My version of my father is a farther stretch. Or maybe it isn’t. Since I don’t really know him at all, there’s always a possibility that the things I’m saying are true.
Meanwhile, it’s not all conversation and unpacking and board games. There are sublime moments of curling together, breathing together, kissing together, feeling together. Every now and then, I manage to get lost in my own private happiness, and I realize that I’ve lost my focus. But then I see her eyes are closed, and she hasn’t noticed. My lips, for that moment, simply seemed light to her. Or my hold on her was gentle, my caress breeze-like.
Somehow, it works.
* * *
The only source of tension is the fact that I haven’t met her brother or her mother.
“They’re starting to think I’ve made you up,” she says.
I can’t tell her that I saw Laurie just yesterday, mooning by the mail room, pretending to read a book while his eye was constantly drawn to the door. When I first saw him, on that first day, all I could really see was his shirtless bravado. But now, looking closer, knowing what I know about what he’s been through, I manage to see the vulnerability, the eagerness, the mix of in-your-face defiance and in-my-mind loneliness. For fifteen minutes, he waited by the mail room, and for fifteen minutes, I waited with him. If he sensed my presence, he didn’t let on. I saw his scars—the visible ones—and saw how breaking him had not made him any less beautiful. If anything, he stood stronger, because he’d survived. I was envious, really, of how comfortably he inhabited his body. How he wasn’t going to let anyone take that away from him.
Then Sean arrived. Also reading a book. And in Laurie’s face there was that flash of extraordinary nervousness, followed by the click of determination and the illusion of total calm.
“Hey, you,” he said, and Sean seemed delighted to see him.
I left then. They would have thought it was just the two of them in that mail room, but I would’ve known I was there. And I had no right to whatever it was they’d decide to share.
Again, I can’t tell Elizabeth any of this. I can’t tell her that her brother has come to mean something to me, even if, as far as she knows, I only saw him for a brief conversation the day they moved in. She wants us all to hang out, for me to get to know him, and I don’t really know how to address this. Then one day, it’s right there in front of me. Laurie calls for his usual after-school check-in, and I tell Elizabeth to pass the phone.
“Really?” she says.
I nod, and she gives it to me.
“Laurie?” I say.
“Yeah?”
“This is Stephen.”
“No way!”
“Way.”
“This isn’t some actor my sister’s hired to impersonate her imaginary boyfriend?”
“If it is, I’m really enjoying the research.”
“Gross!”
“Anyway, do you know what day today is?”
“Free cone day?”
“Close. Let’s start with a day of the week.”
“If I’m not mistaken, it’s Wednesday.”
“Correct! And what’s Wednesday?”
“Um . . . the day after Tuesday?”
“No. It’s the day new comics come out.”
“I’m fascinated to see where you’re going with this.”
“It’s not me that’s going somewhere. It’s you. You’re going to Midtown Comics and picking up a copy of the special edition of Runaways that came out today. Your sister wants one.”
“And what’s in it for me, exactly?”
“Sean, Laurie. Sean is in it for you. He goes there every Wednesday afternoon at four.”
There’s a pause. “What has my sister told you?”
“I’m guessing that she’s not the only one with an imaginary boyfriend, Laurie. Make it real. If you want to, of course.”
“Thank you, my new spiritual advisor. I shall take that under consideration.”
“Just do it before four o’clock, okay? And I was serious about bringing back that Runaways comic for your sister.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
Elizabeth and Laurie talk for a little bit more. Even before she’s off, though, Elizabeth is looking at me like I’ve done something very, very good.
“You’re sure Sean’s going to, um, return the affections?” she asks once the call has ended.
I shrug. “Not sure. But it’s only going to hurt until he tries. And if Sean isn’t into him, I’m sure he’ll be kind about it.”
(I do not tell her about the time I spotted Sean in his hallway trying desperately to get a wi-fi connection so he could continue chatting with a boy from Dallas.)
“Well, I think you’ve won my brother over,” Elizabeth says.
“And you? Have I won you over?”
She laughs. “Oh, I’m not as easy as my brother.”
* * *
I know it can’t go on like this. I know that this bliss is built on a razor-thin foundation, and at any moment the wind could come along.
But I am enjoying myself. Enjoying her. Which makes it so easy to forget.
* * *
Elizabeth heads back to her apartment for dinner. She invites me along, but I tell her I can’t. She doesn’t question it too much, just gives me a kiss goodbye.
Two hours later, I am sitting on the lime-green couch, reading the copy of Blankets that she let me borrow, when I hear a noise at the door.
At first, I don’t get it. It’s not a knock. Or a delivery . . .
It’s a key in the door.
I put down the book. Stand up.
The key turns in the lock.
The door opens.
And in walks my father.
* * *
He’s older.
The last time I saw him was a year ago, but it was my mother’s funeral, and I wasn’t really paying attention.
Now, though, I see him. His hair is all gray. He’s still tall, still strong—but weathered. He’s wearing different glasses. Thin and silver.
“Stephen!” he calls out.
