Return to Me (16 page)

In the still of the morning, my thoughts laced chaotically over and under each other like a crazy tapestry of memories, emotions, and realizations. I hauled myself inside to face the never-ending files. From the corner of Dad’s office, I heard Reid rouse: “What? What did he do now?”

I wanted to say,
Nothing.

I wanted to say,
Everything is going to be just fine.

More than anything, I wanted to chastise Reid for assuming that Dad had harmed us yet again. But none of those could I say.

It was time to stop closing my eyes and face the dark truth confirmed in every file folder and by every document. Dad had concealed his affair from us with ease and deft skill. It was time for Mom to stop hiding from this reality, too. So I gathered the most damning evidence and set the papers on the kitchen table along with a note:
Mom, you need to see this.

I
n my head, I still carry a snapshot of the kitchen table the morning Mom took over my reluctant role as the forensic accountant of Dad’s double life: the tidy stacks of bank and credit card statements. A pink highlighter, uncapped, its tip drying out. A pad of paper covered with numbers, circled and underlined. And Mom’s laptop opened to an Excel spreadsheet. Luckily, Mom wasn’t in the kitchen—otherwise I’m not sure what I would have done if she heard the soft whimper-sigh that escaped me.

A small movement outside the window betrayed Mom’s whereabouts on the back deck, arms gathered around herself while she stared, stared, stared up at the hazy gray sky. Way back two days ago, I was scared—and yes, wallowing in self-pity—when Ginny pushed me to help out. Way back then, I was furious that Mom wasn’t being the adult.
You’re the mother
,
I had wanted to scream at her.
You investigate. You decipher these bills and accounts.

And way back twenty-four hours ago, I had heard my mother sobbing at the doctor’s office, teetering on the thin ridgeline separating breaking down from broken.

Now I leaned against the barren windowsill. The last thing I wanted was for Mom herself to tackle the painstaking task of scraping the layers of intricate wallpaper covering her marriage and finding the insidious dry rot of betrayal.

Peter, our architect, had once explained at our job site the concept of sistering—how sometimes when wood was beginning to rot, you could add a new plank next to it. Side by side, the old plank could remain next to the new. Side by side, the two planks were stronger. Side by side, they could hold up a house. Side by side, they might hold up a heart. So I refilled the kettle and placed it on the back burner to start the water boiling while I walked out to the deck. There, I took hold of Mom’s cold hand, and side by side, I led her back inside the warm kitchen.

As long as I can remember, Friday evening has been Muir Family Pizza and Movie Night. Tonight, when it was just the three of us on the sofa watching
MythBusters
, I literally couldn’t remember the last time Dad had joined us, not even when he had lived with us on Lewis Island.

What I had been able to count on was Jackson hanging out at these end-of-week gatherings. Right on time, his text chimed
on my cell phone as I went to open the door for the pizza delivery man:
Eat a slice for me, Rebel.

It seemed so unnatural to ignore the text, which was what I was supposed to do, right? Delete the text because we had broken up? Instead, I found myself rereading those six words throughout the first half of the show, each one bombarding me with homesickness for my mountain biker.

Five slices of pizza later, Reid’s distended stomach gurgled from his gorging, not that he noticed any personal discomfort. Too immersed in the MythBusters’ quest to build a mammoth LEGO boulder, he didn’t even notice the house alarm chiming as the front door opened. I flinched:
intruder
. Damn it, had I left the door unlocked? I jerked off the couch.

Not an intruder but Dad, who bounded into the entry, grinning at us like the father we knew and loved. I had missed that good-natured father so much, my throat clenched. The Thom Girl in me hastened toward Dad no differently than I had as a little girl of seven, eager to bask in his attention:
Yes, Dad, I can swim….

Reid bolted for Dad, too, throwing himself at our father first.

“Rebecca,” Dad said, reaching one hand out to me as though nothing had happened.

