the only boy in Meadow Brook who reminded me of Danny, really did know how I felt and how I wanted to scream at everyone else who said they did. I put Danny's photo back on the bookcase.
“We don't have to talk now,” Kate went on, “if you're not ready. I do understand. But please keep my number because you know, dear, people like us need each other.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Stanish. Kate.” I folded the “While You Were Out” slip with Kate Stanish's number and tucked it in my wallet. Then I called Gary Johnson's mother, who'd left a message about Gary's problems in math.
Home from work, I phoned my father, keeping the routine I'd established at the end of my first day back at Meadow Brook: let Moose out, make coffee, check messages, call Dad.
“You sound tired,” he said after we'd chatted for a minute. “I'm worried about you, honey.”
“I'm okay. Just worn out, I guess.” I breathed in the comforting coffee scent. “I'm not sleeping well, and school's getting to me.” I used to be good at protecting Dad from worry, but fatigue had torn down the fence around my emotional minefield. “And Joe's so busy we hardly even talk anymore, and I just … I just don't know what todo. And all I really want …” I felt the tears too late to check them. “All I want is to stand at the tennis courts and watch Danny play.”
Dad let me cry, long and hard. He didn't speak until he heard me blow my nose. “I miss him too. But no one misses Danny more than you and Joe. And you've been terrific, Beth. So strong.”
I blew my nose again and searched for my M OM mug. I didn't see it in the cabinet, so I picked up another, one with N OT A M ORNING P ERSON written in squiggly print around the middle. I'd bought that mug for Danny the year before on Valentine's Day, when he was in tenth grade and started drinking tea and sleeping past noon whenever he could.
“I'm not that strong, Dad,” I finally said. And this isn't supposed to be happening to me, I thought. I'm supposed to be waiting for my son to get home from tennis practice. Dammit! Why Danny? “I'm not that strong,” I said again. “And Joe … well, he's working so hard now, he's not home much. And sometimes after work, he hangs out with Mike. Joe's having dinner with him tonight.”
“When Joe's home does he talk about Danny?”
“Not much. And he gets angry ’cause I always want to.”
“Well, there's nothing wrong with that. So whaddaya say I bring dinner to you, and we can talk about Danny all night if you like. Just tell me what you want to eat.”
Dad unpacked the bagels while I hung his damp windbreaker over the shower curtain rod. “You're so much like your mother,” he said when I came back to the kitchen. “I look at you and I see her taking my jacket when I'd come home from work. Sometimes she'd even open the door with a hanger in hand. She took such good care of us.”
I glanced at my father and saw the man my mother had married, a man with warm, green eyes and a wide smile. A man who melted worries. A rare breed: a salesman you could trust.
I set the table in silence. Dad put fruit salad in the blue ceramic bowl I'd left on the counter. He cut a sliver of cheese and held it out for Moose. “You know, your mother liked dinners like this.”
“Like what?”
“Breakfast at dinner. That's what she liked all right.”
I poured a cup of coffee. “I thought we had meat, potatoes, and vegetables every night.”
“After you were born, your mother insisted on balanced meals. So you'd grow strong and healthy, she said. But before then …” Dad looked away for a moment, perhaps at a scene only he could see: maybe my mother and him newly married, sharing dinners and intimacies. “Before you were born, honey, her favorite dinner was pancakes.” He smiled and reached for a bagel.
I didn't eat much that night, but I talked plenty. My father and I laughed about the time Danny was on the first grade Little League team, when he
“We don't have to talk now,” Kate went on, “if you're not ready. I do understand. But please keep my number because you know, dear, people like us need each other.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Stanish. Kate.” I folded the “While You Were Out” slip with Kate Stanish's number and tucked it in my wallet. Then I called Gary Johnson's mother, who'd left a message about Gary's problems in math.
Home from work, I phoned my father, keeping the routine I'd established at the end of my first day back at Meadow Brook: let Moose out, make coffee, check messages, call Dad.
“You sound tired,” he said after we'd chatted for a minute. “I'm worried about you, honey.”
“I'm okay. Just worn out, I guess.” I breathed in the comforting coffee scent. “I'm not sleeping well, and school's getting to me.” I used to be good at protecting Dad from worry, but fatigue had torn down the fence around my emotional minefield. “And Joe's so busy we hardly even talk anymore, and I just … I just don't know what todo. And all I really want …” I felt the tears too late to check them. “All I want is to stand at the tennis courts and watch Danny play.”
Dad let me cry, long and hard. He didn't speak until he heard me blow my nose. “I miss him too. But no one misses Danny more than you and Joe. And you've been terrific, Beth. So strong.”
I blew my nose again and searched for my M OM mug. I didn't see it in the cabinet, so I picked up another, one with N OT A M ORNING P ERSON written in squiggly print around the middle. I'd bought that mug for Danny the year before on Valentine's Day, when he was in tenth grade and started drinking tea and sleeping past noon whenever he could.
“I'm not that strong, Dad,” I finally said. And this isn't supposed to be happening to me, I thought. I'm supposed to be waiting for my son to get home from tennis practice. Dammit! Why Danny? “I'm not that strong,” I said again. “And Joe … well, he's working so hard now, he's not home much. And sometimes after work, he hangs out with Mike. Joe's having dinner with him tonight.”
“When Joe's home does he talk about Danny?”
“Not much. And he gets angry ’cause I always want to.”
“Well, there's nothing wrong with that. So whaddaya say I bring dinner to you, and we can talk about Danny all night if you like. Just tell me what you want to eat.”
Dad unpacked the bagels while I hung his damp windbreaker over the shower curtain rod. “You're so much like your mother,” he said when I came back to the kitchen. “I look at you and I see her taking my jacket when I'd come home from work. Sometimes she'd even open the door with a hanger in hand. She took such good care of us.”
I glanced at my father and saw the man my mother had married, a man with warm, green eyes and a wide smile. A man who melted worries. A rare breed: a salesman you could trust.
I set the table in silence. Dad put fruit salad in the blue ceramic bowl I'd left on the counter. He cut a sliver of cheese and held it out for Moose. “You know, your mother liked dinners like this.”
“Like what?”
“Breakfast at dinner. That's what she liked all right.”
I poured a cup of coffee. “I thought we had meat, potatoes, and vegetables every night.”
“After you were born, your mother insisted on balanced meals. So you'd grow strong and healthy, she said. But before then …” Dad looked away for a moment, perhaps at a scene only he could see: maybe my mother and him newly married, sharing dinners and intimacies. “Before you were born, honey, her favorite dinner was pancakes.” He smiled and reached for a bagel.
I didn't eat much that night, but I talked plenty. My father and I laughed about the time Danny was on the first grade Little League team, when he
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