Not Today

by MC Lee

  I was too cowardly to admit that I was using Dad’s illness to cover the uncomfortable truth—that Noah might have faced the same reception before Dad started slipping away. But something in his frozen expression made me realize Noah knew it anyway.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said, and there was nothing I could think to say that might make him feel better. I watched as he leaped off the porch and walked hurriedly away, something about his hasty retreat feeling horribly final.

  I dragged myself reluctantly back to the kitchen to find Dad still seated.

  “I want a drink,” he said sullenly.

  I swallowed hard, anger literally making my body shake. But there was no point bitching; the damage had already been done. I filled the one remaining glass with cold water and pressed it firmly into Dad’s hand.

  “Did your mother come back with my shaving foam?”

  He sounded so normal, as though she’d stepped out five minutes ago, instead of the eight months she’d been gone. And he was uncannily right. It’s the exact excuse she’d used when she’d left.

  “Your dad has run out of shaving foam. I’m going down the road to pick some up.”

  She’d pulled on her jacket and picked her purse off the kitchen table.

  “Do you need anything, Emmett?”

  I’d barely glanced up, not even bothering to pull my headphones off, hiding behind the jangling guitar chords and thumping drumbeat of some long-forgotten metal anthem so I wouldn’t have to talk to either of them.

  At the last minute, she tucked a scarf around her neck and looked around the kitchen. “Back in a few.”

  Back in a few. Her last words before she disappeared out of our lives without a backward glance, leaving me to wonder whether she’d been quietly planning this for weeks, or whether she’d started walking toward the store and realized she just couldn’t stop.

  When I found the note, tucked into the photo frame in my bedroom, I’d gotten my answer. The words had been gouged into the single sheet of paper, as though she had put all her weight behind them. It wasn’t exactly “Gone Fishing” but it was close enough. Can’t cope, sorry, look after him, love you, blah, blah blah. I’d pored over the flimsy piece of paper so many times looking for hidden clues, deeper messages. But there had been nothing more to find. I’d kept the note crumpled up in the bottom of a drawer, more than half expecting her to walk through the door, until months later it became obvious she really had gone and she wasn’t coming home.

  “Mom’s not back yet,” I said. “Why don’t you go lie down? I’ll call you when she comes.”

  Dad looked uncertain, and then he shrugged and stood up, before shambling toward the stairs and disappearing.

  The house fell silent again, and I couldn’t escape my own thoughts any longer. My gut was all twisted up over Noah’s sudden departure. Not that I could blame him. My life was a mess.

  I’d just wandered aimlessly into the living room when I heard a knock at the front door. I opened it, expecting to find Mrs. Sweeney, my mouth all but falling open to find Noah standing on the porch with a shopping bag at his feet.

  “You’re not going to be an idiot,” he said firmly. “You’re going to take this and we’re not going to talk about what happened here again.” He pushed the bag toward me and then stepped back quickly. “I’ll pick you up same time tomorrow. Bring my backpack with you.”

  He had turned and climbed back into his Jeep before I even moved, and a moment later he drove off. When he was gone, I bent down and opened the bag. Inside I found a twenty-four-piece melamine dinnerware set and a set of eight plastic glasses.

  THE NEXT morning I climbed into the Jeep and threw Noah’s backpack on the back seat, and though I didn’t say the words, tongue-tied by Noah’s unending generosity, I hoped he could see the way my whole body sang with gratitude.

  Chapter Seventeen

  TWO DAYS later Noah slung a casual arm around my neck and asked, “Do you want to swing by the diner tonight?”

  I was shaking my head before the words were even halfway out of his mouth. “Mrs. Sweeney is going to a Women’s League meeting at the church. I know she won’t be able to watch my dad—”

  “Bring him.”

  “What?”

  “Bring him along,” Noah said. “You guys could have dinner.” He threw a hand up when I opened my mouth to refuse. “The food is on the house, straight up. It’s part of my deal.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked doubtfully. “Even after—”

  “We’re putting that behind us, Emmett,” Noah said firmly. “Like you said, that was the sickness speaking.”

  It was hard to believe he could be so forgiving after Dad had been so awful. But, as I was beginning to understand, that was Noah Davis.

  “Come by at about seven. Grab a couple of chef specials. You’ll be back home by eight thirty. Come on, give it a try at least.”

  Though every molecule screamed that I should refuse, that I’d fought so hard to protect my family’s secrets and couldn’t jeopardize them now, I wanted so badly to believe this could happen. “You don’t think anybody will be there that might know him?”

  “So what if they are?” Noah said. He managed to keep a straight face when he added, “Your dad isn’t the most friendly, outgoing guy. I doubt anybody will want to bother you.”

  I had barely taken Dad out of the house for months, apart from a quick walk around the block when I felt confident nobody was around. His skin had started to look pale and pasty, and I knew it couldn’t be good for his health to never exercise or catch a breath of fresh air. Noah was right, outside of Dad’s few friends, there weren’t many people who’d braved his unpredictable moods, and nobody at all who’d been inclined to stop and chat in the face of his surly volatility. I was certain I could control him in public for an hour or two.

