“Your family... bless you. Just... just bless you.”
I could hear the woman wheel away, turning down the aisle as she sniffed, so I panicked, figuring she was heading my direction. I didn’t want to see her. And I didn’t want to see that crying baby. I felt bad that she had been so upset. I felt bad that the woman had added me to her church’s prayer list. I just felt bad about all of it.
“I’m all done,” I exclaimed, jogging up to the check stand where Dad said I should meet him. My basket swung at my side. Dad was already there, loading his items onto the conveyer, looking like a robot as he did it. Mechanical. Stiff. “I didn’t know about the bananas,” I admitted as I emptied my contents onto the belt right behind his pile. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I might’ve gotten the wrong ones.”
He glanced at them, but not really long enough to even see what I was talking about. His gaze was empty and expressionless. He paused for a while, and then waved his hand at me, like it wasn’t a big deal. “It’s fine,” he murmured. “I meant to tell you not to bother with them, anyway.”
THIRTEEN
“Ms. Aberdeen,” Mr. Moriata, my AP English teacher, called out from the front of the classroom. It was 11:34 on Tuesday, just ten minutes until lunch dismissal, and he was holding a note the size of an index card between his fingers and squinting as he read, his wire-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose. The only thing that kept them from sliding off his face was the round bulb of cartilage at the tip. I supposed weird-shaped noses came in handy for something. “Ms. Aberdeen, you have a visitor in the office.”
I’d finished up my practice essay on the psychological themes in Dead Poets Society, focusing strictly on Neil and his relationship with his authoritarian father (if you could even call it one). Never before had my pen blazed across the page so furiously that I worried it would go up in smoke. Setting off the fire alarm halfway through class could earn me a crown come Senior Ball, I figured. I’d be a regular hero with that one. My classmates would surely love any excuse to drop their pencils and hightail it to scholastic freedom.
Apparently this specific subject matter was something already stored in my brain, packaged, prepared, and ready to transfer onto paper at a moment’s notice. The words to the essay spilled out of me, and four pages and one mild hand cramp later (but still no kindling), I found myself with nothing left to do for the remaining thirty minutes of class aside from stare at the clock on the wall just above Mr. Moriata’s poster of a quote that read: Books, your reward for having an attention span. I, however, was beginning to think I didn’t actually possess one. My mind stuttered from one thought to the next, never seeming to land on anything too significant for all too long. It played a frantic game of leapfrog inside my head.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I was able to land on one particular item of interest. I’d developed a pretty firm opinion on how it would be to kiss Lincoln, for starters. And then I formulated another opinion on what it would be like to fully make out with him. I was just about to get to the part where my imagination required less garments of clothing, when Mr. Moriata had called out my name. I cursed him quietly under my breath, thanking him for that hormonal buzzkill.
Naturally, I assumed my visitor had to be the boy who’d been starring in my PG-13 fantasies, because I hoped the universe rewarded people in that way. To my dismay, that wasn’t the case. I’d definitely never envisioned locking lips with Phil, my actual visitor. Well, except for now, because sometimes when you said things, your brain couldn’t help but conjure them up in a physical, tangible way. That was unfortunate in this instance. Phil had halitosis breath and I didn’t typically go for guys three times my age. Call me crazy, but I preferred my men a little less long in the tooth.
But I supposed the reason I even knew Phil at all had a little something to do with people literally calling me crazy.
“Philly,” I greeted as I swung open the metal door to the administration office. A musky stench immediately filled my nostrils. The room was stale, like no one had cracked its doors since the Italian Renaissance. Or maybe it was the Italian sub that Principal Perry was devouring in the adjoining room. Either way, it made my stomach tumble. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“Eppie.” Phil slid in for a hug and I held my breath. “It’s been a few weeks, eh?”
I nodded; it had been. I also wondered how Phil managed to become a Canadian in that short span of time.
“I was hoping I could take you off campus for some lunch? Feel like Mongolian?”
It was a stupid question that didn’t even warrant an answer because Phil knew exactly my response. I just gave him a toothy grin.
“Thought so,” he said. “I already signed you out. I’ll have you back before fifth period.”
That would be Spanish three. While I wasn’t by any means fluent, I’d be fine missing a class or two. Señora Sanchez would give me a pass, I figured. It was all bueno.
“Everything okay?” I asked as we walked out to the school parking lot. I hiked my rucksack higher up by tugging on the strap slung over my shoulder. The air was still weighty and substantially humid. It felt like the sky could split open at any given moment. “Should I be worried by your impromptu lunch appearance?”
Phil was a certified master of emotional disguise. I could tell him that I wanted to move to Antarctica and open up a FroYo franchise and he’d ask me how much capital I was hoping to secure and what flavors I planned to serve. He always heard me out, never giving me anything less than his complete attention. Yes, I knew he was hired at one point to do just that, but those paychecks stopped long ago and he still made a cameo or two every few weeks. Obligation had run its course, but Phil still remained steadfastly committed.