I am right here, I want to say. But instead I stand there, watching him. He looks around at the apartment. Closes the door. Puts his briefcase down—a briefcase, not a suitcase, so I know he’s not planning to stay.
It’s like an adult version of the game we’d always play before he left—hide and not seek. I am always the kid who’s hiding. He is always the father who’s not seeking.
I am right here.
He calls my name again. Shifts on his feet. He’s starting to realize.
“Stephen.” He says it quieter now. He knows I’m in the room.
“Hi, Dad.”
It’s too short—not enough to work with. He turns my direction but misses by a few feet.
“How are you?” he asks the empty space.
I can’t help myself; I move farther away, so he’ll feel more foolish.
“I’m fine,” I say.
His head jerks to another spot.
I keep moving.
It’s not a fun game for either of us.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“I got your email,” he says. “About the girl. And I realized, it’s been a long time—”
“Since you’ve seen me?”
“Since I’ve been here.”
“You haven’t been here since she died.”
He nods. “That’s right.”
I’ve stopped moving, and he’s facing me now. Part of me wants to eviscerate him—to ask him how he believes it’s at all acceptable to leave a teenage boy alone for a year after his mother dies. But the other part of me keeps remembering: He writes the checks. If he were to stop supporting me, I would be on the street. And it’s not like I’ve ever wanted him here. I am happier alone.
Plus, I do feel sorry for him, in a way. All through my childhood, and into my adolescence, it would be one of the major topics in my head: Which parent are you? Meaning: If you were to have, say, an invisible son, what would you
do? Would you be the one to run or the one to stay? My answer was never very consistent. Some days, I would be certain I’d be my mother. The caregiver. The one who felt the tie so acutely. The one who built the nest. And other days, especially as I got older, I’d think: You’re fooling yourself. You want to be your mom. But really, you’re your dad. If you were in this situation, you’d be gone in a second.
It would be the cruel thing to do, but I am not above cruelty. Witness me now, asking my father, “How’s the new family? Are all my half brothers and half sisters half-visible?”
My mother would say, You only hurt yourself when you talk like that.
But she’s not around anymore.
“You don’t have any half brothers. Just two sisters. Margaret and Lyla. They are doing very well, thank you. They’re beautiful.”
“So I guess you can see them.”
“Stephen.” Now he’s getting a little angry. “I came all the way out here to help you. But if you’re going to take that attitude, I can just get on the next plane back to California.”
“Attitude? Why, is there something in my expression that’s bothering you?”
“I have been in an airplane and a taxi for the past eight hours. I am going to go freshen up, get something to drink, then come back here to talk to you. At that time, I am hoping you will be ready to talk.”
“Do you remember where the bathroom is?” I ask.
He leaves without another word.
* * *
I sit back down on the couch. I try to read Blankets. I try to lose myself in the words and pictures, but I am so distracted that I can barely find the concentration to turn the pages.
I know what my father is going to do. When he returns, he will pretend the previous conversation never happened.
In this, he does not disappoint.
“So,” he says, his shirtsleeves now rolled up, a ginger ale in his hand, “tell me about this girl.”
“Her name’s Elizabeth. She moved in two doors down—Sukie Maxwell’s old apartment. If you remember her from the funeral.” No response. “I just bumped into her in the hallway one day, and . . . well, she saw me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. We’ve spent a lot of time together these past couple of weeks. I’m positive she sees me.”
He sits down next to me on the couch.
“Look, Stephen. It’s natural to want to be with someone else. And maybe you’ve been alone here for too long. That would explain what’s happening.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you go out with this girl? To the movies?”
“To the park. But mostly we stay around here.”
“And she talks to you.”
“All the time.”
He shakes his head and looks sad.
I am nearly amazed to discover a new depth in my disappointment in him. “You don’t believe me, do you?” I say.
“I want to believe you, Stephen. But you have to understand . . . nobody is able to see you.”
“That’s what I thought! But she does. She sees me.”
“And do the other people see you? When you’re out in the park?”
“No! But it still works.” I see I am not winning him over. “Do you think I’m making this up?”
“I’m sure you want it to be real. And it would be perfectly understandable for you to let your imagination run wild while you’re here alone all day . . .”
I can’t have this conversation.
“You don’t believe me?” I yell, standing up. “Well, fine. I’ll show you.” I head right to the phone, pick it up, and dial Elizabeth’s number.
“Hi,” she says. “I thought you were busy this evening.”
“Look—I have a little surprise for you. My dad is in town. A totally unexpected visit. I’m not sure how long he’s here, but he wants to meet you. Would you mind stopping over?”
“Meet your dad? Wow. I’m kind of in my drawing clothes right now, so if I came right over, I’m worried he’d think I was a deranged, ink-stained wretch. So give me ten minutes.”
“See you in ten minutes.”
From the look on my father’s face, I’m guessing he wishes he were drinking something stronger than ginger ale. I don’t think either of us knows what to do now—it’s like both of our lives are on pause until Elizabeth arrives. We don’t even attempt small talk. We just sit there. Waiting.
