even though your mother has been telling me that for years, hearing it from you seemed, well, different. It made me feel . . . ashamed.”
I don’t know where this is going, and I don’t know what to say.
“I decided I’m going to go see somebody. A therapist,” he says. “Your mom’s coming with me.”
“Oh,” I say. “Oh. Well, that’s great. I mean, I hope . . .” I trail off. What is the appropriate response to this statement? I don’t know.
“Yeah,” Dad says, his gaze drifting to the window, where we can barely see Mom laughing with Rowan and digging up the lawn. “I hope it’s good, but I don’t know. We’ll see.”
“Sure. Of course.” I want to fall through this couch and through the floor and through the earth’s crust and disappear. “Well, thanks for telling me.” My body aches to stand and walk away, but my butt is glued to this cushion.
“And so, thank you. And for not saying anything to Trey and Rowan. I appreciate that. I—I think I’m going to tell them soon, but I want to ask the therapist first.”
Who ARE you? I swear I am in an alternate reality right now. There’s no way this can last.
“That brings me to my next question,” he says. “Why did you ask me about the health stuff?”
My head grows light. “No reason,” I say. I shift my weight farther onto the cushion, not because I want to relax and chat, but because I’m teetering on the edge of it and could fall at any time.
“Why did you ask me about visions?”
I glance at his face and see him looking earnestly into mine. And I still can’t read his expression. Is he asking me because he wants to confess that he has seen visions too? Or because he’s worried that I have, and he wants to put me in an asylum?
“I don’t know,” I say, scrambling. “I guess I’ve seen you staring off into space, and you don’t drive much, and we’ve got the whole mental illness thing in the family with Grandpa Demarco, so I thought I’d . . . ask.”
He regards me thoughtfully. “Are you asking because of . . . anything personal that’s happening with you? Do you need to talk to a doctor?”
Ugh. I wish he’d just answer. “Well, I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He chuckles. “I said I was sorry about that. It really was a joke this time.”
I feel the residual resentment boiling up again. “Yeah, well, you’re very different lately and hard to read, and you’re telling jokes now, so I guess I just don’t know how to talk to you.” I can feel my face getting hot.
He looks down. “I know. I’m sorry.” He scratches his head and says softly, “Losing the house and the restaurant . . . losing all of that stuff . . .” He shakes his head. “I was suffocating at first. But then suddenly starting from nothing became this opportunity . . . I don’t know. Like the chains came off my wrists.” He rests his head in his hands for a moment. “I hated the hoarding, but I couldn’t stop it. I was compelled to continue. I couldn’t break the cycle.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the thimble from the Monopoly game. He shows it to me. “This is what I chose to keep from the remains of the fire. The only thing.”
I don’t tell him that Trey and I watched him take it.
“When I was a kid, I used to play Monopoly with Mary and my dad. Whenever we landed on the income or luxury tax spaces, or had to pay to get out of jail, instead of paying the bank, we put the money in the middle of the board under the thimble. And if you landed on Free Parking, you won it—you got to take the money. It was the absolute best when it happened on your last turn before you ran out of money, facing all those houses and hotels in the Marvin’s Gardens row. Hitting it just right—it gave you new life. A chance to change the game, my dad said.” He looks at me. “All of that junk and the emotional baggage was dragging me down. And losing everything in the fire . . . well, that turned out to be my Free Parking. My chance to change the game. So even though it’ll probably be really hard, I’m going to take