The Possibilities: A Novel (15 page)

“We can get you another one if it offends you,” my dad says.

“Stop it, Dad,” I say.

“I just don’t want to dirty it,” she says.

“That’s what hand towels are for,” he says, and then sincerely, “You all right, sport?”

“No,” she says.

Billy takes a glass to the bathroom. I hear him turn on the faucet. He comes back and places the glass of water beside her.

We are all attending to her and I’m sure she is mortified. She drinks the water and my dad pats her back as she drinks. “You’re okay.” His touch makes her cry, and she has given in, relieved to cry. He pats and rubs circles into her back.

“I’m so embarrassed,” she says. She looks at each of us, almost as if forcing herself to do so. Her face and neck are flushed. I’ll have to lend her a new shirt and sweater.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Billy says.

“This isn’t supposed to happen this way.” I notice her hands shaking a little. Billy and I exchange glances. What way was it supposed to happen?

“Funny how that emotion, embarrassment, is just deer-in-the-headlights debilitating,” my dad says. “You can hurt someone and go around thumping your chest like a baboon. But to be embarrassed, that’s tough. Makes people veer quite incredibly from logic.”

“Dad,” I say. The way he speaks, I swear.

“Just breathe,” Billy says.

“I’m trying to help,” my dad says.

“I know,” I say.

She puts her forehead down on the edge of the sink and takes deep breaths.

“Billy,” my dad says. “Get down on your knees and stick your butt in the air. I want to show Kit a technique I learned from my dad, who learned it from his father before him. Billy, get your chest on the ground. Show her this technique to help her relax and breathe. I do it all the time.”

Billy hesitates, then makes his way to the floor. Kit, still leaning against the counter, turns to look.

“Now put your forehead on the ground, Billy. And splay your arms. Splay them.” Billy situates himself into an exhausted child’s pose.

“There you go,” my dad says. “You see that, Kit?”

She nods her head on the counter.

“Now really look at Billy,” my dad says. “Look at him there. Hell, I don’t do that all the time. It may make it harder to breathe for all I know, but nothing you do today will be as embarrassing as what he’s doing now.”

Billy lifts his head but stays down on his shins.

“You’re a little nuts,” Kit says.

“I know,” my dad says.

“We all know,” Billy says, “but he’s kind of always right. It’s annoying. It actually feels great down here. I’m very relaxed.”

Kit turns back to the sink and stands up straight. Tears are really flowing now, like a quiet snowfall.

“Take a deep breath,” I say softly. “Ignore the idiot gallery behind you.” I gesture for Billy to get up and he does. “I learned something from my father,” I say, “and I swear I’m not making this up. He’d always tell me to say something, to talk about something that has no meaning, that won’t trigger any emotions. Just get talking, get breathing, you—”

“The toads,” she says, and I’m surprised by her steady voice. It’s as though she really is snowing or raining and not crying, the tears just a natural phenomenon. “Lyle. Those boreal toads you were talking about? The way they mate is the male jumps on the female’s back and she carries him around for days. This stimulates her to lay the eggs. That’s all he does. He sits on her back. When she delivers the eggs—that’s when he fertilizes them. I don’t know why my dad knows so much about the way creatures mate. He was always interested in it. That and the heart. He loves the heart.”

“That’s good,” my dad says. “That was really good. See, you’re fine. You’re doing great.”

We stand there, surrounding her like coaches.

“Oh God,” she says, and does it again, throws up in the sink. We all automatically take a step back.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, when she’s done.

“Holy shit,” Billy says.

Chapter
12

Billy’s response, “Holy shit,” echoes through my head. I mouth it. I say it out loud. I feel it and hold on to it, not wanting to think or feel anything else right now.

I look out the window of my room, trying to gauge the weather—it looks like holy shit. I put on black jeans and my gray oversized sweater, as if the news demands a new costume. I somehow put on makeup while avoiding the mirror, as if not seeing my reflection saves me from admitting or understanding something. I have nothing else to do in my room. Taking a shower or making my bed would feel ridiculous, like tidying up your house while it was burning down. I have to go downstairs now. I open my bedroom door.

