Chapter 4
Robert
When I get up Saturday morning, I find Aunt Whitney in the kitchen surveying empty cabinets and drawers. She has taken everything out of them and stacked it on the counters. And she’s obviously been here awhile; the old shelf paper is gone too, and new green spongy stuff has been precisely fitted to each shelf and drawer in its place.
It’s just a shot in the dark, but I’m guessing Mom didn’t ask Aunt Martha Stewart here to rearrange her kitchen for maximum efficiency. She’s going to be pissed when she can’t find the manual can opener later.
I take a glass and pour some milk. “Where’s Mom?” I ask.
“Out running errands. I told her she should wake you up to do the errands, but she vetoed me on that. She acts like she can’t get out of this house fast enough most days.”
No kidding. Can’t imagine why.
“You want something to eat? I made your dad a breakfast burrito.” She sighs. “He barely picked at it. There’s still some eggs and bacon left. I could put one together for you.”
I mumble a no, thanks, but take a piece of bacon anyway.
“I think your dad’s asleep now.” She stoops to size up a bottom cabinet, then reaches up for a large saucepan and sets it on the shelf inside. “I think he was up all night again. He doesn’t like being alone, you know.”
He wasn’t alone. Mom was right there in the bed next to him. It’s a slight, another tiny dig on my mom—the bad mother, the bad wife. They hate her—for getting pregnant in college, for dropping out, for marrying Dad, for supplanting them in my dad’s life, for existing. She’ll never be good enough to bear the Westfall name. I know that, and so does she.
Aunt Whitney straightens up and leans against the counter. She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head slowly. “You look so much like your dad did at your age. You should be very proud of him, Robert. He’s a very brave man.”
I want to scream at her. How? Tell me how having cancer makes you brave or good or noble? But I don’t.
Aunt Whitney sighs. “He would have been such a good doctor.” Her voice catches in her throat.
She seems lost in her thoughts for a moment, then suddenly finds herself again. She examines the scarred nonstick pan she’s holding. “God, some of this cookware is just a disgrace. I don’t know why your mother doesn’t invest in some good Calphalon.” She forces the pan into a trash bag of other discards she’s been collecting in the corner.
Andrew
“There’s my girl!”
I scoop up Kiki and spin her around. She squeals in delight and pats my face like I’m one of her dolls.
Maya smiles and kisses me on the cheek. “So, what do you two have planned for today?”
I look at Kiki. “You want to go see Santa?”
“Ho-ho-ho!”
Maya laughs. “Good luck with that. My guess is you won’t get her anywhere near the jolly old elf. But if you do, I want pictures.”
“You hear that, Kiki?” I say to her. “Mommy wants a picture of you with Santa, and we can’t disappoint Mommy, right?”
My daughter’s cat strolls out the front door, and Kiki squirms to be put down so she can pet him. I drop her lightly to her feet. “So, you spending the day with Doug?”
“He’s playing golf right now. Maybe later.”
“Golf? Wow. How . . . upper-middle-class straight.”
“Quit. Not everybody can be you. And at least he wants to be with me.”
Ouch. But that’s Maya. Letting go has never been her strong suit. And now what should have been a friendly exchange of our child has become another awkward moment between us.
“He’s a great guy, Maya. I don’t know why you two don’t make it official. Give the poor guy a break.”
“Are you just trying to get out of paying child support?”
At least she can still make a joke. I take that as a sign of continued progress. I know it’s been hard on her going from best friend to one-time lover to a married couple to this.
Kiki has thrown herself over the aging cat, who seems to have resigned himself to the assault.
“Are you taking care of yourself?” she asks.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
“I don’t like you being alone.”
“Thanks, but I spend my days in a classroom so small I can’t spit without hitting a teenager.”
“Eew.”
I laugh. “Trust me, after a day at school, alone is all I want to be.” I don’t look at her when I say this. “I’ll drop Kiki off in the morning.” I free the cat and scoop up the toddler.
“Are you going to your folks?” Maya asks.
Kiki pokes at my nose and giggles. “Yeah. I wish I could bring this one, but maybe Easter.”
“Sure,” she says.
Maya and I have a good relationship, but it’s had its ups and downs. We both agree though that Kiki has been worth all the bad decisions. (I think of them as bad; I’m not so sure Maya agrees.)
Kiki looks a lot like her mom—rich brown skin, thick black hair, and huge eyes set widely apart. I love her more than anything. Maya knows that. We share her, perhaps not equally, but there’s enough play in our agreement that I never feel shorted.
