Me: Not freaking out. If you want to do it, then you should. But just make sure, because the same argument for doing it applies to not doing it. Once it’s done, it’s done. And I know you don’t need me to tell you to be safe.
Scarlett: Adam’s face is clearing up. I think he may be on Accutane.
Me: Oooh, I want to see. Send pictures!
Scarlett: I miss you, J.
Me: Me too, S. You have no idea.
Scarlett: ?
Me: Dad and the lady of the manor had a big-ass fight. Was scary.
Scarlett: And?
Me: I dunno. For newlyweds they don’t seem so happy.
Scarlett: My parents have been married for 18 years, and they fight ALL THE TIME. Sometimes I think they hate each other. They claim otherwise.
Me: Your parents enjoy fighting. It’s their happy place.
Scarlett: I probably won’t do it with Adam.
Me: ?
Scarlett: But then again, I might.
—
There’s traffic on Ventura, so I don’t get home till after eight. Gloria has left me dinner on the counter: a perfectly serrated leg and thigh of roasted chicken, string beans tossed with almonds, a dainty portion of mashed potato, all showcased under a glass dome. My silverware sits on a cloth napkin. In Chicago, we used paper towels. My mom was an okay cook—a little too prone to experimentation—but I miss her big hearty stews, everything thrown together and unidentifiable. My dad’s car is in the driveway, but Rachel’s is gone, and I don’t hear any noise coming from upstairs, not even the steady bass that usually emits from Theo’s room. I eat my chicken alone at the kitchen island, wipe my mouth, and am about to head upstairs, when I notice someone sitting on the deck.
Dad.
I open the glass doors and step outside. Wrap my arms around myself, because there’s a sharp breeze and a bite to the air I associate with Chicago.
“Hey,” I say, and my dad gives me the same look Rachel gave me this morning. As if my very existence comes as a surprise. I am here, I want to scream. Why am I so easily forgotten?
“Hi, sweetheart. Didn’t hear you. Sit with me.”
I flop down into the lounge chair next to him. I want to ask about our status—Are we evicted?—but I don’t have the courage.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask.
“Just thinking.”
“Ouch,” I say, and my dad smiles.
“It occurred to me just now that I’m finally, officially, in every single way a person can be, a bona fide grown-up. But honestly, sometimes I forget, and think I’m twenty-two. You know what I mean?” he asks. I hope he knows I do not. How could I? Twenty-two sounds old to me.
“If it helps clarify things any, I’m pretty sure you’re forty-four. You’ve been a grown-up for a long, long time in my book,” I say.
“Right. You’re almost a woman yourself, and I’m your father. But damn, I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m equipped for adult life. Any of it.” His voice suddenly turns raw and shaky. After my mom died, I never saw him cry, not once, but in those first few months, he had perpetually watery and bloodshot eyes, as if he had just finished weeping somewhere unseen.
I don’t say anything, because I don’t know what to say. My mom is not here to help us.
I’m not equipped for this life either.
“I wish when you were little someone had said to me: These are the good times. Right now. These are the good times. You are young and things are simple. And one day it’s all going to blow up in your face or bottom out or whatever metaphor you want to use—your mom would have a good one for us—and so relax and enjoy while you can. When I first started out, I used to have nightmares that I gave out a wrong prescription. That I gave Mrs. Jallorari Valium instead of her heart medication. Or that I dosed out the Zackowitzes’ kid’s lithium incorrectly. Your mom and I, though…that part was always easy.” I feel his shoulders start to shake, and so I stare straight ahead. If he’s going to cry, if he is going to choose right now to fall apart, after everything, after him making all of the decisions—selling our house, getting remarried, moving us here and my having no choice in the matter, none—I will not look at him. I’m sorry, but I cannot give him that.