s barely seventy degrees out, but I like the optimism.

  By the time I get home Dad’s done whatever he needed to do, and he’s standing in front of the entryway to the kitchen with a big grin. “Go check it out.”

  In the kitchen, he’s rearranged the counter to make space for a new appliance: a Vitamix blender. I’ve been wanting one for ages, but they’re incredibly expensive, so I’ve been making do with our crappy blender.

  “Dad, thank you so much! You know you didn’t have to do this.” I run over and give him a hug. We’re not big huggers, usually, but this is a special occasion.

  “Benefits me as much as you,” he says. “As long as I don’t have to drink any of those goddamn kale smoothies.”

  “I’ll stick to fruit,” I promise.

  He yawns. “I’ll hold you to it. Time for bed now, though. Have fun at the beach. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  That’s pretty much what he tells me every time I go out. “No promises.” I always reply the same way, too.

  He pauses before his bedroom door. “Glad we talked, son. You know you can ask me whatever you want, right? You can talk to me about anything?”

  The questions make me feel weirdly guilty. It makes sense not to show him the letter if it’s bogus, but I’m not sure what the right thing to do is if it’s real. I still don’t know what to believe, so not showing him is the best option. I think. “Yeah, Dad,” I say. “I know.”

  4

  For one glorious week after school lets out, Good Harbor Beach belongs to us seniors. There are no lifeguards on duty until Memorial Day so there’s no one there to enforce the rules, like not having fire pits or booze. Taking over the beach is a tradition for all regional high schools, and locals know to go to Wingaersheek Beach down the street to avoid us if they want to get near the water. Everyone I know from Brooksby High is there, along with tons of kids from other schools.

  Good Harbor is the nicest beach around. The sand is white and soft and clean and flat, which makes it perfect for lying out or playing volleyball. Since today is the first day of our reign, a bunch of guys volunteered to set up the fire pit and the volleyball net. I have a big car, so I’ve been roped in. After Dad gives me my birthday present, I take a quick shower, put on swim shorts and a T-shirt, throw my towel and sunscreen and wallet in my gym bag, and head out to pick everyone up.

  The guys who are coming in my truck are all at Sean Kaczynski’s house: Mike Goldschmidt, whose bar mitzvah still looms large in my memories of Maddie, along with Jimmy Murphy and Tony DiPietro. These are the guys I eat lunch with every day, and once in a while I party with them on weekends, though it might be a stretch to call them real friends. They’re all outside when I pull up, loaded down with beach chairs and sporting equipment. “We still need to go to Home Depot for the fire-pit stuff,” Sean says.

  “We need to go to the liquor store, too,” Tony says. “You got your fake, Pack?”

  He means my ID—I’ve got the best one out of all of us, and they all think I won’t get in trouble if I get caught because of my dad. I’m not sure they’re right, but so far we haven’t had to test the theory—we found a place in Danvers where the cashier barely glances at my ID at all. I think the short hair makes me look older.

  We hit the Home Depot first, stocking up on firewood and lighter fluid, before going to the package store for beer and ice. We empty two cases of Natty Light into coolers and speed down the highway, blasting Kendrick as we go, windows rolled down. I laugh as Mike screams about what’s in his DNA and try not to think about what’s in mine. I have the whole week off, the weather is sunny and already getting warmer than the reports said it would be, and I’ll see Maddie at the beach in a few minutes. For a minute, I put all thoughts of my mother out of my head and instead focus on how happy I am.

  It doesn’t last long. When we get to the beach, Maddie’s wearing cutoffs and a UMass T-shirt. The shirt is a reminder that everything is about to change. She bought it when she officially decided where she was going in the fall. I’d been pulling for her to go to Salem State, the school down the street, so we could stay in Brooksby together. We’d live in an apartment kind of like the one I lived in now, but farther downtown to make it easier for her to commute. She’d study, and I’d work and try to decide what I wanted to be, and once we’d both figured our shit out, we’d get married or something. I don’t know. I only know I can’t picture being with anyone else, anywhere else.

  But we aren’t on the same page. We had one of our first and only fights when Maddie showed me her college applications. She wasn’t applying to Salem State at all; she was shooting for scholarships at UMass, Holy Cross, and BC. UMass is the farthest away, and when she got a full ride there my dream of us living together in Brooksby ended. She’s never said anything about me coming out there with her either, even though I wouldn’t want to anyway—I like it where I am. I’ve never even considered living anywhere else. We haven’t talked about what’s going to happen when she moves.

  Maddie waves me over when she sees me and the guys on the sand with all our stuff. She set up her chair and towel near the crew of girls we hang out with. Kelsey Whelan, Maddie’s friend from grade school, is the queen bee; she’s going out with Sean, which only makes sense. Lauren Schultz and Brooke Almeida surprised everyone last year by breaking up with their boyfriends and dating each other. They put up with way more crap from people than I ever did when I was teased, but most people have settled down and stopped being assholes by now. They’re all nice girls, not part of the super-jock crowd that will show up later, drinking our beers and taking over the volleyball game and never offering anything in return. It’s like the jocks extract a price for deigning to hang out with us, even though no one really wants them to.

  That’s a part of high school I won’t miss. But right now it’s just me and Maddie and all the people we like. The girls strip down to bikinis and slather themselves with sunscreen, even though the weather isn’t quite that warm, and the guys hand them beers from the cooler so they don’t have to get up. I guess chivalry isn’t completely dead.

  Maddie and I don’t really drink because of the Paleo stuff, but I don’t like beer all that much anyway. I’m happy to let everyone else do the drinking. I know Maddie’s brought us big bottles of coconut water so we can stay hydrated and lettuce to wrap our burg
ers in so we can skip the buns. People think we’re weird for how we eat, but we’re in it together, and we’re both feeling good, which makes it all worth it.

  The guys and I set up the fire pit a little ways down the beach and the volleyball net right near where the girls are sitting. I start a one-on-one game with Mike, which turns out to be not my best move—Mike actually knows how to play, and I’m just screwing around, watching as Colin Spencer goes over to sit with Maddie. Colin’s also going to UMass, and he’s been sniffing around Maddie ever since he found out her plans. I don’t want to be a jealous asshole, but Colin is tall and blond and muscular and all the girls think he’s hot, and I’m sure he’s hitting on Maddie right now. I can’t stop watching them.

  This doesn’t bode well for my volleyball game. I’m not sure whether Mike spikes the ball right on my head before I trip on the seashell or vice versa, but either way I finally manage to take my eyes off Maddie and Colin by face-planting in the sand.

  Ouch.

  “Pack, for a dude who works out as much as you do, you’re the most uncoordinated motherfucker I know,” Mike says.

  “Duh,” Maddie says. “Why do you think he works out instead of playing sports? He has the hand-eye coordination of a blindfolded puppy.”

  “Thanks,” I say, wiping the sand out of my eyes and pretending to sound wounded.

  “I compared you to a puppy. That’s totally a compliment.”

  I chase the volleyball down the beach, throw it back to Mike, then walk back toward Maddie. “I’m out.”

  “Come here, puppy, I’ll take care of you.” Maddie goes to pat the beach chair next to her, but Colin’s still in it. “You don’t mind, do you? We’ve got all summer to talk about fall.”

  Colin nods and gets up, but he doesn’t look happy about it. I, on the other hand, am thrilled. I collapse into the chair barely seconds after Colin leaves it. “Catch you guys later,” he says.