My own parents barely skipped a beat when I came out. There was some discussion about how they already knew, but I think that was just a lie to get past that awkward phase. Because even though sexual orientation is really about identity, there’s no getting around the sexual part. If I’m gay, I’m interested in what’s going on between guys’ legs, and like it or not, my parents had to face that.
So, not surprisingly, they were shocked and more than a little confused when Maya got pregnant. When I announced we were getting married, they sat me down for a real talk, the don’t-compound-one-mistake-by-making-another talk.
I listened patiently to their arguments, even considered some of them, but in the end I did what I believed was the right thing. I married Maya. We’d slept together only that once. We didn’t even pretend to be a real husband and wife in that sense. For me, at least, we were friends and we were parents. I don’t know why I ever thought that would be enough for either of us.
The mall turns out to be a mixed bag. Kiki refuses to go anywhere near the poser in the red suit. I won’t traumatize her by forcing her onto his lap, but I drop to one knee just to make sure this isn’t a momentary case of cold feet. After all, you’re only two once.
“No like him,” Kiki says, her bottom lip jutting out. She sticks her thumb in her mouth and I gently pull it back out again.
“But he’s Santa. Like we saw in the movie, right? And Santa is nice. Don’t you want to tell him about the doll you want for Christmas so his elves can be sure and make one just for you? You could tell him how much you like Rudolph, too, and that red nose. I’m sure he’d like to hear that.”
“Hey, teach!”
I look up and see one of my students, a freshman. He’s holding hands with a girl I don’t recognize, and he keeps flicking his head to the side to clear his early–Justin Bieber hair from his eyes.
I’m trying to recall his name, but seeing him in a different environment makes him hard to place. And then I remember—second-period Algebra, back row, corner seat. “Hey, Alex. Doing a little Christmas shopping?”
“Nah. We’re just hanging out.”
“Well, have fun!” And get a haircut, I think. They move on and I turn back to Kiki. She looks glum and maybe a little sleepy. “You want to build a teddy bear?”
Build-A-Bear is crazy. There’s a birthday party ahead of us with a gaggle of preteen girls, so it takes a while to get through all the stations. Kiki chooses a Dalmatian instead of a bear and dresses the stuffed animal in a froufrou little summer dress even though it’s winter outside. At the sound table, she picks out a little box that plays “Who Let the Dogs Out” and giggles every time it goes woof, woof, woof-woof. When we’re done, we print out the birth certificate and head to the counter to check out. I am exhausted.
“Mr. McNelis!”
“Kim! I didn’t know you worked here.” Kim I know immediately. She’s another of those serious students like Robert. Same class, in fact. She’s strictly academics though. I’ve wondered before if she knows what a cliché she is—Asian, smart, respectful. Even the serious, dark-framed glasses scream ambition. But she has a job, and therefore I must concede that she is more well-rounded than I thought. I have her pegged for valedictorian, or salutatorian at the least. I set Kiki on the counter and introduce her.
“Is this your doggy?” Kim asks Kiki, bouncing the dog on the counter so the skirt on its dress flaps up and down. Kiki smiles and hugs the dog to herself. “She’s a cutie,” Kim says, then to me, “She’s a cutie too.”
“Thanks. I think so.” I pull out my wallet while Kim puts together a traveling home for the dog, aptly named Spot now.
“So, I didn’t know you were married,” Kim says, sliding the credit card receipt over for me to sign.
“Divorced.”
I hand the receipt over and see her eyes widen as she says, “Oh.” Then she flashes me a smile, a very big smile, and tells Kiki to take good care of that puppy. We leave, and I can’t help thinking I’ve just missed something.
Robert
I think I would have gone out to dinner with Hannibal Lecter if it got me out of the house for a couple of hours.
With school out, the mall is packed with Christmas shoppers. But if there’s one thing Nic likes, it’s a big audience.
He hangs his heavy sunglasses from the V-neck of his sweater as we merge with the crowd. “I want to pick out some boots,” he says, grabbing my hand.
His hand feels foreign in mine, and immediately I suspect it’s just for show. It annoys me the way he’s thrusting his chest out as we walk. He looks like a rooster. It’s all so affected, like he’s advertising—gay boy here; come and get me—when I know for a fact that if anybody took him up on it, he’d squeal and hide behind me like a little girl, and then I’d have to defend his honor. I hope I’m never called to do that because I’m not so sure I would.
A lone guy with heavily tattooed arms in a sleeveless shirt strolls past us. Nic appraises him with his eyes, then turns and walks backward. “Wow, do you see those biceps? Damn, break me off a piece of that.” He gives an exaggerated shiver.
