Happy Families (12 page)

Scooping up the phone, I wander upstairs and chuck it on the kitchen counter. Dad’s door is closed, and there’s no sign of life from either him or Ysabel. I shrug and bring my takeout tray and plastic fork into the living room. I watch TV while I demolish my four tacos and wonder how mad Ys will be if I eat her little side of beans and rice.

Not too mad, I decide, and polish them off.

Unexpectedly, Dad’s door opens as I’m throwing away my foam tray and rinsing my plastic fork. He wanders into the kitchen in a familiar pair of gray sweats and a ratty Chi Epsilon T-shirt.

“Hey, Buddy.” He takes Ysabel’s takeout tray and tucks it in the microwave.

“Hey, Dad,” I reply cautiously. He looks more tired than angry.

“I’ve got ice cream, if you want any.” Dad pulls a plastic bag out of the freezer.

I ignore the small pints of fudge brownie, chocolate chunk, and caramel ripple in favor of the larger container of vanilla bean. “Did you get root beer?”

Dad smirks and opens the refrigerator to pull out a liter of my favorite. “Of course. I still know how to do that much.”

“Just checking,” I say.

The microwave beeps. Dad gingerly removes Ysabel’s takeout
tray and puts it on the counter. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, opening the cabinet and pulling out two tall glasses. “You go ahead and take your sister her dinner, and I’ll make us floats. All right?”

I grab a pile of napkins from the counter and the bag with Ysabel’s tortillas and the rest of her sides. “Sounds good,” I say.

I kick Ysabel’s door, and she opens it right away, a wary expression on her face. She rarely stays mad for too long, and she brightens immediately at the sight of her food.

“Thanks, I’m starving,” she says, and pulls me into the room. She sits on her bed and breathes in the steam from her fajitas. “Is Dad up there? Does he look mad?”

“You could just come up and see for yourself. He’s making root beer floats.”

“I can’t.” Ysabel shakes her head decisively. “There’s no point. I don’t know what to say yet, and it’d just be … weird.”

“Well, don’t leave it too long,” I warn her. “It’s better if you get it out of the way before you go to bed … you know.”

“I know.” Ysabel looks uncomfortable. Mom and Dad always say that family shouldn’t go to bed angry with each other. Until this thing with Dad, none of us ever did.

“Well.” I tap out a rhythm on the doorframe, not sure what else to say. “That float’s calling my name. I ate your beans and rice, but if you want something else, I’ll make you a—”

Ysabel smiles wanly. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not that hungry.”

Upstairs, Dad has put my float on a coaster in front of the couch. I stretch out and enjoy it. We watch some old police show with random car chases and explosions. I spoon up my float, not really caring that I missed the first ten minutes of the show and am not sure what’s going on. It’s not one of those shows where the plot really matters anyway.

When it’s over, Dad stands and stretches. “Here, Buddy,” he says, and tosses me the remote. He grabs his glass and pads into the kitchen, yawning. I channel surf while I listen to him open the fridge. The hiss of the soda opening makes me smile. Dad really is a glutton for root beer floats.

Instead of coming back to his chair in front of the TV, Dad leaves the kitchen and heads downstairs. Inside, something I didn’t even know was tensed up relaxes. I hear the muffled sound of knocking, and a moment later, my father reappears. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows.

“Ready for a refill?”

“I’ve got it,” I tell him, and he nods and flops back in his chair.

I’m rinsing my glass when I see Ysabel standing nervously at the top of the stair, holding her untouched float with both hands. Setting the glass down on the dining room table, she stands rigidly in the middle of the room. Dad mutes the television.

“I’m sorry, and I know I need to offer you meaningful restitution,” Ysabel recites quickly, “but I don’t really know what that’s supposed to mean.”

“Ysabel,” Dad interrupts. “Do you know I love you?”

My sister looks away. “Dad, I’m not really up to a psychology exercise.”

Dad shakes his head. “Well, that’s a relief, since that’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then why are you asking me?” Ysabel’s voice is troubled.

“Because I need to be sure that you know that I do,” my father replies.

Ysabel clasps her hands together in front of her, twisting her fingers. “I didn’t see anything,” she says quietly. “I swear I didn’t.”

Dad winces and looks away. There’s a moment of silence. “Thank you for that,” he says finally. “It doesn’t matter, though. I shouldn’t have locked the door.”

“It’s your house.”

