Even though Madison’s class is right around the corner from the attendance office, I detour upstairs, then over to the east wing. I’d peeked at Tyler’s schedule, so I know that he has English in the east wing at this very moment. I slow way, way down outside his class, enough that I can hover by the window in the rear door long enough to catch a glimpse of the back of his head. My heart seizes up the instant I see his hair cutting dark curlicues over the collar of his shirt. He is leaning back, tipping his chair on its rear legs, running a pencil through his fingers so fast that it is a ripple going over and under one finger, then the next, then back again. Like most everyone else in the class, he is ignoring the teacher. A door opens somewhere down the hall and, pulse thumping, I hurry on to the math wing.
At Madison’s calculus class I hand her teacher the note. When he calls Madison’s name, it is obvious from the ecstatic/relieved expression on her face that she knows immediately what this means. I’m certain it’s something about college. Everything is about college. I beat her to the punch of pretending she doesn’t remember me and walk briskly ahead of her.
In the office, without speaking a word, Madison’s father takes a beat-up old Duke cap off his head and puts it on his daughter’s. Madison bursts into tears and squeals, “I did it?”
“You did it,” her father answers, beaming. “A perfect eight hundred in math. No way you’re not going to be a Blue Devil now!” Then Madison and her mother hold hands and jump up and down.
After they leave, Miss Olivia beams and says, “That’s a nice family.”
Miss Olivia’s daughter did two years at Parkhaven Community College and is selling tires at Costco now. There is so much I don’t understand.
12:12 A.M. OCTOBER 20, 2009
=You there?
=Aubrey! What a nice surprise.
=Maybe. I actually really need an answer. Why did you leave us?
=OK, then I actually need to give you one. Part of it, a big part, was that I left because, if I’d stayed, I wouldn’t have been a good father.
=You know, most dads aren’t that great. They’re not supposed to be. Not with daughters. They’re just mostly supposed to be the guy in the front seat who picks you up after band practice so you can sit in the back and giggle with your friends. It’s not like I ever expected any big interactions or anything. Just a dad who put oil in the car and thought about stuff like cleaning the leaves out of the rain gutters.
=Aubrey, I never would have been that dad.
=OK. Gotta study.
=Could we talk about this some more?
=No, probably not.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 13, 2010
Get out! Martin? Martin called? I thought Next swore they would kill him in this and his next ninety-nine incarnations if he ever contacted you again. Are you sure?”
I study the number on my phone. “Well, he was breaking up. A lot.”
“But he said, ‘Oh, hi, hey, it’s me, Martin, just checking in to see what you want to do for dinner.’ ”
“I think I heard his name.” The longer I look at the number on my phone, the more it starts to remind me of the number of the dad of the preemie twins.
“But you recognized his voice?”
“Kind of.”
What I recognized was that even though the words were garbled and mostly missing, from the first syllable that the caller spoke some switch was thrown in my reptile brain and my heart shifted into overdrive, thudding with a high-voltage mixture of surprise, fury, and hope. Since Martin’s voice was the only one that had ever been able to reach that switch, I’d concluded that it was him.
“Reception was all weird and wobbly.”
Dori shrugs indulgently. “Nerves. It’s a big day.”
“Yeah.” I take the absolution she is granting me for being a pathetic dork.
“Gary has a friend who sounds really nice.” Gary is a Match.com date who’s turned into Dori’s regular, two-nights-a-week guy.
“Thanks.” Gary’s friend gets brought up whenever Dori thinks that I am tragically hung up on Martin and need to move on.
By the time we reach Parkhaven Medical Center, where I hold my classes, I’m 95 percent certain that the caller was the preemie dad. A blast of polar air whooshes when the front doors slide open. We trundle onto the elevator and as it inches downward I do what I always