“You should not be worried, no.” We’d waded through the rows of cars and trucks, finally approaching his 1980’s matte black Datsun parked along the fence line. I opened the door and lowered down, worrying that my butt might actually hit the pavement once I was fully in my chair. This was a low rider for sure. “Look in the backseat.” Phil motioned with a flick of his head. “Brown paper bag.”
I twisted at the waist. There was a crumpled brown sack with my name on it. E-P-P-I-E. I snatched it from the back and the familiar weight of the bag clued me in instantly as to its contents.
“My fritter! You shouldn’t have.”
“Really? If that’s the case, you can leave it here—”
“I’m only running through the obligatory niceties,” I interrupted as I tore an edge off the donut and popped it into my mouth. It was still warm and the sweet cinnamon flavor coated my tongue and pulled up my taste buds. It was divine.
“Don’t eat the whole thing; you’ll spoil your appetite.”
Phil drove out of the parking lot, lowering his aviator shades onto his nose as he turned onto the highway. His hair was too long and too carefree for a man his age, and his whiskers were speckled with flecks of gray in a beard that hinted at a mid-life crisis. If he shaved off his trendy facial hair, he’d look years younger, but my guess was he sported the beard in an effort to appear younger (and optimistically hipper), too. Ah, that sneaky double-edged sword. It sliced him all up with that one, for sure.
Ignoring Phil’s suggestion, I inhaled the entire apple fritter as we drove to the restaurant, and I’d already eaten almost half a bowl of Mongolian B-B-Q before I felt my stomach tightening into fullness. Pressing my napkin to my mouth, I let out a quiet belch, alleviating the pain my gut.
“So the reason I brought you here... ”
“Wasn’t to fatten me up?” The waiter came by to refill our water glasses and I waited as the liquid poured into my cup. Then I took a sip. “I was beginning to think that you were getting me ready for some type of ancient sacrifice. The fattened calf and all.”
“First off,” Phil began. “They’d take my license away for doing something like that. Secondly, I think lambs are the preferred sacrificial offering. So if I was doing this right, I’d be buying you lots of
wool sweaters rather than pumping you full of calories.”
Oh, how I’d missed Phil. It was hard to believe that after nearly ten years, I’d gotten to the point of actually feeling an emotional attachment to this man, when at one point in time I couldn’t even bear to look at him.
Phil had embodied everything awful in my life. It wasn’t entirely his fault, of course, but association was cruel that way. Like a song that wouldn’t let you forget the heartbreak accompanied with its memory, Phil’s face defined an era that I wanted nothing more than to bury in my past. His smile was the taunting, You poor girl. His frown was the, You would’ve been better off dead. His crinkled eyes and his pulled brow were the, What on earth were you thinking? Each line on his face, each expression in his gaze, every inflection in his tone was an analysis of my crumbling, fragile state of being.
Of course, I was entirely aware that these were my own thoughts I projected onto him. As I said before, Phil was good at masking. But it didn’t stop me from filling in the gaps. It didn’t stop me from adding the thoughts I knew had to be there into his expressions and actions. Even though he was forbidden from revealing it, there had to be some judgment there.
Which, in fairness, was exactly how it should’ve been. That’s what he was paid to do, after all.
I didn’t sense any analytical assessment today as he offered me a genuine smile over the rim of his water glass.
“You have a birthday coming up, Eppie.” Phil twirled his fork in the noodles, spinning them up like a ball of yarn. Then he stabbed a piece of leathery meat that had been frozen just moments earlier. Not necessarily the freshest meal, but that was probably what made it so wonderfully tasty. “A big one.”
“That I do.” I knew exactly where this was going.
“What are your plans?” He wrapped his thin lips around his fork and pulled all the noodles into his mouth with a slurp. “Anything fun?”
I deliberated. “Let me think.” Thumbing my chin, I said, “I’ve actually got a new sorta-boyfriend and I suppose maybe I’ll have shake-the-rafters, rattle-the-windows sex with him since I’ll finally be legal and all.”
“Eponine,” Phil hissed. Maybe I’d only said it for the reaction, because there was absolutely no way that would be happening within the month. I could count the number of boys I’d merely kissed on one hand. I didn’t even need a hand at all to number the guys I’d slept with. I figured that integer wasn’t about to change any time soon, either.
“Obviously I’m kidding, Phil.” His posture relaxed, only slightly. “We’ll be quiet.”
“I know you say these sorts of things because you are subconsciously looking for the protective paternal reaction, so I assume you’re pleased that I just offered it to you free of charge.”
I chuckled and scooped up my water glass again.
I wondered if it was possible for someone in Phil’s position to ever switch off their analytical mind. Did he go through his days summing up all of his interactions, and then diagnosing these poor unsuspecting folks that made the honest mistake of engaging him in conversation? Shrinks should come with warning labels, I figured. Hello my name is _________, and I will be sizing up every single thing about you. Nice to make your acquaintance.
“But in absolute seriousness,” he continued. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”
I settled my glass onto the table and lifted my fork from my lunch to take another bite. The fritter would just have to make room. “About my mom?”
“Yes.” He held his firm gaze on me. “About her.”
“Of course I’ve thought about it.”
“And?”
