At work I am not an incoming Harvard student or a weight-loss surgery patient. I am a server and I am not thinking, I am filling up bread baskets and spending a lot of time explaining the special, which is Manhattan clam chowder and seems to worry quite a lot of people because it doesn’t sound like clam chowder to them and they’re not sure they can trust us anymore after all these years, since we seem to have gone off the rails in unpredictable ways and the world isn’t a safe place for anyone, anymore.
“I just don’t understand how anyone can call that chowder with a clear conscience,” Mrs. Monroe is saying as she loads the last of her sourdough into her giant black purse.
“Well, I think chowder is a blanket term that covers a basic kind of fish soup,” I say, “which offers lots of opportunity for experimentation—”
“That’s exactly right,” she says to me. “It’s the experimental stuff that gets you in trouble. You have to stick with the classics.”
Mrs. Monroe’s new girlfriend Sadie says, “I don’t know. I’m always up for adventure.” She winks at me and I tamp down the urge to ask her not to do that. I smile at her instead. I hope it’s a real enough smile.
“Well, maybe you can try it next time,” I say.
“Sadie, don’t you dare,” Mrs. Monroe says, taking her arm.
“It’ll be good for us, Martha,” Sadie says as they slide their chairs back. “I’m going to be dead soon enough. I can’t keep always doing the safe things.”
I hope we’re still talking about soup, I think.
Mrs. Monroe shakes her head and Sadie says, “You have a good night now,” to me, and I look up to see my father standing outside on the deck, staring out at the lighthouse. My phone says I still have another hour of my shift, so I go to the pass-through instead, out the back way, and make my way around my tables, making sure every one is covered.
“How’s Laura, honey?” one of Laura’s regulars asks me. “I haven’t seen her in a while. Her dad and mom either.”
“Stepmom,” I say automatically, just like Laura would. I miss her. I have spent my whole shift expecting to look up and see her standing at a customer’s elbow, making them laugh as she points something out on the menu and offers sage and serious advice about the difference between various types of whitefish. I’ve spent the whole shift waiting for her to text me. About Harvard. About weight-loss surgery. But my phone stays dark.
“Right,” he says. He is a deeply tanned and deeply wrinkled white guy and very blond. “She doing okay?”
“I think so,” I say. “I’m going to talk to her later. I’ll tell her you were asking about her.” I glance up. My father isn’t on the deck anymore.
In the pass-through, Nancy peers out of the kitchen. “How are they liking the chowder?” she says. She wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist.
“They are very confused by it,” I say, pulling my phone out.
“Good, good,” she says. “I’ll have the next order up in a jiff. Wait right there.”
I pull my phone out and text Laura. I type, MISS YOU, and send it and put the phone away when another two bowls are up.
When I come back onto the floor, my father is lingering by the hostess stand. For a minute I forget where I’m supposed to drop the soup, until I see the Tams’ expectant faces.
“It’s red,” Mrs. Tam says when I set it down.
“This isn’t chowder!” Mr. Tam says. He seems to regret venturing out of the house more than usual.
“It’s Manhattan clam chowder,” I say. “It’s a variety. Like chardonnay is a variety of wine.”
“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Tam says, and picks up her spoon. “Pick up your spoon, Frank.”
My father is looking at the giant fiberglass swordfish on the wall like he’s never noticed it before, and I suppose that’s possible. He says, “I thought Moby Dick was a whale,” when I hurry up to him.
“Why are you here?” I say. Then it occurs to me in a rush. “Is everything okay? Is Grandmother okay?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says. He pulls me into a hug, levers me up off my feet. “You got into Harvard!”
“I’m still working,” I say when I land with a huff. “I have another forty-five minutes.” I glance back at the dining room to make sure that no one is trying to get my attention.
“Can I sit down?” he says.
“Where are the dogs?” I say. “They’re not tied up outside, are they?”
“No,” he says. “I brought them back home.”
I grab a menu from the rack next to the hostess stand and say, “Follow me.” I lead him over to the table by the window. “Can I get you anything to drink besides water?” I say.
“So professional!” he says.
“I’m working,” I say. “The specials are on the inside cover. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes to take your order.”
There’s only so long I can hide in the pass-through rolling silverware into napkins. When I poke my head out, my father is staring out the window with his chin in his hand.
“Have you decided?” I say.
“I’m going to live a little,” he says.
“Don’t you always live at least a little? I mean, if not, we’ll have to fit you for a coffin.”
“Ha ha! Touché!” he says.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Pick something for me,” he says. “I trust your judgment. You’re a Harvard girl.” He shoves the menu over to me and is trying to make really significant eye contact.
“Great,” I say. I check my phone when I’m in the back. Laura has written, I MISS U 2. B BACK SOON. I want to tell her that I’m getting surgery after all, despite all my pronouncements. But I don’t know what to say. I stand in the pass-through just staring at my phone until Amy hip-checks me as she stomps by.
“Wake up,” she says, and I shove my phone back into my pocket.
