Page 12 of Happy Ending

I pick up my phone and call her. I don’t know exactly what I would say, which scares me because we had such a good night—or at least felt like it to me—at the playground, and I don’t want to push her further away.

I need to be calculated with this. I need to reassure her that I see her.

Really see her, without criticizing her coping methods, which is clearly what this is.

Maybe I’m overthinking this. Or maybe overthinking this allows me to underthink my issues with my own dad.

Either way, this is a message Laine needs to hear.

The line picks up. “Hello?” “Hey,” I start. “I’ve been thinking about something

you said. At the playground?” There’s a pause. “Mhm.” Laine’s voice sounds groggy, like she’s just

woken up, even though it’s mid-afternoon.

“Well, I just wanted you to know that I think you’re a good person.

A very strong, independently-willed person.

” “Drew… Where is this coming from?” I can almost hear how disheveled she looks through the phone.

I can picture her hair messily tied up and her long fingers stained with paint as always.

I stumble on my words. “I- I don’t know.

I just wanted you to know that. I see you for who you truly are, Laine, and that person is capable of so much more than your dad was ever destined for.

You don’t need to be all tangled up in a church you don’t like in order to be a good person.

” I sense it click in her hard head over the phone, what I’m saying.

“Oh, Drew.” She lets out a breathy sigh.

“Don’t take what I said so seriously. I didn’t mean anything by it.

” “No, Laine. I know how you’re feeling.

And I’m assuming that’s why you’ve felt so distant recently.

” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.

” I picture her shaking her head over the phone.

It’s crazy how familiar I’ve become with her mannerisms. How easily I can predict her motions just by the sound of her voice.

The idea that we’ve become so close for me to be able to do that quickly brings me back to my main objective of the call, and I decide to play it safe.

“Laine, I know you’re scared. I know you have a lot running through your mind right now.

” I say in a softer tone, hoping to get through to her.

To get her to let her guard down around me like she did so easily the first time she cried in my arms at the playground.

“Just forget I said anything, okay?” She sounds worn.

“I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.” “Wait-” I start, but the line clicks and all I hear is silence.

Great. I’ve gone and messed it up again.

I pushed her further. I don’t know why she’s choosing to distance herself now after all we’ve been through.

After she opened up to me so easily when we barely knew each other.

Now, we’re closer than ever, yet she feels so far. So guarded.

******

I’m tired, and my head hurts after staring at a Krebs cycle diagram for two hours, trying to memorize all the steps. I scoot my chair back, pushing off my desk with my feet. There’s nothing an apple and a bit of Advil can’t solve.

When I reach the top of the steps, I hear my mom talking to someone.

She’s angry; I recognize her stern voice that comes out only when I’ve gotten in serious trouble.

Then, I hear a man’s voice. Stealthily, I take each step on the stairs with great precaution, extra slow on the steps I know squeak.

When I round the corner, my eyes shoot to the living room, then the front door.

That’s when I see him.

My chest drops as I take in the man standing in the foyer.

I almost don’t recognize him immediately.

Roy is in my house. “Hey, ladybug.” Roy catches my eye and beckons me over.

He holds out his arms, and I can’t tell whether he’s presenting himself overenthusiastically or expecting a hug.

I don’t walk over. I don’t move from the bottom step.

I don’t step onto the kitchen floor that connects with the living room that connects with the foyer.

I don’t dare stand on the same ground as him.

Instead, I book it back upstairs. Slamming the door behind me, I slump against it using all my body weight.

I hear my mom’s footsteps rushing toward my room, but I keep my back to the door.

My heart pounds incessantly, and my head feels ten times heavier than it did minutes ago.

Suddenly, I wish I were staring blankly again at complicated words I know I could never pronounce, arranged around a circle constructed of arrows in my APES textbook.

“Sweetie…” My mom’s voice is quiet on the other side of my door.

It breaks mid-sentence, and I can tell she’s been crying too.

