But I am enjoying myself. Enjoying her. Which makes it so easy to forget.
* * *
Elizabeth heads back to her apartment for dinner. She invites me along, but I tell her I can’t. She doesn’t question it too much, just gives me a kiss goodbye.
Two hours later, I am sitting on the lime-green couch, reading the copy of Blankets that she let me borrow, when I hear a noise at the door.
At first, I don’t get it. It’s not a knock. Or a delivery . . .
It’s a key in the door.
I put down the book. Stand up.
The key turns in the lock.
The door opens.
And in walks my father.
* * *
He’s older.
The last time I saw him was a year ago, but it was my mother’s funeral, and I wasn’t really paying attention.
Now, though, I see him. His hair is all gray. He’s still tall, still strong—but weathered. He’s wearing different glasses. Thin and silver.
“Stephen!” he calls out.
I am right here, I want to say. But instead I stand there, watching him. He looks around at the apartment. Closes the door. Puts his briefcase down—a briefcase, not a suitcase, so I know he’s not planning to stay.
It’s like an adult version of the game we’d always play before he left—hide and not seek. I am always the kid who’s hiding. He is always the father who’s not seeking.
I am right here.
He calls my name again. Shifts on his feet. He’s starting to realize.
“Stephen.” He says it quieter now. He knows I’m in the room.
“Hi, Dad.”
It’s too short—not enough to work with. He turns my direction but misses by a few feet.
“How are you?” he asks the empty space.
I can’t help myself; I move farther away, so he’ll feel more foolish.
“I’m fine,” I say.
His head jerks to another spot.
I keep moving.
It’s not a fun game for either of us.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“I got your email,” he says. “About the girl. And I realized, it’s been a long time—”
“Since you’ve seen me?”
“Since I’ve been here.”
“You haven’t been here since she died.”
He nods. “That’s right.”
I’ve stopped moving, and he’s facing me now. Part of me wants to eviscerate him—to ask him how he believes it’s at all acceptable to leave a teenage boy alone for a year after his mother dies. But the other part of me keeps remembering: He writes the checks. If he were to stop supporting me, I would be on the street. And it’s not like I’ve ever wanted him here. I am happier alone.
Plus, I do feel sorry for him, in a way. All through my childhood, and into my adolescence, it would be one of the major topics in my head: Which parent are you? Meaning: If you were to have, say, an invisible son, what would you do? Would you be the one to run or the one to stay? My answer was never very consistent. Some days, I would be certain I’d be my mother. The caregiver. The one who felt the tie so acutely. The one who built the nest. And other days, especially as I got older, I’d think: You’re fooling yourself. You want to be your mom. But really, you’re your dad. If you were in this situation, you’d be gone in a second.
It would be the cruel thing to do, but I am not above cruelty. Witness me now, asking my father, “How’s the new family? Are all my half brothers and half sisters half-visible?”
My mother would say, You only hurt yourself when you talk like that.
But she’s not around anymore.
“You don’t have any half brothers. Just two sisters. Margaret and Lyla. They are doing very well, thank you. They’re beautiful.”
“So I guess you can see them.”
“Stephen.” Now he’s getting a little angry. “I came all the way out here to help you. But if you’re going to take that attitude, I can just get on the next plane back to California.”
“Attitude? Why, is there something in my expression that’s bothering you?”
“I have been in an airplane and a taxi for the past eight hours. I am going to go freshen up, get something to drink, then come back here to talk to you. At that time, I am hoping you will be ready to talk.”
“Do you remember where the bathroom is?” I ask.
He leaves without another word.
* * *
I sit back down on the couch. I try to read Blankets. I try to lose myself in the words and pictures, but I am so distracted that I can barely find the concentration to turn the pages.
I know what my father is going to do. When he returns, he will pretend the previous conversation never happened.
In this, he does not disappoint.
“So,” he says, his shirtsleeves now rolled up, a ginger ale in his hand, “tell me about this girl.”
“Her name’s Elizabeth. She moved in two doors down—Sukie Maxwell’s old apartment. If you remember her from the funeral.” No response. “I just bumped into her in the hallway one day, and . . . well, she saw me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. We’ve spent a lot of time together these past couple of weeks. I’m positive she sees me.”
He sits down next to me on the couch.
“Look, Stephen. It’s natural to want to be with someone else. And maybe you’ve been alone here for too long. That would explain what’s happening.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you go out with this girl? To the movies?”
“To the park. But mostly we stay around here.”
“And she talks to you.”
“All the time.”
He shakes his head and looks sad.
I am nearly amazed to discover a new depth in my disappointment in him. “You don’t believe me, do you?” I say.
“I want to believe you, Stephen. But you have to understand . . . nobody is able to see you.”
“That’s what I thought! But she does. She sees me.”
“And do the other people see you? When you’re out in the park?”
“No! But it still works.” I see I am not winning him over. “Do you think I’m making this up?”
“I’m sure you want it to be real. And it would be perfectly understandable for you to let your imagination run wild while you’re here alone all day . . .”