The three of them wait at the bottom of the steps and I walk down, feeling like a debutante. By the looks of them I know they have talked, decided on something, and I will be shuffled because I’m too stunned to think straight. I’ll float like flotsam. Drift like driftwood.

“The car is packed,” my dad says. “And I lent Kit some things from the laundry room.”

At first I don’t know what he’s talking about, then remember our one-night trip.

“Did you get my bag?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Everything’s taken care of. We can head out, but first I thought we’d get something to eat—all of us.”

Kit is wearing one of my favorite sweaters, the dark gray one with diagonal ridges.

“We need to get Suzanne,” I say. “We’re late. I hate being late.” I guess I won’t be shuffled after all.

No one bothers to answer me, making me understand that our lateness is hardly a pressing matter right now.

“We’ll get some lunch at the Whale’s Tale,” my dad says. He looks at his watch. “Brunch.”

He has always done this. When we have a conflict or an issue to address, he takes it to a restaurant, to neutral ground. He thinks one behaves better and thinks more clearly, carefully selects words. The meal serves as a timeline. By the end something needs to be determined, accomplished, but it doesn’t seem like the right thing to do.

“Not now,” I say. “Not for this.”

“We are not speaking about anything here,” he says, then walks outside.

“This is stupid,” I say. “We can talk right here.” Kit and I look at each other and I feel like a child who’s been wrongfully blamed.

“Save it,” my dad says. “No sense repeating yourself, repeating yourself.”

We all follow him out the door. Kit puts on her nice coat. I look at her stomach, then look away.

“Careful,” I say to her, when she starts to walk down the icy steps.

•   •   •

WE WALK IN
to the saloon-like restaurant, a place I’d always go to with my father when I was young. It was our night on the town, just the two of us. It’s funny that it was special to me because it was always just the two of us, but I guess the excursions felt like a celebration of our duo. I switched up the tradition and took Cully to Steak and Rib for our night on the town. Just the two of us. As an adult I saw it was as much a favor the child does for you as one you do for them, especially as a single parent. He was my company.

The restaurant is dimly lit and nearly empty. It feels better to be here than back at home, less claustrophobic. My father is always right.

“Four of you?” a hostess asks in a chirpy way. I feel bad. We’re going to ruin her day with a lifeless response, but she is steadfast and oblivious.

“Would you like a tour of the kitchen?”

“God no,” I mumble, thinking of their greasy food.

“Hey, aren’t you Sarah St. John from
Fresh Tracks
?”

“No,” I say.

She laughs uncomfortably, then looks frightened, hurt, and lastly, pissed off. We follow her. She throws down four menus on a table in the middle of the restaurant, right next to a table of five, four of whom happen to be licking their fingers. The father at the table presses his finger onto his plate, then puts it into his mouth. The girl looks on disgustedly and I’m assuming she’s the girlfriend of the boy whose thigh she’s squeezing. He looks at her and smiles with a full mouth. “What?” he asks, but she just shakes her head.

I take a seat and my dad sits next to me and begins to pat my back, something that annoys me at first but then soothes me.

For some reason Kit has placed Cully’s day planner in the middle of the table between the two round candles that are creating an oddly romantic light. She moves it so that it’s straighter. “Sorry,” she says. “I arrange. I’m always feng shuiing . . . ”

My dad clears his throat. He fingers the ridge of his jaw, starting from behind his ear and working his way to his chin. I know he’s about to say something either mildly intelligent or intensely confounding.

“Sometimes,” he says, “I feel my face, making sure it isn’t becoming elongated, like a caricature of a sad man.”

Billy nods as if this isn’t a bizarre thing to say.

“Sometimes,” he continues, “I think Sarah expected me to break years ago—”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“That my wife’s death or my job would either break me or turn me into a fool, yet I’ve managed to strike a balance. Sheila is gone, but I’ve made it, and I’ve been happy, and while I’ve worked hard all my life, I’ve played too, and before the horrific present, have felt pretty well armed against the latter-life crisis.” He looks at Billy, as if for confirmation.

