It’s sunny when I wake up on Family Day, even though the forecast had promised bucketfuls of rain. Even though the weathergirl on last night’s news (the one who Dad says should have gone to drama school) wore a rain slicker, a yellow rain hat and boots during her forecast and did a little song and dance from Dad’s favorite musical, Singin’ in the Rain.
But when I open my eyes, sunshine streams through my windows. The birds are chirping, too, so loudly that I feel like I’m in the opening sequence of a cartoon. Soon they’ll fly in here and help me get dressed. We’ll sing a happy song and do a choreographed dance routine in the yard with the local bunnies and deer.
In reality, though, I roll out of bed with a flump. I try to do it gracefully, but my right leg gets caught in my sheets and I topple over sideways. I’m staring up at the ceiling, at the whirls and swirls of white, when Dad calls up to me.
“You okay up there, hon?”
I scramble to my feet and adjust the oversized Boston Red Sox t-shirt I wore to bed. It’s two sizes too big so it always slides down over my shoulders. “Fine!” I shout back. “Just bumped into something.”
Dad’s footsteps pound closer to the door. “I was about to wake you up. I’m planning to leave in about half an hour, so you need to shower quickly. We don’t have much in the house, so we can stop at Dunkin’ on the way.”
“Yum!” When I was a kid, Dad and I used to get doughnuts almost every Saturday morning, when Mom had to go into the office. He liked the maple frosted kind, and I loved the chocolate ones. Even better if they were chocolate with chocolate frosting and chocolate sprinkles.
I may not know exactly what’s going to happen today, but at least it’ll start off with a sugar rush.
I take a quick shower and change (I wear my favorite red-and-white-striped skirt, the one Mom says makes me look “so grown-up”), but when I go downstairs, Dad’s not there. The light in his office is on, though, and when I peek inside, I see him in his work chair, staring at a picture of him and Mom on their wedding day.
I love looking at that picture. Mom and Dad got married on the beach, near the house in Cape Cod where Dad vacationed as a kid. They’re standing right next to the water, Mom’s train spread around her, the sand dunes spread before them. The sky is as blue as a robin’s egg and there’s not a cloud in the sky. If that wasn’t enough of a good luck sign, the smiles on my parents’ faces are as blinding as the sunshine beating down on them.
I wonder what Dad’s thinking about.
I wonder if Mom drank a lot back then or if this is a new thing. I don’t remember her drinking when I was a really little kid, but maybe she hid it back then. Maybe she hid it from Dad even further back.
“Are you mad still?” I’ve barely considered the words before they’re out of my mouth.
Dad looks up from the picture, his eyes shimmering. I expect him to look sad, but his smile is bigger than I’ve seen in ages. “No.”
“Not at all?” It seems unbelievable. Dad’s been working two jobs, taking care of me, and worrying about Mom. Plus she lied to him. To us.
“Really,” he says at my skeptical expression. “I was mad. I was Hulk-mad, even. But Holly helped me realize that I need to let go of that anger to move on. Which means that all I am right now is proud.”
“Holly?” I ask.
“My therapist.”
Of course. The mysterious therapist. “She really helped?” I ask. I still don’t know if I want to talk to someone, but if it helped Dad this much, maybe it could help me, too. Maybe I can even start with Libby’s support group. This week. I’ll go this week for sure.
“So much.” Dad tables his fingers together. “I’m not perfect. I have moments when I get so angry I could scream—”
“Me too!” I cut in.
“—but I try to push past those feelings. For the future,” Dad says. “For all of us.”
I guess that’s what I can try to do, too.
Dad puts the wedding picture back, arranging it carefully so it sits exactly where it always does. “Should we go?” He stands and reaches out his hand to me.
“We should.”
It’s the truth, after all. It’s time to move forward.