Anyone But You Part 9
I shook my head. "I gave you my word, remember?"
"Sorry," she said. "I'm a little on edge."
"Understandable."
Another ten minutes went by before Jess and Sea returned, and then she wore a beaming smile. She even had her non-scabby arm linked through Jesse's. I made eyes at him, trying to ask questions without saying anything, but Jesse just shrugged. Whatever she had wanted to talk to him about must not have been that big a deal-at least not to him. Still, the not-knowing ate at me. Sea and I never kept secrets from each other. Except- Between Sarah and Frank-not to mention my shower incident-I suddenly had several of them.
Two hours, four all-you-can-eat pasta dinners, and an infinite amount of tension later, we toddled out of the restaurant, stuffed to near explosion. I felt sick, but I doubted it had much to do with overeating. Layla still hadn't told Seattle about Frank, and the waiting was making me feel pukey.
On the way home, Layla pulled into the Charcoal Pit's parking lot. "Who's up for ice cream?"
"Funny, Mom," Jesse said.
"No," she said. "I'm serious. Let's get a Kitchen Sink and we'll all split it."
Even if I hadn't just ingested ten pounds of fettuccini, the last thing I'd want was to order the Kitchen Sink. I guess you could call it a sundae, except it arrived in a bowl big enough to hold a twenty-pound turkey- mounds upon mounds of ice cream, chocolate, crushed fruit, wet nuts, whipped cream, and maraschino cherries. Eight people couldn't finish the whole thing, let alone four.
But I knew what Layla was doing. Postponing the conversation she needed to have with Seattle. So I did the good-son bit and said, "Sounds great, Mom!" I unbuckled my seat belt and practically skipped to the front of the restaurant.
There was another wait, almost as long as the one at the Olive Garden. Sea kept saying, "I'm not even hungry. Can't we just go home?" But clearly home was the last place Layla wanted to be, so I put my arm around my mother's shoulder and kept my mouth shut.
Eventually a skinny blonde named Jennifer seated us at a teeny tiny booth. She laughed heartily when Layla placed our order. "You guys are brave," she said. "Coming right up."
In the entire history of the Charcoal Pit, there had never been four people less enthusiastic about eating ice cream than we were that night. All together, we managed to choke down about three and a half scoops and maybe two tablespoons' worth of topping. Jennifer kept buzzing by our table, asking if everything was okay. After forty minutes, the sundae was a melted mishmash and Layla raised the white flag. "Our eyes were bigger than our stomachs."
When we finally pulled up to the house, it was going on eleven. "Who left the light on in the living room?" Layla asked. We all denied responsibility. "I guess we have ghosts," she muttered. "Maybe I should ask them to pay the electric bill once in a while."
All I wanted was to go inside and crawl into bed. I grabbed the keys from Layla, jogged up the front step, and opened the door. I'd made it maybe four steps in when I saw him. He was seated-no, sprawled- on our couch, his feet up on the end cushion, like this was an everyday occurrence. Like you could find him there any day of the week.
"Frank," I said, my voice oddly steady.
He stood up from the couch and gave a half wave. I turned to Layla, unsure if this was part of her master plan, but she was a whiter shade of pale if I ever saw one.
"How?" she said to Frank.
"Spare key," he replied. "You still keep one in a plastic frog out front."
The next few seconds were a blur; Jesse and Seattle had trailed us to the door, so they were the last inside. Jesse registered Frank's presence right away, but Sea just stood there like a statue. Then she shook her head, like she was unwilling to accept what she was seeing. "Missy," Layla said, reaching out to her, but Sea jerked away. She whipped her head around wildly, seemingly scanning the entranceway, and I realized she was looking for her skateboard.
"It's with Scott," I said. "Remember?"
She nodded, turned, and ran out the door.
seattle.
Negotiating the Past.
I started walking, not sure where I was going, but knowing I couldn't stay there. All the food I'd eaten that night was sloshing around my maxed-out stomach. I needed a cigarette. I needed a shot of Jager.
I needed Frank not to be in our living room.
My head was buzzing with so many unwanted thoughts that I didn't hear Critter and Jesse approaching; I just felt Critter's hand reach for mine-the same one Scott had held earlier.
"I'm sorry," he said, pulling me toward him in a hug.
My brother's long, lanky arms slipped around me, his body covering mine like a layer of skinny-boy armor. I circled my arms around his lower back and held on tightly. I was afraid that if he let go, I might float away.
I didn't know how long it had been before I realized there was a second set of hands on my back, rubbing ovals over the fabric of my tank top. Jesse's touch sent me crashing back to reality. I wiggled free, sat down on a nearby curb, and dropped my face into my hands.