“I don’t get too depressed, I haven’t suddenly taken up yoga or groped or eloped with a waitress—”

“Or bought a yellow Boxster,” Billy says.

“Or decided to write a memoir,” my dad says.

Kit blinks and furrows her brow. She catches me looking at her, but I don’t look away.

“Life is my Rubik’s Cube,” my dad says. “When I can’t do it, I put it down.”

I’m amused by Kit’s efforts to feign comprehension.

“I am not, however, equipped for this,” my dad says, his hands including all things present and all things unseen. “I can’t even understand what this is.”

I put my hand on his thigh. His voice wavered.

“I have been beaten,” he continues. He clears his throat in a way that only men can do without being gawked at. “I’ve been sucker punched by life. My late wife I could do. I was prepared, I had time going in, and I’ve had lots of time going out. But my grandson’s death is something I can’t—”

His voice again. My throat. It’s like I’ve swallowed down a jigger of vodka. There aren’t many things worse than seeing your dad fight back tears and collapse. Billy too; he looks like he’s fighting a sneeze.

“So,” my dad says. “Let’s talk, once again. A little bit faster now. I’m prepared for both a very simple story or a very complicated one, but let’s walk a straight line.”

Kit remains still and quiet, with a wilting and pained expression. The sun is bright in the doorway. It ricochets off the snow that’s glossed the roofs.

I’m about to pardon my father, explain that he likes speeches, always has, always will, but her silence is bothering me. She has had ample time to spit it out, interrupt and save him.

“Is it his?” I ask her.

Of course it’s his.

She nods. My eye twitches and I’m embarrassed and then can’t believe I’m able to feel something as small as embarrassment at a time like this, but for some reason my eye jerking and fluttering is important.

“I thought you said you weren’t dating?” I laugh, hating the sound of my bitter laughter. I look quickly at my father. He puts his hand on my back again, lower this time, a secret gesture like a ventriloquist’s hand. “I thought you said you weren’t his girlfriend?”

Billy looks like I’ve said something naive, and then his eyes light up. “Lux,” he says. “Cully told me he liked a girl named Lux.”

“My last name,” Kit says. She looks heartened though weakened by this. “That’s what he’d call me sometimes.”

My dad moves his hand off me and I feel a coldness on my back and a deep sadness.
Lux
, I say to myself and keep repeating it, letting it drum in my head.

“So you were or weren’t his girlfriend?” I ask. My dad puts his hands on the table.

“Please, Dad, I need to have some kind of control over this.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You did in your own silent way,” I say.

“How am I supposed to control that? Here—I’m sending you supportive silent thoughts. Here comes one now! But since you’ve given me the floor, may I offer one suggestion?”

“See!” I say. “I could feel you suggesting! Wanting to suggest!”

Kit shifts her gaze between me and my father, back and forth, back and forth. I feel like I’m in one of those movies where the criminals begin to argue and shoot each other, allowing the victim to back away slowly toward the exit.

“I just think you should be quiet,” he says. “That’s all.”

“I know, I know,” I say, and then explain to Kit. “He has always told me to be quiet. After your speech, let the other person ramble on. It puts you in a position of power; it’s a more effective way of gathering information, but I can’t help it just now. My mouth runneth over or whatever.”

“Keep things relevant, darling,” my dad says.

“This is relevant! I’m very confused right now. First I find he’s a drug dealer.”

“Not really,” Kit says.

“Who cares if the boy slung some Mary Jane here and there,” my dad says.

“I care!” I see our waitress heading toward the table and I quickly say, “And now he’s impregnated a waitress!” I look at Kit and she brazenly shakes her head as though I’ve made a false accusation.

“What can I get for ya?” the waitress asks. “Do you all need more time or . . .”

“Yes, more time,” I say.

“No worries,” she says.

“Actually I’ll take a Bloody Mary,” I say.

“That sounds good,” Billy says. “I’ll have the same.”