When I come back to my father’s table with Manhattan clam chowder and a basket of bread, I see he’s shredded his coaster into bits of confetti. He doesn’t look at the bowl when I set it down. I say, “Can I get you anything else?” and he says, “I’m worried about you, Ashley.”
“What happened to ‘Hooray for Harvard’?”
“You know what I want to talk about.”
“This is a really bad time, Dad,” I say, and turn to go.
“I do trust your judgment,” he says. “But I don’t trust your grandmother.”
I swing back around. “She’s taken care of us since Mom left. She’s done everything for us! We wouldn’t have a place to live. The twins wouldn’t be able to go to college. You’d have to get a real job.”
“I have a real job,” he snaps.
“When was the last time you sold a house?” I hiss.
“Recently,” he says. “It’s not really what I meant to do.”
“Real estate, or being a grown-up?” I ask.
He looks down at the mess of confetti in front of him and sweeps it up into a pile.
“Is that why Mom left? Because I can see why she wouldn’t want to spend her whole life taking care of you.”
“Your mother left because I didn’t stand up for her,” he says. “She left because your grandmother—”
“Tried to help her. How terrible.”
“Tried to do to your mother what she’s doing to my daughter right now.”
This stops me. I feel the tears in my eyes and I stomp away, taking deep breaths.
“Are you okay?” Mrs. Tam says, reaching her hand out to me as I pass their table.
“The soup is really good after all,” Mr. Tam says soothingly.
That is not as comforting as they mean it to be.
My father sits at his table for the rest of my shift, looking out the window and ignoring his chowder. I close out all my tabs and I fill Amy in on everything that’s left to do. I go sit at my father’s table. It’s gotten dark out, so the lighthouse is lit up with red and green bulbs, because Christmas comes sooner every year.
“Are you ready?” I say.
“I thought you’d leave without me,” he says.
“I’m not vindictive,” I say. “That’s not the sort of thing I would do to you.”
He nods. “I know,” he says.
We don’t stand, and I’m glad. My back aches and my feet hurt and I am tired.
“You’re right. Your grandmother gave you everything,” he says, looking at his hands.
“Yes,” I say. I rest my chin on my hand. I feel my eyes closing.
“You don’t have to give her everything in return,” he says. His words echo around behind my closed lids, in the dark of my head.
“I’m leaving when you leave for college,” he says.
I sit up. “What? Why would you do that?”
“I don’t want to owe her anything more,” he says. “I don’t want you to owe her anything for supporting me.”
“I don’t . . . It’s just . . .” I stutter and stumble over my words. In the end, I give up trying to get them out.
“Let’s go home,” he says, pushing his chair back.
We walk in silence down the pier and onto our back roads, where the streetlights are spaced far apart. It’s not a long walk, but this is the longest it has ever felt.
“I’m sorry,” he says, when we get to the start of our street.
“For what?” I say. I stop, but he keeps walking ahead of me.
“I would have done anything for you when your mother left,” he says when I catch up. “But I couldn’t.”
The familiar exasperation wells up in me. “You mean like the way you can’t mow the lawn.”
A silence stretches out between us, and then my father speaks. “Your grandmother found me on the floor in the bathroom. I couldn’t live without your mother. And I thought you kids didn’t deserve to have a father like me. A father who didn’t stand up for her.”
It’s a moment before I realize what he is saying, but then—
“Oh god, Dad,” I whisper, but he keeps walking slowly ahead. I lunge forward to clutch at his sleeve to make him stop. “Dad.” He looks at me, and I fumble for something to say. “I didn’t know.”
He smiles. “Stop feeling sorry for me, Ashley,” he says. “You took care of your older brothers and you took care of me and now you’re taking care of your grandmother. You’re the one who works to make her happy. You’re the one who takes on everything she gives you.”
“No. She—she gave us everything,” I say again stubbornly.
“That shouldn’t have been your job,” he finishes. He hugs me then, and I realize I’m almost as tall as he is. I let him hug me as long as he wants and I hug him back.
“Don’t do it,” he says. He’s hugging me tighter. “Don’t get weight-loss surgery. Don’t do it, Ashley, you don’t need to do it.”
I pull back. “You don’t understand at all,” I say.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “Well, except die eventually.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.”
“Why do you need to be different from how you are now?”
I try to call up all of my grandmother’s reasoning—the words that sound so sure, so logical. I reach for them, but they fade away. The sound of waves crashes behind us, churning up the sand.
“It’s more complicated than you think,” I say. I can hear the pleading in my voice. “I have to do this.”
“You can do anything, baby. I’ve seen it. Anything you want. Just make sure it’s what you want to do.”
I am pleased when my voice comes out sounding casual. Worry free. “You sound like an inspirational Facebook post,” I say. “I don’t like it when you’re sincere.”
“I’m not Sincere,” he says. “I’m Dad, nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand to me.
“No,” I say.
“That’s my girl.” He smiles.
“What do you want to do about dinner?” I ask.
“Eat it,” my father says, and I punch him in the arm.
We walk the rest of the way home in silence.