They sat down, too, flanking me. But it was Critter who extended his arm again, pulling me to him in a half hug and stroking the patch of fuzz I now called hair. "What is he doing here, anyway?" I asked.
"Who the h.e.l.l knows?" Jesse said, but Critter just looked away.
"You knew," I accused him.
"Not exactly," he said, but he wouldn't look me in the eye.
"Well, what exactly did you know?"
Critter sighed. "I knew he was in Dover. And that he wanted to see you. But I swear, I didn't know he'd be here tonight. I thought Layla was going to talk to you first."
Layla. Of course she'd have known. She would've been the one to tell him where we were. How could she?
"What else do you know?" I asked him.
He shook his head. "That's about it. Honest."
We sat there for a while, not talking. A car pa.s.sed by; maybe it was his. No one wanted to get up and check.
Eventually Jesse said, "We can't stay out here forever."
"Oh, yeah?" I said. "Watch me."
All of a sudden, Layla was walking toward us, telling the boys to go back in the house. Jesse got up right away, but Critter looked at me, waiting for approval. I nodded.
"You sure?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said. "It's okay."
Layla stood over me, her arms folded across her stomach, one foot pressing against the curb. "I am so sorry this happened the way it did. We'd agreed that I'd talk to you first. That's what tonight was supposed to be-me telling you about his call."
"How could you?" I shook my head. "You know how I feel about this. You know I never wanted to see him again."
"Missy, I had no idea he was going to show up like this. I swear to you."
"So?" I said. "He shouldn't have known how to find us to begin with!"
Layla sat down beside me. "You can't hide from him forever, Sea. He's your dad, and believe it or not, he loves you a lot."
"If you loved me, you never would've let him in our house."
I heard her draw a deep breath, sucking the air through her teeth. Then she exhaled all slow-like. Meditation breathing. After a while she said, "Listen, Missy, you don't know the whole story."
"I know enough."
"No," she said. "You don't."
I sat quietly, waiting for her to go on. She pulled her long black hair over one shoulder, separated it into three chunks, and braided it. "Well?" I finally said. "What is it you think I don't know?"
"Your dad had some problems. Things he wants to talk to you about-things we all should've talked about a long time ago. But he's not here to get you. It's not his plan to take you away from us."
I should've been relieved. That was what I wanted, right? To stay there with her and Critter and Jesse. The thing was, once the words were spoken, I sort of wanted her to take them back.
"What if I don't want to talk to him?"
"No one will force you to," she said. "But I think you should. It's been a long time, and I think he's really trying to change. I don't mean he's going to be Ward Cleaver all of a sudden. But he seems genuinely concerned about you, about what you've been up to and if you're okay."
"I don't care what he wants," I said. "I've been doing just fine without him."
Layla nodded, her fingers undoing the braid she'd just woven in her hair. "There was a thing on Oprah a while back that I caught one day during rounds. She was interviewing some guy who'd written a book about fathers. A lot of it was nonsense, but one thing stuck with me. He said, 'Kids have a hole in their soul that's shaped like their dads.' "
"So?"
"So I guess what I'm trying to say," she continued, "is that I don't want you to grow up with that kind of hole. Give him a chance, Seattle. Talk to him. And after that, if you still don't want to see him anymore, I'll let it go. Okay?"
On some level, I knew she was right. One conversation wouldn't kill me. But I didn't want her to be right. I had no idea what my father had come back to say, or if I'd even want to hear his words. For all he'd known, I could've ended up in foster care, rented out to parents looking for an extra income. That hadn't stopped him from leaving.
And yet . . .
No matter how hot my anger ran, deep down I knew Layla would never ask me to do something that would really be bad for me. She was the only adult who loved me the way a parent was supposed to, who put my welfare before even her own.
"Fine," I said. "I'll have your little talk. But not tonight. Tomorrow. And not at the house, either. I want to go somewhere public. Like a restaurant or something."
"Yeah, okay," Layla said, placing her hand on my knee. "I'll even get Trish to cover for me at work, if you want, so I can be here when you get back."
"Good."
By the time we hit the front door, I was numb. Completely, totally, utterly numb. I walked past the living room and straight up the stairs. Jess and Critter were waiting for me in the bedroom. They started grilling me, trying to figure out what Layla and I had talked about. I gave them one-word answers for all of two minutes before informing them that what I really wanted was to crawl in bed and go to sleep, and that if they didn't leave me alone, I'd go nuclear.
That shut them up pretty quick.