“Sure thing,” our waitress says, then pivots soldier-like to the table beside us.

“I’m not a waitress,” Kit says.

“I know,” I say. “I didn’t mean it that way. Even if you were . . . I just blurted it out, okay? Strike it. God, I hate when people say, ‘No worries’!”

“Why don’t we get back to the matter at hand,” my dad says.

“Just what is the matter at hand?” I ask.

“Kit is pregnant with our son’s child,” Billy says.

“Our son? You shouldn’t even be here. This has nothing to do with you.”

Billy gives me a challenging look. “He’s my son,” he says. “Just because you wanted me to have as little to do with him as possible because—”

“Oh, please,” I say. I look to my dad for some support. He crosses his arms and gazes toward a murky side window.

“You act as though I walked out on him,” Billy says.

I shake my head to indicate the futility of this conversation, but really I have no comeback. I know he’s right and don’t know how to defend myself.

“Kit?” my dad asks.

“Yes, sir,” she says.

“It’s Lyle to you. Now, you’re okay. Let’s ease up. Let’s keep it simple. We’re all assuming it’s his,” my dad says. “Thus your . . . lurking around.”

“Yes,” she says.

Her answer makes me disoriented, and there’s French music playing in the background, loud and mildly avant-garde, which adds to the confusion.

“How do we know?” I ask. I look across the table at her stomach covered with her napkin as if for proof of life.

Kit looks back at me with strength and conviction. “I can give you more details, but I really wouldn’t make something like this up. I’d rather avoid all of this.”

“But how am I supposed to know for sure?” I ask. “Not that you’re pregnant, but that it’s his.”

“Because I’m telling you,” she says. “And it has to be his because”—she lowers her voice—“there was never anyone else.”

“What?” I say. I almost blurt,
How lame!
but then she says, “Since I’ve lived here.”

My father and Billy look away toward the window.

“How can we trust you?” I ask. I bring my fist down hard on my thigh, a clumsy gesture I hope no one saw. I’m not sure if I’m stricken or hopeful and the conflict is making my chest hurt, my breath shallow.

“You can trust me,” she says. “But I understand if you don’t.”

“So he didn’t know . . . of course.” I hold my neck. Of course he didn’t know.

Our waitress feigns sneaking up to our table. She puts the Bloody Marys down.

“Are ya’ll ready to order or do you still need some more time?”

More time, more time. Tell us the specials. Tell us where you’re from originally. Tell me how to react to all this.

“The pancakes are awesome,” she says. “Or the crab cakes . . . fish and chips.”

We all look at one another, not knowing how to answer, just knowing we’ve made a bad decision. We can’t be here.

“We’ll take the fish and chips,” Billy says. “We can all share.” He shrugs at me, asking me to go along with it.

“No,” I say. “I’m sorry, but we won’t be eating. We have to go.”

“None of you want to order anything, or . . .” The waitress tries to meet one of our gazes.

“No,” I say. I pinch the skin between my eyebrows, thinking about the eggs I made, Kit puking on them and in my sink.

“I guess we won’t be staying after all,” my dad says to the girl.

“Just the check for the bloodies then?” she says through a clenched smile. She takes away our silverware, creating a violent clatter, then turns to the other table, the happy, ravenous one (minus the girlfriend), and says, “I’ll be right back with those shakes.”

Our table is silent, chastened.

“I hate when people say ‘bloodies,’ ” I say. “So gross.”

“Christ, Sarah, you’re real particular with language, you know that?” Billy says.

I know. Cully and I both were. We’d have gut reactions to words.

“Do your parents know?” Kit shakes her head. No. She looks surprisingly good now, rested, the sun hitting the left side of her face, showcasing her smooth, golden complexion. She is so young. I touch the small line on my face that runs from the side of my nose down to my chin.

“Where are you from again?” Billy asks.

“New York. Westchester. A town called Bronxville.”

He nods as if this information is useful.

“Are you . . .” I can’t complete the sentence. “Are you going to keep it?”