Happy Families (20 page)

Mom spends a long time Thursday afternoon on the phone, checking in with a client, making sure all the loose ends are tied up with a business lunch she’s supposed to cater and generally checking in with the staff at Wild Thyme. When she’s finished, there’s a little lull in the action as Dad cleans the kitchen and Mom sits at the dining room table with Dad’s laptop.

I don’t actually mean to eavesdrop. Ysabel needs more darks
to throw in the wash, so Mom volunteers her jeans and a few of Dad’s sweaters. On the way back downstairs, I pass my parents in the kitchen.

“You must never shop.” Mom sounds reproachful. “I can’t believe how empty your cabinets are. You’re as bad as you were in college.”

“Actually, I’m worse,” Dad admits. “It’s harder to eat my own cooking now.”

“You have no onions,” Mom exclaims. “How am I supposed to make anything?”

“Can’t we just go out?”

“From the look of the takeout containers in your fridge, you
always
go out. Don’t you cook anything yourself?”

Dad laughs. “Honestly, Stace? I try not to get home until I absolutely need to crash, and I don’t even go into the kitchen until I make coffee the next morning. Most of the time, I get a sandwich at work.”

“You’re digging your grave with your teeth.” My mother sounds irritated.

“So, will you stay here and cook for me?” Dad asks lightly.

“You’re not taking this seriously, Chris,” Mom complains. “There’s not a vegetable in this house. You’re going to kill yourself eating like this.”

“Well, by all means, let me go get changed, and we’ll find some vegetables.”

I expect Mom to call downstairs for Ysabel and me, but she doesn’t, so I go upstairs again. She’s standing by the sliding glass door, looking out at the view of the oaks from the back of the town house.

I glance at Dad’s closed bedroom and frown. “Mom?”

“Mm?” She sounds distracted.

“Have you ever seen Dad in Christine clothes?”

Mom turns, suddenly focused on me. “Mm-hmm.”

“Oh.” I stand next to her and squint out into the sunny afternoon.

An arm goes around my waist. “Have
you
seen Dad as Christine this week?”

“No. But he said he didn’t want to do that this week.”

She waits a moment. “Are you thinking about something specific in regard to Christine, or is this just general worrying?”

I shrug. “Nothing specific, just … do you ever think about what it’s going to be like the first time we all see him? Or the first time Serena and Caleb see him at Wild Thyme, or the first time with people at church? Or … anybody? Do you know what you’re going to do?”

I feel my mother’s rib cage expand as she takes a deep breath. “No.”

“No?”

“I have no idea what I’m going to do,” Mom says. She smiles, a quick, amused grin. “Did you think I had everything planned out?”

“Well, no, but—yeah. I guess I thought since you were letting Dad come back, you had it all figured.”

A little frown appears between Mom’s eyes. “Justin, I’m not ‘letting’ your dad come back. I never wanted him to leave.”

“Weren’t you the reason he decided to stay here?” I look up.

Mom shakes her head. “His decision. Entirely.”

“Well, that was—” I struggle to find a word.

“Painful? Typical?” Mom sighs. “He was trying to make it easier on us.”

“But I’m not sure things can
be
easier.”

“And that’s why you’re my smart son.” Mom smiles. “Go get your sister. We’re going out to lunch.”

The Thai restaurant Dad takes us to is filled with bamboo plants, splashing fountains, fish tanks, and statues and shrines behind the counter. Horrible easy-listening plays in the background as the hostess, in a gold-embroidered outfit, takes us to a back room to remove our shoes. Awkwardly barefoot and a little cold, we follow her up a short flight of stairs into the carpeted loft, separated from the lower tables by an intricately carved wooden banister.

The hostess seats us at a table overlooked by a large golden Buddha. Dad sits first, easily dropping to the floor. The wooden coffee table where we’ll eat is centered over a rectangular hole in the floor where our legs go. Dad scoots to the cushioned seat nearest the wall, leaving Mom the one closest to the aisle. She kneels on the floor to sit next to him, then laughs as she pitches forward trying to get her legs under the table.

We page through the menu, trying to figure out what’s good. A man bustles up with a tray of glasses and a sweating pitcher of ice water, garnished with wedges of lime and a sprig of basil. Mom starts asking him questions, and I tune her out as the waiter pulls a pad from the waistband of his apron and answers her. He’s scribbling and smiling, and then he reaches for my menu.