Pushing my bowl away from me, I stretched my arms across the table, shrugging. Then I reached out and fiddled with the straw in my glass. Like I was a child, I pressed the pad of my finger over the top of the straw and lifted it from the water by several inches. Then I watched as the liquid trickled out when I removed my finger from its suctioned position. It was only mildly entertaining, and judging by the look on Phil’s face, he wasn’t even remotely entertained by it.
He grabbed the cup from my grip.
“Eppie, I’d like to know your plan.” He scooted the glass to the empty place setting next to him, just out of my reach. “As your doctor—”
“You’re not technically my doctor anymore.”
“As your friend,” Phil corrected. His voice was soft and quiet, especially for a man’s. “I want to know what you plan to do.”
“So you can tell me I’m making the wrong decision?” I asked, more as an accusation than an actual question. My words were snide, which I knew Phil didn’t deserve. I heard my dad’s familiar tone embedded in them, spewing from my mouth.
“So I can support you in that decision.” The correction was instant, and I felt he meant it. Years ago, once Phil and a few other important doctors finally agreed that mentally I was as stable as should be expected, Phil had told me that he’d always be there. That the end of our professional relationship did not signify the end of our entire relationship. I’m sure he sensed I had deep-seated abandonment issues, and I figured he didn’t want to help that issue take further root. Phil always had a hand in my growth, and it was a relief in knowing he planned to carry on in that same way indefinitely.
“I think I want to finally visit her.”
His fixed expression didn’t waiver. “Have you told your father?”
“No.”
“Do you think maybe you should?”
I was thirsty, and slightly resentful that Phil had commandeered my cup. Out of my dry mouth, I managed to speak the words, “I’m not sure I’d be able to find a sober opportunity to share that bit of information with him.”
Phil’s lips tightened as he inferred, “He’s drinking again.”
“Again would imply that at one point he’d stopped,” I explained. “He’s on an alcohol consumption continuum. There is no stopping point in that infinite loop.”
“Still.” Phil swiped the check from the waiter’s hand as he arrived at the side of our table to drop it off. I nodded my head toward it and smiled my thank you when he slipped a credit card into the black leather folder. He always paid, and I was always so appreciative. “It’s worth telling him, Eppie. Whether he comprehends or even remembers the conversation, it’s one worth having. He needs to know that you’re finally accepting this reality. This is a big deal.”
“I’m not sure.”
Phil pushed up from his seat to slip his wallet into his back pocket. Then he brought his hands together and folded his fingers, lowering them onto the ledge of the table as he settled back in. “I think it needs to happen.”
I laughed, huffing, “Is that your professional opinion, Philly?”
“Not necessarily. But it’s what I would do if I were you. He’s trying, Eppie. I know it’s a completely messed up position you’re in, I do. And he’s definitely not the best dad. Not even close. But he’s your dad, and keeping the lines of communication open is sort of important.”
My stomach tightened and I fought back my frustration, swallowing thickly to keep it buried in my gut. Maybe all the food could keep it there, tucked away. “But she was his wife. Maybe she should’ve thought about keeping those lines open when she had the chance.”
“Have you thought about asking him to go with you?”
“No.” I was honest, and in truth, I didn’t have to ask him to know the answer.
“I don’t think you should go by yourself.” Phil’s concern was overtly sincere, and he spoke with a pleading tone that coated his words. I knew he wanted the best for me, I did. I got that. “I can only imagine how emotional this is going to be, especially after waiting all this time. Would you like me to go with you?”
“I don’t think that would go over well,” I smirked. Phil scooted my drink across the table toward me, like I’d somehow earned it back, and I caught it with my palm. Lowering my head, I took a long, cooling sip.
He deliberated for a few contemplat
ive moments. The thumbs once tucked into his hands now twirled around one another, twiddling. “What about this new sorta-boyfriend of yours? What about him?”
“Oh, God no!” Nerves rose in me, making my heart pump double-time. The dizzying ring of too much blood thundering into my ears drowned out every other sound within the restaurant. It all became background noise, except for the breathing also now magnified within my own head. Breaths and beats, that’s all I was when it came to the mere mention of Lincoln. “I think he might actually like me. The key to keeping it that way is not airing all of my dirty laundry right off the bat. He’d run for the hills. Screaming, most likely.”
Phil thumbs must’ve gotten tired from all the twirling, because one of them had now slowed down to rub circles against his chin instead. “Really?” he asked, his brows so tight they looked as though they could snap, like a brittle twig or even a pencil. They were severe, but not at all angered. Just intense on the most heartfelt level. “I thought the key was merely being yourself.”
“No one would stick around if they had that.”
“That’s not true, Eppie. I’ve officially been retired for three and a half years now, and yet here I sit across from you.”
He had a point, I supposed. But not one I understood. Seemed silly to waste his golden years on a one-sided relationship with a teenage girl who couldn’t offer him much more than occasional intellectual dialogue and a sad story he could dissect with his professional friends.
“It’s the guilt that keeps you here, I figure,” I said, too smug for my own good. “Knowing I’m floundering and at one pivotal point in time you were a sustaining, leveling force. Not seeing how I ultimately turned out—that’s the real reason you’re still around. It’s all about closure.”
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