But once they left, I couldn't fall asleep. Not right away. I felt like everything was coming undone. Why was Frank here? What did he want? I remembered something he'd said when I was really little, before he'd even met Layla. I'd been asking him why I didn't have a mom, and he'd told me she was too good for this world-that G.o.d had wanted her for his own. Then he said, "But you don't have anything to worry about, Princess. I will always be here for you. Forever and ever and ever."
Only I guess for him, "forever" meant "until you are nine."
Breakfast of Champions.
Layla woke me up early the next morning, just before seven; Frank was scheduled to pick me up at eight. It wasn't until after my shower that I noticed the note taped to my mirror. It was from Jesse, who'd already left for work, and it read: Look in your sock drawer. Hope breakfast isn't too painful. -J The money. I'd forgotten about it, not to mention the fact that I was supposed to meet Scott at nine. I opened the drawer and poked around until I found the bills, two twenties and a ten, tucked into the elastic of a tube sock that had lost its mate. I couldn't believe I'd sold my soul to Jesse for the fifty bucks. At first I'd called it a loan, offered him interest on the deal. But when he asked me how I planned to pay it back, I told him I was going to get my grades up so I could get a part-time job at a skate shop in the fall.
"You're serious about this?" he asked.
"Deadly."
"Then I'll make you a deal. If you get a B or higher in your summer school cla.s.s, I'll call it even. But you have to keep it up come September, you got it? You get lazy and start pulling Cs again, and I'm gonna want my money back."
I agreed without hesitation. I'd meant what I'd said about getting a job. I didn't know why I'd never thought of it before, but a skate shop would be the perfect place of employment. I'd get discounts, for one thing. I could read all the magazines and watch all the videos without spending a penny. Plus, I'd have the inside scoop on compet.i.tions and stuff. It was genius.
Time to get dressed. I put on the most obnoxious ensemble I owned: a black T-shirt with the word "b.i.t.c.h" written on it in pale pink letters, wide-legged tan pants that were a size too big and sat low on my hips, and my scuffed-up Doc Martens. Then I lined my eyes in electric blue, both on top and on the inside rims.
As a final touch, I buckled a silver-studded dog collar around my neck. I thought I'd look tough, but when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I realized that I looked exactly like those faux-punk kids that Critter and I always made fun of for trying too hard. I took the dog collar off, stuffed Jesse's fifty bucks into my back pocket, and headed downstairs.
He picked me up in a tricked-out Olds circa 1990. Its insides were pristine; it even smelled of new leather, though I knew that had to be the result of car wash air freshener and not the elephant gray seats. Everything on the dash was digital. There were even b.u.t.tons on the steering wheel that controlled the radio.
We hadn't said more than three words to each other since we'd left the house, and he was the one who'd said them: "You look nice." It took an enormous amount of effort not to laugh in his face.
At the IHOP the hostess asked if we wanted a table or a booth. Frank indicated that I was the one who should make the decision, but I refused to utter a peep. Finally, he said, "Booth's fine," to which I responded, "I want a table."
Frank grimaced for a split second before the mask of Happy Dad fell back into place. It was funny watching him try to hide his annoyance. The hostess, though, just rolled her eyes, grabbed two sticky menus, and led us to a table in the way back.
I studied the menu like I was going to be quizzed on it at any second, even though I always ordered the same thing whenever we came here: Swedish pancakes, side of hash browns, and a cup of coffee with extra creamers. Even so, when Frank cleared his throat and asked, "Do you know what you want?" I shrugged.
He sighed and turned to look out the window, at the scenic parking lot view. His profile looked different somehow. His nose had a deeper slope than I'd remembered, and there were way more bruised-looking sag-bags under his dull gray eyes. His skin looked sort of gray, too, like he hadn't gotten much sun in the past decade, and his hair had all of these coa.r.s.e silver strands streaking through it.
Underneath it all, though, I could still see him. The guy I used to call Dad.
A waitress approached our table and introduced herself with a sugary "And how y'all doing today?" Her name was Cindie, and the ie was enough to make me hate her. But I was going to be as sweet as pie to anyone who wasn't my father.
So I smiled at her as I ordered, asking for an extra side of lingonberry jam, but only because I knew they charged a dollar for it. Frank ordered some egg thing with a side of sc.r.a.pple. "I can't believe you still eat that c.r.a.p," I said. "It always looks like dog food." He didn't respond.
A Muzak version of the Beatles' "Magical Mystery Tour" played over the restaurant's speaker system. I wanted to remember to tell Critter about it later, for the ever-growing list he kept of Great Musical Atrocities.
When the next song-this time a cover of Billy Joel's "Allentown"-came on, I decided to speed things up.
"So what is it you have to say to me?"
Frank blinked a few times; clearly I'd caught him off guard.