Finally, there’s a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it,” I say.
My father stands up and hovers behind me as I open the door. Elizabeth’s there, practically giddy. She looks right at me, says hello, and I quickly focus because she gives me a kiss on the cheek and I want it to have somewhere to land.
Then she walks past me and says hi to my father. Who is speechless.
“Elizabeth, Dad. Dad, Elizabeth.”
“It’s so great to meet you,” Elizabeth says.
Dad’s words kick in. “Lovely to meet you as well.”
“Mrs. Swinton is still in London?” Elizabeth asks.
Dad looks pained, and I feel shaky. I haven’t told him about that part—that Elizabeth thinks Mom is still alive.
“I wish she could be here to meet you” is how he replies.
For the first time, I look at my father and I see how haunted he is by all of this. He doesn’t want to be having this conversation. He doesn’t know what to do.
“Mr. Swinton?” Elizabeth asks. “Are you all right?”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. It was a long flight, and I fear I’m a little worse for wear.”
Elizabeth gets the cue. “That’s okay. I’m glad I got a chance to say hello. Hopefully I’ll see you again before you leave.” She comes back over to me and gives me another kiss on the cheek. “I’ll leave you two to catch up.”
I thank her and show her out. My father and I are silent, listening to her footsteps go down the hall, then the opening and closing of her door.
“How is this possible?” my father asks, collapsing back down on the couch.
“I don’t know, Dad,” I say. “You tell me.”
“You don’t understand. It simply can’t be possible.”
“The only reason I don’t understand is because you’ve never told me why this all happened.”
He shakes his head. That’s not the topic he wants to be covering now.
“Is she the only one?” he asks me.
“Yes.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
“It’s impossible.”
“You’ve said that. But guess what. She sees me.”
He sighs. “I wish your mother were here.”
Now it comes back—the anger.
“You’re not allowed to say that,” I tell him.
“What?”
“That’s not a wish you’re allowed to have. If you really wish my mother were here, you should’ve been here when she was. You should’ve been here. Period.”
“Stephen, I can’t have this argument with you. Not right now. I have to figure out what’s happening.”
“We both have to figure out what’s happening. Help me, Dad.”
He stands up. “I will. I promise. I will try. But right now—I can’t think right now. I’m going to go. I have a hotel room and—well, I’m going to go. But I’ll be back tomorrow. We can have dinner. I’ll come by at six. And in the meantime, I’ll . . . try to figure things out.”
His briefcase is in his hand. I know there’s no stopping him, and he knows I’m not going to try.
He opens the door, but before he leaves, he tells me one more thing:
“Before, when I said I wished your mother were here—I meant that if anyone in the world had a right to see you, it was her. And the fact that someone else can see you . . . it would have meant the world to her. No matter what it may portend. That’s all. It’s unfair that this girl, and not your mother, gets to see you. But I know she’d be glad.”
He’s finally found th
e one thing I can’t argue with.
Chapter 8
I SHOULD BE HAPPY. Most of the time I am. Most of the time happy isn’t enough of a word to describe how I feel. I lose myself in Stephen without being lost. I find myself in Stephen when I didn’t know I was there waiting to be found.
When he’s talking to me, when he’s touching me, I’m so oogly-eyed giddy that I worry I’ll blurt out all the rose-petal, candy-heart mush that’s built up in my body. I don’t want to do that. It’s not my style and I’m still nervous enough that I’ll mess this up somehow. I haven’t ever felt I needed someone other than my family. Stephen is changing that.
Oogly-eyed, goofy-grin romance aside, I’m uneasy. And this restlessness isn’t the kind that’s a natural partner to fear of rejection. The sense of something amiss creeps up when we’re apart. I try to ignore it, pretending that I don’t notice the flickering of doubt in my peripheral vision. But it’s there and it’s getting harder to shrug off.
I blame my family. Not in an angry kind of way, but in that searching-for-responsible-parties way. Mom, having gotten her routine at the hospital a bit more under control, is still working long hours, but she’s showing up for dinner and family movie nights more often. Laurie has pronounced that his new mission is to expand our DVD collection because, even though it’s a fantastic film, he cannot watch Ghostbusters more than twice a week. Ghostbusters is our fallback pick and the only movie we can all regularly agree on. My votes are for Watchmen or Donnie Darko—both of which get eye rolls from Mom and Laurie. Mom goes for foreign films, which I don’t like because their idea of action seems to be hard-core brooding and Laurie says he can’t follow due to his constant texting during the films. Laurie pushes Cary Grant on us, which is fine, but Mom and I get tired of black and white. So we all agreed it was a good idea when he volunteered to help our cause. I suspect it’s an excuse for him to accomplish said mission with Sean as a sidekick. The mumbling couch turtle hasn’t been to our apartment again . . . at least I haven’t seen him . . . but I’ve caught Laurie murmuring into his phone a few times. When I’ve tried to get his attention, he gives me the get out of here now or we’re not speaking look and I haven’t pushed the issue.
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