I had almost drowned once stupidly trying to prove to Dad that I, unlike Mom, wasn’t afraid of the water. As much as I wanted to burrow into his arms and smell his familiar Dad scent, I was drowning where I stood, no more able to breathe in this living room than I could underwater all those years ago.
This time, I didn’t reach for Dad. He was no longer my solid and reliable hero.

I glanced back at Mom instead. But she, too, was immobilized, on the couch. By the time my gaze resettled on Dad, he had turned his back on us and was headed upstairs.

“See?” Reid said to Mom and me, glowing with triumph as Dad vanished into the master bedroom. “See, I told you he was coming back.”

“Reid…” Mom cautioned softly. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“He’s going to stay,” Reid said, his jaw a stubborn line of boy bravado.

Despite her warnings, Mom rose and stared expectantly at the closed bedroom door, hoping in spite of what we all knew. It wasn’t long before Dad trotted downstairs, carrying a small overnight bag.

“Wanna watch
MythBusters
with us?” asked Reid, rubbing the tip of his sneaker on the marble floor.

Dad dumped the overnight bag in the entry before tugging his cell phone from his jeans, his head bobbing—such a familiar gesture, my heart ached—while he calculated the time. I softened. How many times had he done that for me, opening his schedule when I needed a lift to the ferry? Or help on a problem set?

I didn’t want to think beyond this minute, when we were still four, to the impending minutes that would whisk him to his weekend plans for two, whatever they were. Finally, Dad agreed, “For a little bit.”

Without a word to Mom, he snagged her spot on the couch, with Reid leaning on one side of him. I sat on his other side but kept a gap between us where none had been before. That left no place for Mom, who stood near the entry, the odd woman out. Slowly, she walked over to us, perched on the arm beside Reid. From the window, I could see an old man strolling along the sidewalk, slowing down to peer in our windows to behold our cozy tableau: the enviably perfect all-American family. If he only knew.

One lone piece of pizza remained in the cardboard box. Cold as it was, Dad grabbed it before settling back, one foot propped on the coffee table. As I listened to him chew the pizza—our pizza—I suddenly grew angry. Now, heart, body, and soul overheated, I was sweating. I wanted to storm into the kitchen, snatch the spreadsheet Mom and I had created, shake all the zeros under his nose, and demand,
What the hell did you do?

Mom may have been too proud to ask for help, but I had to. “Dad, our savings account is running low.”

“I’ll deposit half of my paycheck into it,” he said easily.

“For how long… do you think?” Mom asked uncertainly, as though she didn’t want to offend Dad and chance him retracting his offer.

Dad leaned back, arms behind his head, a man in command of the boardroom. “Into perpetuity, Bits.”

I breathed out, relieved. This was the generous father I knew. The one who would take care of us forever, who would never claim it was “his” money. I grinned at him and snuggled into his side now. Right as the MythBusters debated the best
way to transport their LEGO creation to the test site, Dad fidgeted. It wasn’t long before he patted Reid on the knee and said, “Okay, got to go.”

Reid demanded, “Why?”

“Where are you going, Thom?” Mom asked.

“Out,” Dad said, belligerent as a boy defying his mother, disrespectful with curt, one-word answers. Shocked, I recalled hearing this very tone every time Dad spoke with his own mother… and mine.

“Well,” Mom said now, standing slowly with her hands clenched so tight behind her back that her knuckles were white, “if there’s an emergency, how are we going to reach you?”

“I’ve got my cell phone.” Dad strode toward the front door.

How many times had I witnessed this conversation, too? Mom asking Dad for basic information, and Dad doling out responses in miserly monosyllables. Now I could appreciate Mom’s position: How the heck could she have planned our week if she didn’t know whether Dad could pick us up from the ferry station? Drive Reid to a football practice? With his scanty answer, I couldn’t stay quiet, even if speaking meant incurring Dad’s disapproval.

“Dad, you didn’t answer our calls when we first moved here,” I pointed out.