I hand it back.

“That’s it?” Dad looks miffed. “I was still looking.”

“Well, I went ahead and ordered a bunch of stuff for us to share,” Mom says, looking guilty. “You’ll find something you like.”

I just shake my head. Mom ordering for everyone like this is usually the cause for a small family war, since her idea of fun is to order the weirdest foods on the menu she can find. She calls
it “eating out of the box.” Today, not even Ysabel comments. Instead, she and Mom sit and talk about the outfit the hostess is wearing and whether or not the lanterns on the wall are real brass or just aluminum. My father refuses to surrender his menu and keeps reading.

“Dad?” I ask.

“Hmm?” He looks up.

“So, when are you moving back home?”

My father sets down his menu. “Your mom and I have talked about that. Mom was looking at enlarging the closet and taking care of a few other things.”

“Do you really have that many clothes?” Ysabel interrupts, abandoning her conversation with Mom.

“No, I don’t have that many clothes,” Dad says, looking slightly offended. “That’s just one of the things we’re doing to prepare. It’s a lot of change to throw at everyone at once; we’re just taking it slow.”

“Well, I hope you’re home before the Phoenix Festival,” Ysabel says. “I’m thinking about showing some bigger pieces this year, and if Mom’s got a weekend thing, I need a backup driver. Man, I can’t wait till I get my license,” Ysabel adds.

“We’ll see how much driving school is this summer,” Mom says. “I don’t think my nerves can take anyone’s driving but my own.”

“Dad could teach us,” I suggest. “You’ll be home by summer, right?”

My father looks vague. “We’ll see. Hey, here’s our food.”

The waiter sets a stack of plates and a rotating circular tray on the table. In the center are spinach leaves piled high and a bowl of sauce, surrounded by smaller bowls full of ingredients.
“Miang kum,”
the waiter announces. Pointing, he identifies the
diced contents of each of the small bowls around the spinach. “Chopped peanuts, palm sugar, fried tofu, dried shrimp, shallots, ginger, hot chilies, limes, and toasted coconut.” He beams around the table and steps back. “Eat, enjoy.”

There’s a brief, expressive silence as all four of us stare at the mound of dark green spinach in front of us. Ysabel looks at me in disbelief, then both of us look at Mom, who bursts out laughing.

She stops quickly, her hand smothering the sound, but she’s smiling as she watches us. “You should see your faces.”

“This is going to be like the time you got us dim sum,” Ysabel says plaintively. “Did you order anything we’ve had before?”

My mother gives her a exasperated look. “This is as easy to eat as a burrito, Ysabel. Just put a little of each filling on a spinach, add the sauce, and roll it up.” Fumbling a bit, Mom makes a roll and hands it across the table to me. “Taste.”

In the face of her forceful enthusiasm, I take a reluctant bite, wincing at the blend of sweet and sour spiciness exploding on my tongue. Ysabel picks up a spinach leaf and examines it closely, possibly for insect life.

“Try one. The only thing you don’t want is the shrimp,” Mom encourages her.

“That’s not the only thing,” my sister mutters.

Dad gives a pained smile and nibbles on a peanut. “Vegetables, huh?”

“Just try one.” My mother hands another roll to Dad and looks across the table at me. “Isn’t it good?”

We all make positive noises, and Mom turns to Dad, who shrugs. “It’s great. You got some pad thai, though, right?”

My mother puts her head in her hands and groans.

* * *

After our dessert of mango and coconut sticky rice, Mom decides to take a walk to the Asian market at the end of the block and asks Dad to pick her up from there. Ysabel follows. I stand in front of the restaurant and wait for my father to pay for our food.

Dad is sucking on a mint from the bowl of candies at the cash register. He hands a candy to me, and I concentrate on unwrapping the brightly colored plastic, deliberately looking away from my father’s face.

“So, do you not want to move back in with us?”

Dad hesitates mid-step. “What?”

I shrug uncomfortably. “Just wondering. Every time I mention it, you kind of dodge the question.”

“I’m dreading being home alone Saturday night,” Dad says, his brown eyes serious. “I don’t know how I’ll fill my time without you guys.”

