The earlier part of the afternoon was such a whirlwind, my visit with Priya so brief, that I barely remember what happened.
Her face, so drawn and thin, that’s what I remember, until her smile burst open wide and lit up the room. Her wispy black hair, not her platinum wig, I remember that, too.
But most of all I remember what wasn’t there, what Emily didn’t notice.
No life-saving machines. You don’t have to be the son of a nurse to know what they look like, but if you’ve visited enough times, you kind of get to know the background hum. And when it’s not there, you notice. It wasn’t a luxuriously appointed hospital room because it wasn’t really a hospital room.
Priya is in hospice. She isn’t at the hospital to get better.
This is the end for her.
Or the beginning, depending on how you look at it. The field—my magic field—was Priya’s beginning, her new adventure. And her parents took it away from her. But maybe I can give it back.
My father meets me at the hospital cafeteria about twenty minutes after I call him.
He spots me at once and his face splits into a happy grin. He practically runs to my table, shouting at me.
“Matty, you don’t know how happy I was when you called,” he says. “Gosh, I thought it was a dream or something.”
I keep my distance, even as he throws his arms around my shoulders and hugs me. I haven’t seen him in days, but it feels like a year. He’s wearing a pair of khaki pants and a light blue collared shirt, and his normally unruly hair is plastered back into a helmet shape. He’s got a backpack slung over one shoulder like he just stepped off a college campus. In other words, he looks very un-DJ-like. Must be Carol’s influence.
“Look, this girl is . . .” How do I put this without betraying Priya? I don’t want to tell my dad she thinks she’s an alien. I don’t want him to treat her like a lunatic, like I did. “She’s a big fan of the field.”
“A new follower? I wonder if I know her. I just updated my blog after I moved here.” He sounds eager and peppy, like he’s bubbling over with optimism now that he’s not living with me and Mom.
I try to cool his jets. “I just want you to talk to her, okay? Just tell her about the field or something. Nothing weird. No conspiracies or anything stupid.”
“Sure, sure, I can do that,” my dad says. He gestures toward the coffee bar at the front of the cafeteria. “How about I get us some coffees first, huh?”
“Uh, yeah, okay. Black, please.”
“And two sugars, I know.” He grins at me and hops up, adjusting his backpack as he goes. I feel like I’m being wooed on a first date by someone who really wants me to like him.
When he returns, he starts his spiel over again. I can feel it, like it’s something he prepared on the drive over. “I’m glad you called me today, Junior.”
Without looking at him, I say, “Could you call me Matty? Thanks.”
“I know it might have been strange that I left in a hurry . . .”
I shrug and stare down into my coffee.
“I’d been thinking about it for a long time. It was never the right time.”
When is the right time to leave your family? I wonder. “So . . . Carol was the right time, huh?”
My dad’s eyebrows knit in confusion. Did he not expect I would ask? “It was never about Carol. We were just friends. She wasn’t happy and I wasn’t happy. We left together but we’re not together. Not like that.”
“She’s not at your new place?”
He scowls. “I don’t know where she is.” He slurps at his coffee and makes a face. “Not enough sugar.”
“Always ask for two,” I say like a wiseass.
He nods as if I’m brilliant or something, and we’re silent for a moment.
“Your mom is amazing—”
“Don’t say anything about Mom,” I warn him.
“She did everything. Paid every bill. Made every decision. A long time ago she decided I was useless. She even tried to get me a job with my own brother.”
I remember.
“But I wanted something else.” He shakes his head. “Matty . . . I’m sorry.”
I feel my pulse quicken. An apology. That’s what I wanted, wasn’t it? I search his face for deception, for insincerity, but see none. Instead I just see . . . a man.
Ordinary. Human.
He hesitates a moment and then, in a rush, says, “I understand if you hate me. I get it, I do. I’d probably hate me too.”
I don’t want to think about hating him, about forgiving him—or not. I didn’t ask him here for this.
“Dad? This is not the time.”
I slurp my coffee, too much too soon, and scald the roof of my mouth. Whatever. I feel very whatever at this moment. I clear my throat dramatically, and in my head I hear the voice-over guy from Real-Life Mystery.
“Her name is Priya,” I say. “And she believes she’s an alien. . . .”