  I wavered for a few seconds, weighing instinctive fear against my own desperate longing and the determination in Noah’s eyes. “Okay,” I said slowly. “Let’s do it.”

  I almost regretted the decision when I got home to find Dad looking more spaced out than usual. It was a struggle to get him washed up and dressed in something other than sweatpants or pajamas, and it was a shock to find that his regular pants hung off him like a scarecrow. He’d lost a lot more weight than I’d realized.

  “We’re going out for dinner, Dad,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because we don’t have any food in the house.”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  I had prepared for a variety of questions, including this one. “She’s going to meet us there.” There wasn’t much chance he’d remember once we got to the restaurant, so I didn’t feel too bad about the lie.

  When he was ready, I looked him up and down. Apart from his too-baggy clothes and a dazed look in his eyes, it would be hard to see any difference between now and before. I hoped anybody looking at him would just see an ordinary man out for a meal with his son.

  We walked up to Third Avenue and caught the bus because I didn’t think Dad would manage to walk the whole way. He was fidgety on the bus, but quiet, and less than ten minutes later, we hopped off on Bloor Street, right outside the diner.

  I pushed open the door, and Noah was beside me almost as soon as I stepped across the threshold.

  “You came,” he said, sounding a lot happier than the occasion called for. “Hello, Mr. Callaghan. Let me find you a seat.”

  He started walking to the back of the restaurant, and I was about to follow him, but Dad remained rooted to the spot.

  “Come on, Dad. Noah is taking us to a booth.”

  Dad didn’t move. Noah walked back a few steps.

  “You prefer to sit up front, Mr. Callaghan?”

  Dad turned his head, looking totally blank. “I don’t know you,” he said, his voice strangely fearful.

  “It’s my friend. Noah. You’ve met him before.” I took his arm and tugged. “Come on. Let’s sit down and have some food.”

  I final
ly got him moving, and he shuffled to the booth Noah led us to. I guided him into a seat and slid in opposite him.

  “Let me bring you some water and a couple of menus,” Noah said brightly.

  As he walked away, Dad kept darting glances at his retreating back.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  He mumbled something unintelligible and ducked his head.

  “What do you feel like eating?” I asked, but I couldn’t get him to answer.

  Noah returned and deposited two glasses of water on the table and then handed me a menu. He held one out to Dad, but he just stared at it without making any move to take it. Noah and I exchanged a glance, and then he opened the menu and placed it in Dad’s hands.

  “Chef’s special tonight is meatloaf. And it’s good,” Noah said. “I’ll give you a few minutes to decide.”

  He smiled in encouragement and went to greet a couple who had just walked through the door. I didn’t bother looking at the menu, deciding the meatloaf sounded fine. When I glanced up at Dad, he was staring at the menu, looking totally perplexed.

  “Do you see anything you like?” I asked.

  He barely raised his head when he whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Just choose something,” I said.

  He continued to stare blankly, and in the end I pried the menu gently out of his hands and said, “How about I order for you?”

  Noah swung by the table, and I placed an order for two meatloaf specials. He raised a questioning eyebrow, clearly asking if things were okay. I shrugged, not knowing the answer. This tentativeness was something new. My dad had always had a swagger in his step, a confidence in himself that I had thought was misplaced but had accepted as part of the man.

  This person, hunched and lost, nervously shredding the red paper napkin and sending out anxious glances, flinching when the people in the next booth laughed too loudly—this person was not the man I had grown up with, the man I had avoided, feared, and finally come to pity.

  I reached over and placed my hand on his, and he stilled, letting what was left of the napkin fall to the table.

  “Why are we here?” he asked.

  “I told you, Dad. We’re just going to have something to eat. Then we’ll leave.”

  He lapsed into silence when Noah returned with two heaping plates of meatloaf and set one in front of each of us. “There you go,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  I picked up my fork and began to eat. Noah was right; the meatloaf was delicious. After a few mouthfuls, I realized Dad was just sitting, staring at his plate. I pushed his fork toward him.

  “Better eat it while it’s hot,” I said.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s meatloaf.”

  He shook his head. “Meatloaf is Sunday.”

  “Not this week,” I said, surprised he knew what day of the week it was, let alone remembered our old habits. “Eat it. It’s really good.”

  He shook his head again, and his jaw set into a stubborn line I’d seen many times before. I wasn’t about to get into it with him, figuring he’d come around when he was hungry enough, but next thing I knew, he banged his fist on the table and roared, “Meatloaf is Sunday,” before sweeping his arm across the table and sending cutlery, water glasses, and plates crashing to the floor.

  A sudden silence fell over the restaurant as all heads turned. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Noah sprinting across the floor and skidding to a halt beside the table, just as a chef and a man in a shirt and tie bolted out of the kitchen.

  “It’s fine. Everything’s fine,” Noah said reassuringly, bending to pick up some of the larger shards of glass.

  Dad stood up abruptly and tried to scramble out of the booth, and I stepped forward to block the way. I don’t know whether he panicked at being trapped in place, but he suddenly lashed out and caught me on the jaw, and I stumbled backward, though I managed to keep my feet.

