“Hey Sunshine. Do you want to join me for pizza before you leave?”
Finn’s head lifts at the mention of pizza, and his enthusiasm tempts me down the hall.
In the kitchen, Mom’s setting the table, still wearing her fitted navy suit. She’s a state prosecutor with meticulous grooming skills, never a hair or fact out of place. I wouldn’t want to go up against her in a courtroom. She’s fierce and forward in a way I could never own.
She sets out knives and forks, folded napkins. She’s even poured two glasses of milk. Dad’s the eccentric artist type—writes graphic novels for a living—and is way more relaxed. When he lived here, we’d stand around the island eating pizza right out of the box, sneaking Finn the crusts. I take a seat, slide a slice onto my too-formal plate. Finn drools at my side.
“I noticed the Boston College catalog in your room.” Mom wrestles a slice onto her plate. “When’s the application deadline?”
“Not till January.” I don’t tell her that I’ve applied early decision. Fact one: I can’t wait until spring to know my academic fate. Fact two: I can’t have Mom checking in every day to see if I’ve heard. I play with the crust of my pizza, knowing Mom’s approach. She knows the application deadline but wants to talk about something important, something more important than Boston College. I imagine this is how she warms up her witnesses, gets them comfortable with some safe, calming chitchat.
She blows on her slice. “I talked to your father.”
She doesn’t even try to camouflage these explosive words. The words I have longed for and dreaded since my eighteenth birthday, the day Dad left with a note as his explanation: “Zephyr’s an adult now and there are things I need to do besides being a parent.” That wasn’t his whole message, but it’s the part I remember, the part that hurt most.
I stare at Mom, unable to conjure a simple and . . .
“We’re going to meet for drinks. Tonight.”
“You’re meeting him? As in seeing him?” I want to scream, Where is he? Where has he been? How can he all of a sudden be in a place that’s close enough for you two to meet up? In my brain four months spreads itself out like a distance. Four months means equator far away. Off-our-radar far away.
Mom’s fingers move to the middle of the table and pick expertly at the yellow leaves on the centerpiece lipstick plant. She’s been vigilant about perfect houseplants lately, as if pinching away dead foliage will exert some sort of order in our Post Dad Universe. “I know it must seem out of the blue, but we have a lot to talk about, Zephyr.”
I tense in my chair, slip Finn my slice. He slinks to the corner to indulge. I can’t help but wonder where Dad’s been eating his dinners and if he’s been alone. Does he have a girlfriend? Another house? A new kid on the way?
She wipes her hands on her napkin, reflattens it against the table. “He wants to talk to you, Zephyr.”
“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” The words bite with all the anger I’ve stored.
She looks at me hard. “No. I don’t. I don’t think it’s ever too late. I didn’t have the luxury of talking to my parents or even knowing them.”
I soften, knowing Mom’s parents were killed in a car crash when she was an infant. “I know. But this is different. Dad chose to leave. Does he expect me to just forget him ditching me? That note?”
“Those are questions you’ll have to ask your father.” Mom reaches for my hand across the table. “I think you need to be really careful about dismissing your father, Zephyr. You can be angry at him. You can be upset. But in the end he’s the only father you’ll ever have.”
I look at her, searching. Doesn’t she know that I know that? It’s why his leaving hurts so much.
I hear Lizzie’s horn outside and practically jump for the door. “I gotta go.” I bring my plate to the dishwasher and knock Mom’s pruning shears from their perch at the sink’s edge. The dull twang of them hitting the metal echoes in our quiet house.
I give Mom a quick kiss on the cheek. I don’t tell her to have fun, like I would if she were going to her gardening club or meeting a friend. I can’t find a combination of words that would be appropriate in this beyond bizarre situation. I mean, a twenty-six-letter alphabet has its limitations.
I fold into Lizzie’s passenger seat.
“How’s Olivia?” she asks.
“My mom is officially jenked. Apparently she’s having date night with my father.” I pull my seat belt across my chest and hope it’s enough to keep my insides from spilling out.