Happy Families (11 page)

This is the only room in the whole house that looks right. The pillows on the king-sized bed and the matching duvet are a deep navy, just like Mom and Dad’s at home. Though the bed is
mostly made, the pillows are stacked haphazardly, and there are two alarm clocks, one on each night table. I wrap my arms around myself, staring. Did he lie? Is someone else sleeping with Dad?

I barely take in the rest of the items on the night table—on the right, a box of tissues, Dad’s open Bible, and a notebook, closed. On the left, a desk lamp, a tidy stack of newspapers, and engineering journals. Beneath the window is a glass-topped counter that holds Dad’s computer and a blueprint. At the foot of the bed, there’s a dresser and a bookshelf, with a picture of Justin and me when we graduated from the eighth grade and another of all of us on our last vacation in Colorado.

I pick up the heavy silver frame and study my father’s high cheekbones, his long, straight nose, wide mouth, and crooked smile. Mom says in college Dad looked like a dark-skinned Harry Connick Jr., all awkward long arms and big hands. She’d thought he was geeky until she’d seen him smile. She’d fallen in love with his dimples.

I stare at the picture, trying to find a resemblance to the jazz musician. Instead, I see an echo of my own sharp nose and wide eyes. I set the picture down, straightening it so it looks as if it hasn’t moved.

I brush my fingers over the pages of Dad’s Bible, then hesitate over the notebook beneath.

We always would see Dad writing things. He’d take a notebook to church and write. Sometimes in the summer he’d sit in the backyard and write in the morning while he was drinking his coffee. I was never really curious about it. After all, Justin and I had our own notebooks. Dad said his notebook wasn’t his diary; it was just full of things he was thinking about, things he wrote down so he could think them through clearly.

My fingers itch to open the thin cardboard cover and see what my father has written on those neat blue lines. I want a clue to his thoughts—I want to know what’s in his mind now, where we’ll all end up. I want to know if he’s been alone in this bed. But as I reach for it, my conscience stings, and my hand drops.

I haven’t really done anything wrong yet, not too wrong, really. But I know I cannot open that notebook. There is a line from curiosity to invasion that I just can’t cross.

Sighing, I clench my inquisitive fingers and walk around the rest of the room. Dad’s bathroom door is open, and moist towels—only one set—hang on the shower stall. I tiptoe into the tiny space that houses the toilet and open the mirrored cabinets above the sink. One is empty, the other holds aspirin and cough medicine. The walk-in closet across from the sink area is illuminated by the warm lights above the mirror, and I move toward it instinctively, my hand brushing the wool fabric of slacks and jacket. I look up and see Dad’s hard hat on a shelf, the name of his company on the front. I push deeper, looking for secrets and answers. Does Dad have the Christine dresses in here? What if he has wigs?

My heart freezes as my fingers encounter something silky. When I can force myself to look, I see it’s just Dad’s luau shirt, the bright short-sleeved, floral-printed one Mom bought him for our church beach party, but it’s enough to scare me into backing out of the closet, my pulse thudding a panicked tempo in my throat.

I lean against the wall to catch my breath, my gasps quick and shallow. I realize I don’t want to know about my father’s other life. I don’t want to see him as Christine. I don’t want evidence that everything’s changed.

I don’t really want to know him.

“So, why are you in here, stupid?” I mutter to myself. I turn toward the door and find my glance captured once again by the notebook. I hesitate, knowing I don’t want to know what’s in there. Still, the fear pulls me away as strongly as the desperate curiosity urges me forward.

I step closer, lifting the Bible and disturbing the pages. A worn blue envelope slides from between the pages and falls. I bend and pick it up, my eyes widening. It’s addressed to Christine Nicholas.

He said he would never hurt Mom. He said I knew him better than that
.

My heart pounding, I slip the pretty notepaper from the envelope, breathing in the faint perfume as I unfold it. I suck in air as I recognize my mother’s careful, precise script, and my eyes follow the lines:

The words are faintly familiar, and I realize they’re from the Bible. Beneath the verse, she has written just the word

Hastily, I refold the letter, fingers clumsy. What am I
doing?
I shouldn’t be here. I have trespassed into something hugely
private between my parents, and I’m embarrassed—oh Lord, so embarrassed—and irritated with myself. If Dad ever read my journal or broke into my room, I’d never stop screaming about it. This was a horrible idea.

And yet, as I lean against Dad’s open door, hurriedly fitting the screws back into the knob, I feel a strange center of calm. How can they be getting a divorce? Mom and Dad, in spite of this Christine thing, are somehow still in love.

I refuse to hope for anything, but even as I try to smother it, a tiny spark remains.

I drop the screwdriver and fumble after the last screw, feeling around blindly in the carpet under Dad’s desk. Scowling, I grab the knob and rattle it. Even without the last screw, it looks like it will stay in place, and if I can—

It’s only a whisper of air over my skin, but all of my muscles tense. Dry-mouthed, I push to my feet as the garage door clicks shut. I meet my father’s sharp gaze as he walks down the stairs from the entryway, watch the understanding bloom on his face as he looks from the screwdriver in my hands to the evidence of the open door behind me. And then his eyes narrow in an expression of pure fury.

“Get. Out.”

Moving through the doorway as far from his visibly shaking body as I can, I drop the screwdriver and run.

Stretching, I yawn and squint at the small screen on my phone.

A quick knock. Before I can say anything, the door opens and Ysabel hurtles in. Her eyes are wide, and she’s blinking hard. She closes the door silently and slides to the floor behind it.

“What happened?” I ask, halfway sitting up.