Dad looks at Ysabel and smiles. “True. Do you know I love you now?”

Ysabel shrugs warily. “All right, yes. I know you love me.”

“Good,” Dad says, and unmutes the TV.

Confused, Ysabel stands staring at him a moment, then gives me a bewildered look. I shrug and put away the root beer.

I don’t know if that means he’s not mad anymore or what. I don’t get Dad these days, either.

Justin yawns and slides into the backseat next to me. “You ready for this?”

“I guess,” I shrug. This morning there’s a thin fog obscuring the blue of the sky, and I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands. “I’m not sure it matters if I’m not. You?”

“I’m ready,” Justin says as Dad backs us out of the driveway, “but Dad’s never been rafting.”

“We’ll be with a group and have a guide, oh ye of little faith.” My father grins. “Give me a little credit here.”

I’m still shaking my head at the whole concept when we
get to Dr. Hoenig’s office. Rafting. What are we thinking? The whole man-versus-wilderness thing is just not a Nicholas family tradition. Dad said Great-aunt Wilma never let him join the Boy Scouts, because apparently she didn’t want him to learn to set fires, so Dad never learned to be the hunting/camping kind. The only time Mom likes to be out in nature is in a park with food and a blanket, so we just don’t do much in terms of roughing it.

“It’ll be fun,” Dad insists as he maneuvers into a parking space. “I’m making up for not taking you camping when you were little.”

“You did,” Justin says.

Dad shakes his head as he turns off the ignition. “Well, I don’t remember that.”

“He’s blocked it from his mind,” I announce, stooping to tie my shoe, then jogging to catch up. “Don’t you remember that father-son thing at church?”

“That wasn’t camping,” Dad argues as we walk into the office. “We were in a cabin.”

“There was wildlife, though,” Justin says, then winces. “Monster mosquitoes.”

“And spiders in the shower,” Dad says, grinning. “I could barely get you to bathe that weekend.”

“Dad, I was
eleven
,” Justin reminds him. “It was about the
shower
, not the spider.”

“Good morning, Nicholas family.” Dr. Hoenig’s eyes crinkle with her smile. She motions us into the office, closing the door behind us. “Is it safe to say you’re a much happier group this morning than you were yesterday?”

“He’s decided to drown us,” I tell her, and flop into the armchair closest to the door. “We’re going rafting.”

“Ah, the TransParent trip up to Whalin Glen.” The
gray-haired woman makes a regretful face. “I wish I could go, but there just aren’t enough hours in the day. Shall we get started? Can I offer you something to drink?”

“We’re fine,” Dad assures her, taking his customary seat on the end of the couch.

Maybe
he’s
fine. But I’m feeling stupid. How could I have forgotten about the other transgender people Dad wanted us to meet?

Dr. Hoenig says she wants to “check in” with each of us and starts by asking Justin how he’s doing. I stay tuned out, my mood dark, as I worry pointlessly over the raft trip. There are a thousand ways to make a fool of yourself in front of strangers, and I just know I’m going to suck at rafting. What if we’re the only normal people there?

“You’ve gotten pretty quiet, Ysabel. How are you feeling about things this morning?”

“Fine.” I smile nervously, hoping she didn’t notice I was paying zero attention to her just now. “I’m not really awake.”

Dr. Hoenig chuckles. “Have you had a chance to start working on your list of rights?”

“Uh, no,” I admit, tucking my foot under my other leg. “I forgot all about that.”

She nods, then turns to my brother. “What about you, Justin? Any thoughts yet?”

“I’m done. First on my list is ‘The right to know what’s going on,’ ” Justin says.

I glare. When did he have time to work on a list? “Did you just come up with that?”

“No, I did not just come up with this,” Justin says, offended. “I thought of it yesterday when I woke up.”

Oh. About the time I was snooping, trying to find
out
what was going on.

Dad shifts on the couch. “ ‘What’s going on’ seems pretty broad. Could you be more specific?”

“That’s a good point,” Dr. Hoenig says, and leans back in her seat. “The best thing you can do with these lists of rights is make them detailed and clear. So, Justin, you want to know what’s going on. With whom?”

“Okay.” Justin sits forward intently. “I have the right to know what’s going on in terms of plans that affect my life, my routine, and my, uh, well-being.” Justin nods to himself. “I think that covers it.”

“Ysabel, do you agree with that?”

