it down the street toward the BART station. The entire time I’m speed walking, and for the full rumbling trip back under the bay, I feel like he’s right there, behind me or in a seat in the next car down.
then
friday, october 11
fifteen years ago
The entire Petropoulos family was in their front yard when we pulled up in a moving van two months later. The van was only half-full because Dad and I had both thought at the rental counter that we’d have more to bring with us. But in the end, we’d bought only enough furniture from the consignment store to have somewhere to sleep, eat, and read, and not much else.
Dad called it “furniture kindling.” I didn’t get it.
Maybe I would have if I’d let myself think about it for a few seconds, but the only thought I had during the entire ninety-minute drive was that we were going to a house that Mom had never seen. Yes, she wanted us to do this, but she hadn’t actually picked it out, she hadn’t seen it. There was something so horribly sour about that reality. Dad still drove his rumbling old green Volvo. We still lived in the same house on Rose Street. Every piece of furniture inside had been there when Mom was alive. I had new clothes, but I always felt a little like Mom picked them out through some divine intervention when we shopped, because Dad had a way of bringing me the biggest, baggiest things, and invariably some sympathetic saleswoman would swoop in with an armload of more suitable clothing and a reassurance that, yes, this is what all the girls are wearing now, and, no, don’t worry, Mr. Sorensen.
Climbing from the van, I straightened my shirt over the waistband of my shorts and stared up at the crew now assembling on our gravelly driveway. I spotted Elliot first—the familiar face in the crowd. But around him were three other boys, and two smiling parents.
The vision of the bursting-at-the-seams family there, waiting to help, only magnified the ache clawing its way up my throat from my chest.
The man—so clearly Elliot’s father, with the thick black hair and telltale nose—jogged forward, reaching to shake Dad’s hand. He was shorter than Dad by only a couple of inches, a rarity.
“Nick Petropoulos,” he said, turning to shake my hand next. “You must be Macy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me Nick.”
“Okay, Mr. . . . Nick.” I had never in my life imagined calling a parent by their first name.
With a laugh, he looked back to Dad. “Thought you could use a hand unloading all this.”
Dad smiled and spoke with his trademark simplicity: “That’s nice of you. Thanks.”
“Also thought my boys could use some exercise so they don’t wallop each other all day.” Mr. Nick extended a thick, hairy arm and pointed. “Over there you’ll see my wife, Dina. My boys: Nick Jr., George, Andreas, and Elliot.”
Three strapping guys—and Elliot—stood at the base of our front steps, watching us. I was guessing they were all around fifteen to seventeen, save Elliot, who was so physically different from his brothers that I wasn’t sure how old he was. Their mother, Dina, was formidable—tall and curvy, but with a smile that brought deep, friendly dimples to her cheeks. Other than Elliot—who was the stick-figure version of his father—all of her sons looked just like her. Sleepy-eyed, dimpled, tall.
Cute.
Dad’s arm came around my shoulders, pulling me close. I wondered if it was a protective gesture or if he, too, was feeling how listless our tiny family seemed in comparison.
“I didn’t realize you had four sons. I think Macy already met Elliot?” Dad looked down to me for confirmation.
In my peripheral vision, I could see Elliot shifting on his feet in discomfort. I gave him a sly grin. “Yeah,” I said, adding in my best who does this? tone: “He was reading in my closet.”
Mr. Nick waved this away. “The day of the open house, I know, I know. I’ll be honest, that kid loves a book, and that closet was his favorite spot. His buddy Tucker used to come here on the weekends, but he’s gone now.” Looking to Dad, he added, “The family up and moved to Cincinnati. Wine country to Ohio? The shits, right? But don’t worry, Macy. Won’t happen again.” With a smile, he followed Dad’s stoic march up the steps. “We’ve lived right next door the past seventeen years. Been in this house a thousand times.” A stair creaked beneath his