Just as I thought, he shot me a hurt look before grudgingly admitting, “We’ll be at the Four Seasons. In Boston.”

I couldn’t help glancing at the empty pizza box that had felt like a reckless splurge of twenty bucks.

“That’s where the party is,” Dad said.

“Party?” I asked. Instinctively, I moved to stand at Mom’s side.

“Giselle’s parents are celebrating their thirtieth anniversary.”

It wasn’t me who spoke up against this new insensitivity. And it wasn’t Mom who choked on Dad’s tone-deaf intentions. But Reid. Reid who recoiled but refused to look away. Reid who maneuvered in front of me and Mom now, as though his one hundred ten pounds could protect us, and stated firmly, clearly, as if he were the man, not our father, “Dad, you’re still married. Don’t you think that’s just… mean?”

Dad didn’t respond but stared at his cell phone, wishing someone else would answer for him. There was no one else. The truth in Reid’s assessment stretched taffy-thin before Dad answered in clipped words: “I didn’t think about that.”

Mom reared back as if struck in the face by the magnitude of Dad’s disregard.

I can’t take any more. I can’t.
Mom’s voice was as clear in my head as if she had spoken, but she was silent, ashen-faced. Her bottom lip was caught painfully between her teeth. Fury gathered inside me as I studied this imposter of a father. Couldn’t he hear himself?

I had ignored my inklings about this move. I had told myself that I was crazy when I predicted things. I had convinced myself that a sixth sense couldn’t possibly exist. My scoffs echoed my dad’s derision of everything and anything that couldn’t be calculated and calibrated, explained and documented.

Whatever happened to us now—Mom, Reid, and me—was going to occur under my steadfast watch. Maybe it was time to admit to myself that I had visions.

Tired of nibbling after my father’s trail of crumbs, stale and insubstantial, that led us in maddening circles, I asked myself: What should I do?

Then I listened.

There was no nausea, no listing ground, no pounding headache.

Get them to safety.

The voice was so adamant—my inner knowing unquestionably strong, a perfect-pitch ringing that ran from head to heart. I told him now, “Dad, you can keep doing whatever you want, but we’re going to Hawaii.”

O
ne call to Grandpa and we were bound for the Big Island two days later. I paused outside the open door of the airplane. There, I lifted my face toward the star-clad night sky, breathed in the balmy air of Hawaii, and felt, surprisingly, like I had arrived home. That unexpected sensation of homecoming only heightened at the sight of Grandpa George, in his vivid red aloha shirt, waiting for me and Reid and especially Mom.

As soon as Mom cleared security, Grandpa grabbed her heavy carry-on bag and threw his arms around her. A divot of concern creased his forehead, and he asked, “You hanging in there, darling? You look like you’re going to faint.”

“Doing fine, Dad.”

He nodded. “We’ll just get the truck, then, and head home.”

“How far is it?” I asked.

“Two hours. You can sleep on the way to Volcano.”

“Is that really what your town’s called?” asked Reid.

“It really is,” Grandpa said, mussing Reid’s already bedraggled hair. As easygoing as my grandfather sounded, I caught his worried expression. Not that I blamed him. Three long flights had taken a toll on us: Reid smelled musty, I felt greasy, and Mom looked vampire-pale. She hadn’t slept on any of the plane rides; I knew because every time I woke from my catnaps, Mom was either journaling or reading one of her books with dire titles like
He’s History, You’re Not: Surviving Divorce After 40
and
When Love Dies
. I never thought I’d miss her books on effective time management until now; this new batch of self-help was a heartbreak.

Six hours on the plane should have been plenty of time for me to compose a letter to Sam Stone, belatedly thanking him for meeting me… even if that meeting had been mortifying. Under any other circumstances, Mom would have been incensed that my handwritten thank-you note hadn’t been signed, sealed, and delivered within twenty-four hours of my walking out of Sam’s office. But my procrastination continued because I kept replaying our last good-bye with Dad and my final conversation with Jackson instead.