I shrug. “I guess.”

Dr. Hoenig raises her eyebrows. “So you don’t agree with all of it?”

I heave a sigh. “No, I agree with all of it. I’m just …” I let the words trail away.

“What’s the matter with it?” Justin protests. “I covered everything.”

“I know. It’s fine, but …” I look at Dr. Hoenig. “This whole thing’s kind of pointless.”

She gestures. “Keep talking.”

“Justin and I don’t really have rights, no matter if we sit here and pretend that we do. Dad’s just going to do whatever, and he and Mom are going to decide where we live and those kinds of details, and until we’re legally of age, we just have to go along with it or find a foster home.”

“Well, that’s grim,” Dad mutters, pushing up the sleeves on his shirt.

“No, it’s true.” I straighten in my seat. “First, you and Mom
split up. Then, Mom starts trying to sell the house—
without even asking us
—and Poppy won’t even consider letting us move in with him and Grandmama, because you and Mom have already figured out we’re all moving—never mind if I can find another welding teacher or if Justin can find a good debate team—”

“Hold on a minute.” Dad leans forward. “What do you mean, ‘we’re all moving’? You’re not moving, Ysabel.”

“Now, see?” I’m irritated. “How much easier would our lives have been if you’d just said that to begin with? Just a few statements like ‘You kids aren’t moving. We’re not getting a divorce. Everything’s going to work out.’ ”

“How was he supposed to know everything would work out?” Justin interrupted. “It’s not like anyone ever knows that.”

“It’s not like anyone ever knows everything that has to do with their well-being, either, but you don’t hear me criticizing
your
list,” I retort.

“Time-out,” Dr. Hoenig says quickly, a slight smile on her face. “There are too many good points being brought up here to miss. Now, Chris, this seems like an ideal moment to give a few statements that you can make—apparently the consensus here is that there’s been too much confusion and not enough information. So, let’s have three simple statements from you.”

Dad straightens up to oblige her. “One: no one is moving. Two: no one is getting a divorce. Three: no one is selling the house.”

“Then what’s with all the Realtors?” Justin interrupts. “I’ve talked to the same lady three times.”

Dad opens his mouth, then closes it, frowning. “Three times? We were pricing places a while back,” he admits finally, “but that’s done. They shouldn’t still be calling.”

Justin and I exchange looks. “Oh,” I say, feeling stupid.

“See? No mystery,” Dad says, his voice smug. “You can always ask if there’s something you want to know.”

“There’s some stuff you don’t want to have to ask,” Justin mutters.

“Like what?” Dr. Hoenig encourages him.

Justin glares at Dad. “Like, ‘Is that my dad in drag at my debate event, or have I lost my mind?’ ”

I wince. Justin has never quite forgotten that I didn’t believe him that day.

Dad’s expression is troubled. “Buddy, you should never have had to ask that. I’m so sorry. That entire day was a disaster. My flight was delayed, and I was already late. I thought if I took the time to change, I’d miss the whole thing.”

“You knew! You watched me walk off that stage, and you didn’t even say anything.” I hear the accusation in my voice.

Dad shakes his head. “I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t face you.” He sighs. “If it hadn’t been for Poppy catching up with me on my way back from Robinson, I might not have ever said anything.” He looks at Justin. “I just wanted to forget it happened. I figured you wanted that, too.”

Justin looks away, tacitly refusing to meet his eyes and ease the ache in his voice.

Silence stretches. None of us know what else to say.

“We’ve had a lot of things get swept under the rug in the last few months, Nicholas family,” Dr. Hoenig finally says quietly. “A lot of things we’ve been afraid to ask, a lot of things we’ve not wanted to face. Tomorrow, let’s see how much progress we can make toward getting down to bare floors.”

As if on cue, the three of us stand. Dr. Hoenig opens her door, and we file out.

* * *

It’s an hour later when Dad breaks the silence.

“This is it,” he says, braking and signaling left. We turn off of the tree-lined road onto a graveled lot. In the distance a tall bridge arches over a wide, muddy expanse of river. A few people are pulling inner tubes down the steep embankment toward the water below, and others stand around cars, changing shoes and slapping on sunscreen.

We drive through the lot kicking up dust. I raise the window hurriedly, and Dad slows as rocks spray out from under the tires. A guy near a battered orange and white striped van waves, and Dad waves back, almost windmilling his arms in the confined space near the windshield.