“Can I come in?” I don’t respond. Even if I wanted to say anything, my throat feels tight, and nothing but exhausted gasps escape my lips when I open them.

“He’s downstairs, honey. It’s just me, please let me in.

” I crack the door, poking an eyeball through the opening to check if she’s being truthful.

She is, so I open the door wider, letting her in but closing it quickly behind her.

“Look, I don’t know why he’s here. Or why he chose to show up and be a part of our lives now.

But he is. He’s making the effort now, and he wants to take you to lunch today.

He wants to talk to you.” “No,” is all I manage to get out.

“Drew, I’m angry with him, too, okay? But he’s trying.

He just wants one lunch with you. After that, you can decide how much of your life you want to let him into.

” I’m taken aback by how reluctant she is to his arrival.

I know what I heard downstairs, and I know I heard her upset with him, so why is she pushing it on me now?

“I said no,” I respond firmly, finding my voice again.

“I take it you got his letter?” I nod. “You don’t even have to talk to him.

Let him do the talking. He just wants to explain some things to you.

” “I SAID NO!” I scream, shoving my mom out of my room.

Part of me feels bad for taking it out on her.

For not listening to her. But listening to her would mean listening to him, and I wasn’t about to do that.

Writing a letter as if we live in the fucking 1800s was one thing.

But showing up at my doorstep? He had already crossed the line, but now he’s built a wall along it, making it so that he can’t cross back and nobody can push him back.

It took so long for me to live with myself in his absence after he left us.

This whole house became a shrine for him.

Every corner was one he’d stubbed his toe on at some point because he was always too clumsy and unbalanced to walk straight.

Every loose nail dented in the walls was once a happy family portrait that had been taken down.

Every inch of the kitchen counter was one my little butt once sat on when he let me stir the batter as he baked my favorite cookies before doctors’ appointments because he knew I’d always get anxious beforehand.

Every room in this house held his memory as if he were dead, and every memory was a reminder of how good a dad he was when he was present.

A reminder of everything I lost. Perhaps it would have been easier to lose him if he had been a terrible dad.

But he wasn’t. He gave me everything I could ever ask for in a parent, and then he took it all away.

To me, that’s far worse than a terrible parent who stays.

******

For the rest of the day, I curl up in my bed and stare at the ceiling. On it, there are faint marks of sticky residue from all the times I threw squishy toys up there as a kid, and my dad had to rip them off after I cried to him that my toys got stuck and I couldn’t get them to come back down.

The more I stare, the more those residue marks become blurry, almost blending in with the off-white shade of the drywall ceiling itself.

Suddenly, my wallowing is interrupted by a loud crash coming from the kitchen. I jump out of bed and run to the top of the stairs, fearing the worst. I’m stopped by the sight of broken porcelain, scattered across the tiled kitchen floor. They haven’t noticed me, but I’ve definitely noticed them.

It’s unclear who threw the plate, but it’s Roy who starts sweeping up the pieces as my mom berates him.

Against my better judgment, I decide to sit on the top step and listen in.

I know it’s wrong to eavesdrop, but between Roy showing up out of the blue—sort of; the letter doesn’t count—and my mom trying to convince me to give him a chance, they owe me at least this much.

“What were you expecting, Roy? That we were going to welcome you back with open arms and dig up the old family photos to slide into the empty frames on the coffee table? That you could take Drew to lunch and be sitting across from the same eight-year-old girl you abandoned?” Mom says angrily, throwing her arms in the air.

“I don’t know, okay? Maybe I was! Maybe I thought you guys would still have it in your hearts to be happy for my successes? I finally have the life I always wanted!” Roy responds firmly, on the verge of tears.

“Wow.” Mom deadpans. “So we weren’t enough? Your own family, Roy! I should have known we were never what you wanted. You always wanted more. More, and more, and more, and-”

“You know that’s not true! I loved you and Drew with everything I had in me, but I just couldn’t sit here and pretend I was happy with myself. It had nothing to do with you two and you know it!”