  The man in the shirt and tie strode forward, and Noah leaped up and pulled me out of harm’s way.

  “What the hell is going on here?” the man hissed.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Tenelli,” Noah said quickly. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “What about all this damage?” Tenelli fumed. “Who’s going to pay for that?”

  “I said I’d take care of it,” Noah said tightly.

  Tenelli wagged a finger at me. “I want you out,” he said. “This is a family restaurant, not a boxing ring.”

  “He’s sick,” I said, shaking Noah’s hands off me.

  “Sick? Then he should be at the hospital or home in bed, not scaring my customers. Get him out of here. And you.” He turned and poked Noah in the chest. “Clean up this mess. Now.”

  “You don’t have to be such an asshole about it,” I snapped.

  “Emmett, don’t,” Noah warned.

  Tenelli drew himself up. “Get out of my restaurant before I call the cops.”

  Noah grabbed me again and tugged me back. “Just go,” he whispered urgently. “Please.”

  I saw the pleading look in his eyes and nodded curtly. I didn’t want to make things worse for him, and I couldn’t afford to have the cops involved.

  “Come on, Dad,” I said.

  He shuffled out of the booth and skirted the mess on the floor, and the two of us walked out, avoiding the curious looks from the rest of the customers. When I glanced back, it turned my stomach to see Noah on his hands and knees, cleaning up our mess.

  Dad was completely passive when I hustled him onto the bus, which perversely made my blood boil. He’d ruined dinner, shoved Noah in the shit, and now he sat here, meek as a lamb, staring out of the window in silence. I couldn’t open my mouth to speak, afraid all the bitterness I’d bottled up would spew out of me in an unending torrent.

  “I always loved her meatloaf.” The words were so soft I hardly heard them. I leaned in closer, but he didn’t turn his head. “I never told her. Not once. Not in all the years we were together. But I always loved her meatloaf.” He paused, and his voice hitched when he added, “I’d give anything if I could tell her now.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  WHEN THE phone rang early the next morning, my first instinct was to ignore it. After all, the only people who had called the landline in months were telemarketers and utility companies reminding me I was past due on payment. But on the fifth ring, I snatched the receiver off the wall and growled, “What?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line, except for the faint sound of breathing. “Hello?” I said. When the silence continued, I lost patience. “Listen, whatever the hell it is you’re selling—”

  “Emmett. It’s me.”

  I felt as though I’d been punched in the gut. It was Mom’s voice—something I hadn’t heard in almost eight months. I found all my words had fled, all the questions, all the accusations and recriminations, everything was gone.

  “Emmett. Are you there?”

  “I’m here. Where the hell are you?” I could practically hear her shiver at the icy tone.

  “I’m staying with friends.”

  “You’re in Whitmore?” I demanded. She’d lived in this town her whole life. Everybody she knew was here.

  “New friends,” she said quickly. “How are you, Emmett?”

  This time the silence was outright incredulity. “How the hell do you think I am? You walked out! You left me here alone. With him.”

  She cleared her throat. “I didn’t have any other choice—”

  “And what about me?” I cut in. “Did you stop for five seconds to think about how this would affect me?”

  “How’s school?” she blurted. There was a desperate edge to her voice, but I wasn’t letting her off that easily.

  “You haven’t bothered to call in eight fucking months and that’s what you want to say to me?”

  “Are you getting the money I send?” Her voice was tightly controlled, and I could tell she was trying to ignore my belligerence.
For some perverse reason, it made me angrier that she wouldn’t take the bait and let me purge myself of all the dread and hostility tearing me apart.

  “You think sending money gets you off the hook?” I said nastily. “The only reason you send money is to ease your conscience—”

  “How is he?” she interrupted.

  “He’s a fucking mess,” I snarled. “Half the time he doesn’t know his own name. I can’t leave him alone for more than a few hours because I don’t know what the hell he’ll do. Are you coming home? Is that why you called?”

  I heard a strangled sound, like a sob cut off midway. “I can’t be there, Emmett. Please try to understand—”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, my voice rising sharply. “Dad’s gotten worse. We need you.”

  “Do you know what you’re asking me to do?”

  I didn’t need to hear the anguish in her voice. I knew. Though Dad was out of it more and more, he wasn’t bad enough for a permanent hospital placement, not if there was a responsible adult in the house. We didn’t have the money to pay for private care; there was no insurance to cover drugs or supplies or medical expenses. If she came back, she’d be condemned to years of nursing Dad through deteriorating health and worsening temper.

  For one desperate moment, the answer hung in the balance. A huge part of me wanted to hand this burden back to her, to force her to make the decisions I couldn’t bring myself to make. If she were here, I could slip back into my normal teenage life and put the last months behind me. I would no longer be the weird loner. I could have Noah. I could get back to just being me.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to say the words and pass sentence on the rest of her life.

  There was a long pause before she spoke again. “You could call the authorities. You’re a minor. They’d have to take care of him.”

  My stomach did a slow, nauseating roll. “And then would you come home? If he was gone, would you come back?”