“Nothing,” Ysabel says, and draws her knees to her chest. She’s shaking.

“Don’t give me that. Ys?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Okay, then
. I wait, but she won’t look at me. After a moment, I lie back and look at my phone screen again.

“Justin?” Dad calls, and knocks. Ysabel scoots into the corner behind the door.

I tuck my phone out of sight and sit up. “Yeah?”

My father opens the door and steps in, holding up the cordless phone. “Mom wants to say hello. And then give the phone to your sister.”

I take the phone, shooting a glance at Ysabel, who is sitting hunched in on herself, her head down. Dad backs out of the room and closes the door behind him without even looking in her direction. Frowning, I put the phone to my ear.

“Mom?”

“Hey, Justin.” My mother’s voice is warm. “How’s it going?”

“It’s okay, I guess.”

“Are you sleeping all right? Did you remember your mouth guard?”

I roll my eyes, glad she can’t see me. “Yeah, I’m sleeping okay so far. You cooking anything interesting?”

Mom makes a so-so noise. “Just a company brunch, nothing too interesting.”

“Oh.” Silence hums along the phone lines.

“Well, I guess you guys are going rafting tomorrow, huh?” my mother continues brightly.

“We’re
what
?”

“Oops. I hope that wasn’t supposed to be a surprise.”

“What does Dad know about rafting?”

Mom laughs. “Probably more than you do,” she says. “You’re going with a group, though.”

“Oh.” Belatedly I remember that Dad said he wanted to introduce us to other transgender people and their families. “I guess it’s better meeting them outside than sitting through one more therapy thing. Although Dr. Hoenig is all right,” I add quickly.

“That’s good. I’m glad you like her.”

There’s another pause as I try and figure out what Mom called to hear. She knows I’m okay. She knows I’m getting along with Dad all right. I shrug, at a loss. “So, did you want something else, or do you want to talk to Ys?”

“I see your phone manners haven’t improved.” Mom gives a long-suffering sigh. “If you can tear yourself away, I’d like you to call me tomorrow when you’re home from rafting, all right? I love you. Now let me talk to Ysabel.”

“Love you, bye,” I reply, and hand over the phone.

I flop back on the bed as Ysabel says hello and consider another nap. It’s quiet in the room for a long, long time. I’ve almost forgotten Ysabel’s on the phone when she suddenly begins her one-sided conversation.

“I know. I know. I know. Mom, I’m sorry. I know. I just … I didn’t mean—”

I roll up on my elbow, frowning. Ysabel might have been caught eavesdropping again. Last time, Mom lectured her for days about it, and she lost her privileges to take some class or other at The Crucible, which to her was a big, big deal. Grandmama still lectures her about it, too, which is worse than any punishment.

“No. I know. I know I do. No, Mom, I can’t. Well, yeah, but I can’t—” Ysabel listens some more and swipes her sleeve across her nose. She’s crying. Seriously worried, I sit up.

“I know, Mom. I’m sorry,” she repeats, her voice wobbly. “I love you, too. Bye.”

Ysabel tosses the phone to me and drops her forehead to her knees.

“Are you going to tell me, or am I supposed to pretend you’re not crying?”

Ysabel glares at me, her eyes slightly watery and red. “I broke into Dad’s room, okay? And he caught me.”

I blink. “Okay, wait—what?”

“It was locked.” Ysabel swallows hard. “I found a screwdriver.”

“Oh, crap. Did you—” I stop the words. I shouldn’t ask her what she saw.

Ysabel rubs her face. “I don’t even know what I was looking for. I just wanted to know why he’d locked the door.”

I nod. “I can see that.”

“Well, you’re the only one,” Ysabel sighs. “I either have to talk about it with Dad and ‘make a meaningful restitution’ ”—she makes air quotes—“or withdraw from the Phoenix Fire Festival.”

My mouth drops. Everyone who knows my sister knows how
much the Fire Festival and The Crucible mean to her. “Wow. If Mom’s threatened the Fire Festival, you know she’s deadly serious. You’d better apologize fast.”

Ysabel turns miserable eyes on me. “I can’t. What am I supposed to say? ‘I’m sorry about the breaking and entering; I didn’t mean anything by it’?”

I wince. “Well, ‘I’m sorry’ seems a pretty obvious place to start.”

“He already knows I’m sorry,” she mutters.

“Yeah, well, you get extra points on the restitution scale if you say it out loud,” I remind her. “Trust me, I know what to do, since usually I’m the one who argues with him and pisses him off. Just say you’re sorry and agree with whatever he says, or you’ll be there forever.”

Ysabel hunches over again. “He won’t accept my apology. This isn’t like snooping for Christmas presents when we were little, Justin. You should have seen him. He was so far beyond pissed. He could barely talk.”

I rub my arms, imagining. “I guess you can always do the Festival next year, right?”

“No!” Ysabel slaps her palms against the floor, glaring at me. “The Crucible is all I have left. I’m sorry I was stupid and broke into Dad’s room, but it’s not fair to take away my show. It’s got nothing to do with Dad!”

“Shooting the messenger,” I warn her, leaning back from her intensity. “I’m not the one you’re mad at, Ys.”

“None of you understand,” Ysabel rages, struggling to her feet. “Nobody made you give up debate, Justin. You walked away. The Crucible is the only place I fit, and they’re not taking it from me!”

Ysabel storms out of my room and slams the door. A second later, I hear another slam from across the hall.

I exhale a long breath and get up. Ysabel has completely blown all thoughts of a nap out of me, and remembering Dad’s comment before lunch about her blood sugar, I decide to get something to eat.