Really? Seriously?
“Um,” he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me up short. “Let’s go check out Hot Topic. I want to look for a beanie. I think I’d look good in one.”
Right. I’d put money on the odds that Sleeveless in December just stepped into Hot Topic himself. I realize I don’t care one way or the other.
“You go,” I tell him. “I’m going to get us some sodas. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
“No soda. It’s bad for your skin. Get water, and make sure it’s not just filtered tap water.”
I take the escalator down to the first level. There’s a Great American Cookies kiosk in the main thoroughfare just below Hot Topic. I’ll get Nic his water, but I’m having a soda.
Waiting in line is Mindy, a drum major second to Luke and one of the shortest girls I know, and Anna, a senior tuba player. They both wrap me in a big hug when I get in line behind them. We’re band; we’re family.
“Is Nic here with you?” Mindy asks.
“He’s upstairs.”
“I’m sorry about your dad, Robert,” Anna says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it.
I don’t know what to do with the pity I see in their eyes. It’s misplaced at best, and unwanted at worst. I smile wanly at her and mumble a thanks. She lets go of my hand, and she and Mindy pick up their conversation as I focus on the crowds breaking around the kiosk.
Across from us, a group of girls gather outside of Build-A-Bear, each clutching a cardboard bear house while a mom counts heads.
It’s not until they move off toward the food court that I see him standing at the counter, holding a little girl on his hip. He smiles at the attendant, this girl from my math class, then signs the credit card receipt she places in front of him.
I feel my heart kick up the beat.
“So what are you doing for the holiday, Robert?”
“Huh?” Reluctantly, I look back at Mindy. “Oh, we’re just staying home.”
She seems to realize the flaw in her question and gets quiet. I glance back toward Build-A-Bear just as Mr. McNelis, holding both his daughter and the bear house now, emerges from the store and steps into the crowd. I watch him go.
When I get back upstairs, I sit on a bench outside of Hot Topic and wait for Nic. I think about texting Mr. Mac, just saying, Hi. Saw you at the mall. But I don’t. Fifteen minutes and half a soda later, I’m still waiting for Nic. I check out the store, but he’s not there.
Where are you?
Jamba Juice.
I find him sitting at a table with three of the cheerleaders. I’m sure I know their names, but I’m so irritated with Nic I can’t recall them.
“Here’s your water,” I say, smacking it down on the table.
One of the girls giggles. He turns in his seat and frowns at the soda in my hand.
“I’m leaving.” I turn and drop my soda in a trash bin, then head toward the nearest exit. I am so done with this. Nic catches up with me just as I step through the automatic door.
“Wait, Robert. Wait-wait-wait,” he says, grabbing my arm. “Would you just wait? Jesus, I drove, remember?”
“So I’ll walk home. It’s five miles. I’m sure I’ll survive.” I turn to go, but he tightens his grip.
“Why are you acting like this? You’re upset about your dad—I get that—but you don’t have to take it out on me.”
“I’m not upset about my dad. It’s you . . . and your stupid bottle of water . . . and your Sleeveless in December guy . . . and your girls.”
“Oh, now you’re just being dramatic.”
The absurdity of the statement makes me laugh.
“And what are you talking about, Sleeveless in December guy? Are you talking about that guy who passed us upstairs? Oh my God. I was just looking. You can be so jealous sometimes.”
My laughter dies in my throat. “You don’t know anything about me,” I say, then pull my arm free.
But he latches back on to me, with both hands this time.
“Okay. I’m sorry. Come back in. I’ll buy you another soda, and a pretzel if you want.” He pouts and runs his hand up and down my arm like he did when we first started dating, when he wanted me to go somewhere I didn’t want to go or wear something I didn’t want to wear. I resist the urge to flinch. “You’re my guy. It’ll just be me and you the rest of the day. Okay? Just me and you. Nobody else. We’ll go to the bookstore and you can browse all you want. I’ll even buy you a book for Christmas.”
“I don’t want a book. I don’t want a present.”
“Then we’ll just browse . . . together.”
Later I find myself wishing he’d just let me go.
Andrew
I don’t know who’s sleepier when we get home, Kiki or me. I put on The Lion King and curl up with her on the couch. A strand of dark hair falls across her face. I brush it away with my fingers as she clutches the dog more tightly to her chest. I drift off thinking this is heaven, or the closest I’m likely to ever get to heaven. Something about that thought leaves a sad imprint on my heart.