That is great news, he wrote. What else are you studying in school?
Really, it was in those last seven words that our relationship, whatever it was or would be, began. School was a common ground, something he knew so much about, more than my mom and dad, more than even some of my teachers. Math, history, literature, science—he had experience with them all, and was always ready and eager to provide me with his opinions, links to articles, books I should think about reading. Learning became our common language, and suddenly we were writing regularly.
A few months and many e-mails later, he wrote saying he and his wife and son would be coming down to North Reddemane. They hoped to meet me, if my parents agreed. When I told my mom, she bit her lip, and I saw that look again.
Nobody thought she should do it. Her family said he had done nothing for us and deserved the same in return, that it would just confuse and upset me. But my mom had read all the e-mails. Despite her misgivings, she understood that he was somehow filling a void we might have not even known was there. So a couple of months after the letter arrived, a visit was arranged. My father, his wife, and Benji came down to stay with his now-elderly aunt, and we made plans to all meet for dinner at Shrimpboats. In the days preceding this, my mother was so nervous she threw up repeatedly, which I’d never seen her do before—or since, actually. Your past holds on to everything, apparently, even your gut.
When the day arrived, we showed up at the restaurant and were led to a table by the window, where a tall man in glasses and a woman, a chubby toddler on her lap, were waiting for us. Personally, all I remember from the visit was how different my father was than in his e-mails. He seemed uncomfortable and awkward, and would not stop looking at me. He openly stared pretty much from when we said our hellos (stiff handshakes, awkward mumblings) until the merciful moment about an hour and a half later when we finally parted. It was like he was trying to make up for his own father, all those years ago, in seeing me.
His wife Leah, a toothy, friendly brunette, engineered the entire conversation, talking constantly to fill in any and all awkward silences. The boy, Benji, my half brother, was cute and thought everything I did was hilarious. I had popcorn shrimp. My dad talked entirely too much about the building business. My mom drank ginger ale and eyed the restroom. And then it was over. When we said goodbye, my father gave me a wrapped package, which I opened up, somewhat self-consciously, as everyone else watched. It was a copy of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, his favorite book when he was my age.
“You may not like it,” he said, by way of explanation. “Which is fine. Just try it and see.”
On the way home, I sat with it in my lap, watching from the backseat as my mom exhaled, resting her head against the closed window. My dad reached over from behind the wheel, and squeezed her shoulder. “So that’s that,” he said, and she nodded.
Well, not exactly. It took me a week to read Huckleberry Finn, another to figure out what to say to him about it. In the end, I decided just to be honest, telling him that it was kind of boring, had weird language, too much river. I wondered if I’d offend him, or if how strange he’d been at our meeting meant I wouldn’t get any reply at all. The next day, though, just like clockwork, there was this:
What else did you think?
As it turned out, that lunch wasn’t the end for us. But it wasn’t the beginning of some beautiful relationship, either. More like a door being opened a tiny crack to let a sliver of light in. It wasn’t enough to see clearly by, but from then on, we would never be fully in the dark again.
We e-mailed regularly, talking about what I was studying and reading. Once a summer, they’d come down to North Reddemane and a meeting would be arranged. There was mini golf, more popcorn shrimp, the aquarium and Maritime Museum with Benji as he grew. Cards came for my birthday, gifts neatly wrapped (I knew by Leah) for Christmas. All the while I continued battling with my sisters, being with my friends, and doing all the other things that constituted my Real Life, the one I had, very happily, without them. Then, during a visit the summer I was sixteen, something changed.
It began with a simple comment, lobbed across the table as we sat at Igor’s, the lone Italian place in town. (My dad swore their slogan was “For when you can’t eat seafood one more time!” although this was not actually the case.) My father took a sip of his wine, then looked at me. “So,” he said. “Have you thought at all about college?”
I blinked at him. “Um,” I replied. “Not yet. They don’t start doing stuff at school for it until next year.”
“But you do plan to go,” he continued. “Right?”
He was a stranger in so many ways, but one thing I knew was that where he came from, higher learning was expected. This was unlike in my own family, where at that time college graduates numbered exactly zero. This difference was clear just by looking at Benji, who wanted the crayons the waitress offered when we sat down, but was told to do a word puzzle—Leah carried a book with her everywhere—instead. “Challenge yourself,” she’d told him, opening it up and pushing it across the table.
I glanced over at my half brother, watching his face as he studied the little squares. When I looked back at my father, he was still staring at me, just like the first time we’d met, but it felt different now. This was our thing, our shared interest. Maybe it was weird there was only one. But I’d take it.
“Yeah,” I told him. “Absolutely. I mean, that’s the plan.”