“Dad?” I poke my head into the kitchen, but it’s empty. No work stuff spread out on the table, no Ritz cracker crumb–covered plate left on the sink next to the counter. That’s Dad’s usual afternoon snack: crackers spread with creamy peanut butter. He says it was his favorite as a kid, and that he never outgrew it. Mom always complains that he never outgrew forgetting to put his plate in dishwasher, too.
The counter is clean, though, as wiped down and empty as it was when I left for school this morning. Dad’s slippers are lined up next to the front door and all I can hear is the high school kid next door playing basketball.
I peek into the family room and Dad’s office, but there’s no one there. Mom and Dad’s room is empty, too. It feels emptier than usual. While Dad’s side of the bed is rumpled, the covers half pulled up and the pillow flattened with its usual head indentation, Mom’s side of the bed is untouched. The pillow is plump and fluffy, the bedcovers so straight that I doubt Dad even rolled over in his sleep.
It’s as if there’s a neon sign hanging above the bed, blaring out an awful message: YOUR MOTHER DOES NOT SLEEP HERE ANYMORE.
I squeeze my eyes shut, then spin around and pull the door closed behind me.
“Dad?” I call again. Dad works from home selling some kind of special computer part, but he’s usually done by now. Maybe he’s doing yard work? I almost smile at the thought. Dad is not the get-down-in-the-dirt-and-work-with-his-hands kind of guy. Mom’s the one with the green thumb. Whenever our neighbor Mrs. Thoren walks her dogs down our street, she always tells Mom that we have the best flowers in town.
I wonder what our garden will look like this year.
I head back into the kitchen and push all the thoughts of dying plants and wilting flowers out of my mind. That’s when I see the piece of paper on the refrigerator, held up by the magnet shaped like a narwhal, my absolute favorite animal when I was a kid. (Now, too, actually. It’s like a unicorn but real!)
Veronica—
I had to meet with someone. I’ll hopefully be back before dinner, but you can make a peanut butter sandwich if I’m late.
Love, Dad
“Oh yay. Another peanut butter sandwich,” I mutter. It’s what we had for dinner last night. And what I had for lunch today. Usually Dad’s pretty good about making dinner—he’s a better cook than Mom—but he told me he wasn’t in the mood last night. And this morning he realized he hadn’t been to the supermarket in a few days.
Which basically means that I’m half peanut butter sandwich, half human girl right now.
It’s already six thirty, but I’m definitely not hungry after that huge sundae. So there’s no reason for me to be upset at Dad for being late. He’s a grown adult. He’s allowed to go places and meet people.
It’s not like I’m afraid of being home alone, either.
I just … well, I’m mad he wasn’t here to notice my little act of rebellion.
What kind of meeting is Dad at, anyway? Shouldn’t he realize that this is a highly sensitive time and he should be here for his traumatized daughter? Not that I am traumatized, but what if I was? Who could be more important than me?
Unless …
I think back to the strict look on Ms. Ito’s face when she told us that Mom couldn’t have visitors for a whole month.
“This is of the utmost importance,” she’d told us, her mouth all pinched, her eyes narrow. “Our patients need to separate themselves from their home environment. They need a break to concentrate on their healing and recovery. That means no phone calls, no emails, and no texts.”
It felt like a tether had been connecting Dad and me to Mom, and Ms. Ito had snipped it with a pair of heavy-duty shears.
SNIP!
But what if Dad decided to go back there anyway? Without me? I clench my hands together so tightly that the blood drains from my fingers. How could he do that?
“It’s not fair,” I whisper.
“What’s not fair?” Dad’s voice makes me jump, and I whirl around, my heart pounding.
“You scared me!” Then I narrow my eyes. “Where were you?”
Dad blinks. “Out.” He doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “Didn’t you read my note?”
“I did,” I say slowly. “It said you had a meeting. Who was it with?” I lean back against the kitchen counter and pretend to be all casual, like his answer doesn’t matter at all. Like him visiting Mom wouldn’t be the biggest betrayal ever—well, besides Mom’s.
“No one you know.” Dad smiles, but it looks too big. Too bright, like someone turned the lights up too high.
“Okaaaaay.” I realize that I’m tapping my fingers against the counter way too fast and force myself to stop. “Are you sure? I know a lot of people.”
Dad grins. “I’m sure you do, honey.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “Not this person, though. Don’t worry.” He walks over to the cabinet and pulls out his trusty box of Ritz crackers. “How was school today?”
“Fine.” I watch Dad get out the jar of peanut butter, then a knife, a plate, and two napkins. (At least he knows he’s too messy for just one.)
“Great!” Slowly and meticulously, Dad takes out eight crackers, one by one, then adds a thick layer of peanut butter to each. He arranges them on a plate, stuffs the napkins under his arm, and turns to face me. “I’m heading to my office for a bit.”
“Oh.” My mind whirls about for a way to keep him here longer. Maybe he was with Mom and maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he really does care about my first few days without Mom but is afraid to ask. Maybe he doesn’t care at all.
But all I know right now is that him walking away isn’t what’s going to help us. That maybe Mom is away, but at least we’re here. At least we can (maybe) talk and laugh and have fun. Shine a little sunshine on the fog that’s descended on our house.
“Hey, Dad?” He arches an eyebrow. “Can you play catch with me in the yard for a bit? Before work?”
“Oh, honey.” Dad gestures in the direction of his office. “I have a bunch of calls to make. Let’s do it this weekend, okay? Maybe you could practice for chorus now? You don’t need me for that, right?”
The fog gets a bit heavier, and I let out a huge sigh. “Dad. I can’t keep doing chorus this spring, remember? I mean, if I make the All-Star team.”
Dad shakes his head like he’s clearing out a bunch of cobwebs. “Oh, right. That’s a bummer, huh?”
“Yup.” I look at my feet. It is a bummer. It’s why I haven’t talked about it much with Dad or Mom. Or anyone else really. I really like chorus. I liked learning that I really can hit the high notes and that I am good enough to get a few solos. That softball isn’t the only “thing” I am talented at.
It’s my main “thing,” though, and that’s just the way it is. I’ll get over it. I’ll be okay.
“Well, then we’ll practice later. Okay?” Dad doesn’t wait for an answer before padding out of the kitchen and across the house. A few seconds later, I hear the office door click shut.
“Okay,” I whisper to the empty kitchen, the only witnesses the open Ritz cracker box and a dirty knife.