“Then why don’t you come back with us?” I ask him. “Mom said she didn’t even ask you to leave.”

Dad looks away, his shoulders stiff. “She should have. Your mother is a saint.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything.

Eventually, my father exhales, a long, shuddering sigh. “You know how you keep your running shoes in the box they came in?”

I give Dad a look. “Yeah? What about it?”

“You want to keep them nice, right? You want to keep them pristine, so when it rains, you run on the paved track in the gardens at Heather Farm, right?”

“Um, Dad—”

“That’s how I feel about my family,” Dad says, his voice crowded with emotion. “None of this was ever supposed to touch you. You were just—”

“Supposed to stay clean in our box?” I ask, bewildered. “Dad, I don’t see what that has to do with you moving back home.”

Dad shakes his head, his face tense. “I can’t do it yet, Justin. I miss all of you every day, but I can’t change the way things are overnight. Do you understand?”

I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say. “I don’t think any of us can change the way things are,” I say finally.

“I know, Buddy,” Dad says, looking away. “I know that better than anything.”

Confused, I get in the car. Dad drives down to pick up Mom and Ysabel, and when we get home, he hands Mom the keys to the house.

“I’ll be back,” he says shortly. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Do you have your phone? Make sure you don’t get lost,” Ysabel calls jokingly, but Dad just waves without turning back and disappears onto the walking trail.

“What’s the matter with him?” Ysabel asks, but I’m still not sure. I do know that we need to keep talking in order to find out.

Mom settles onto the couch with the newspaper. I sit at the dining room table and wait for my dad.

At five, Dad calls and says he’ll be late and not to wait for him.

At nine, Mom stands up and hands me the television remote. “It’s all yours,” she announces, and heads for Dad’s room. “I’m going to bed.”

Sometime after eleven, my fingers twitch as I feel the remote removed from my hand. By the time I open my heavy eyes, it’s full dark, and a soft fleece blanket has been pulled over me.

I sit up. “Dad?” But I’m alone in the dark.

It occurs to me that I might actually miss Dr. Hoenig, in the way that you miss a little splinter you had in your hand once you’ve dug it out. Dr. Hoenig is definitely like a little splinter. She didn’t actually hurt that much, but just the annoyance of seeing her every day makes me glad that today is the last time.

Dr. Hoenig has out her lined yellow legal pad, and she’s wrapping up her thoughts, talking about what we’ve said in the past and where we are now. We’re just moments away from getting the heck out of here and heading to the beach.

Last night, Bethany phoned and invited us. She and her
dad organized our friends from the TransParent group, and we’re having a going-away cookout. We’ll build a bonfire and watch the sun go down on the Pacific. I’m all for big fires and sunsets, and I admit I want to see Connor when he’s focused on me and not freaking about Justin.

I’m just hoping Dr. Hoenig lets us out of here sometime before I turn twenty-one.

“Dr. Hoenig, I’d like to ask a question,” Justin blurts, and I make a pained little noise.
This
is why I try my hardest not to be in any of the same classes as my brother. His “one last question” is just the kind of thing he’d do during the last five minutes of the last class on the last day of school.

Dr. Hoenig smiles as I slide down the couch with a silent moan. “Sure, Justin. Shoot.”

Justin glances at me. “We’ve told you what we wanted to get out of this week and what we got out of it. Would you tell us what
you
wanted us to get out of this week?”

The therapist looks surprised. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

I do. “He wants to know the point of talking to you.”

“Ysabel,” Mom says, frowning.

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” Justin interrupts. “I just know there was an objective to all of this, right? A goal. Did we make the goal, or what?”

I roll my eyes. Only Justin would check to see if we got the best grade in
therapy
.

Dr. Hoenig looks thoughtful for a moment. “As a therapist who specializes in transgender family therapy, I want my clients to be able to communicate about their needs, and my job, as I see it, is to help them bridge who they are individually and who
they are as a family.” Dr. Hoenig opens her mouth to continue, then stops. “Is that answering your question, Justin?”

“I guess,” Justin says, then sighs. “No. Not like I wanted you to.”

“What did you want me to say?”

“I thought you’d say that you were a therapist who helps families get back together.”

Dr. Hoenig nods slowly. “That’s a part of what I do, if the families are willing.”