On my way home I decide not to ring my buzzer. But when I get there, my finger reaches out all on its own.
Dad answers.
I have been so busy thinking about what Mr. Howarth talked to me about, I forgot that Dad said he’d be home! My backpack bumps against my leg as I run up the stairs. But he is not waiting for me like Mom would be. Even on her bad days, when she spent all day at the dining room table in her nightie, she would be waiting at the door.
“Dad?” I walk into the kitchen. Breakfast is still all over the place.
“Here.”
I find him in the bedroom dumping clothes into the plastic laundry basket. “Gotta get this stuff in. Want to come down with me?”
The laundry room makes a funny echo. Sometimes I hear dripping but never see any water. I bet a black widow spider is hiding in there somewhere.
I pick up the sock peeking out from under his bed and drop it on top of the basket. Mom’s blue nightie and green cargo pants are flopping over the edge. “Remember not to put Mom’s cottons in the dryer.”
“Tansy. I can’t do everything right, so I’m not going to try. I want to get this stuff in the wash or there will be no clean socks or underwear tomorrow.”
I giggle when I think of going to school half naked. But I stop when I think about Mom. She would never let me run out of underwear. Why can’t Dad at least try to do everything right.
“So. How was your day?” he asks.
“Dad? Do you have a Trusted Other?”
He shifts the basket to his hip and looks at me. “A what?”
“Mr. Howarth said that he knows I must be having a hard time with Mom away. He told me that sometimes a Trusted Other helps us in difficult times. But what does it mean?”
Dad drops the basket onto the bed and sits down next to it. He pulls me in front of him so I am standing with his knees pressing into my legs. “Perhaps he thinks you might need someone to talk to if you get sad. Or confused. Or lonely while Mom’s away.”
I make a little braid of the hair by his forehead. If Mom was here she would say it needs cutting. “But I’ve got you.”
“You do. Of course you do, ma petite saucisson.”
That means “my little sausage” in French. Mom calls me that all the time.
Dad unravels his silly braid and brushes his hair back with his fingers. “Sometimes we need someone else to talk to,” he says. “Someone who is not too close to us. Did Mr. Howarth have any suggestions?”
“He said I could go to the counselor’s office. He said that’s what Ms. Carlton is for, and that she’s a good listener.”
“That might be a good idea.”
“Dad?”
“Yes, Tansy?”
“You tell me everything, don’t you?” He does not say anything for a long while. Then he gets up from the bed and turns around as if he has forgotten where he is or what he was doing. When I touch his arm, he looks at me and sighs. “Yes. Of course I do.”
While I wait for him to come back from the laundry room, I make a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich. I cut it in quarters and put two quarters on one plate for me. And two on another one for Dad.
Kraft Dinner used to be my favorite supper. But maybe I’ve grown out of it. I push the boring orange macaroni around my plate and squish my peas one at a time. Then I lick them off my fork. “Are you allergic to anything, Dad?”
He is reading at the table. We are only supposed to do that on Sunday mornings. “Dad?”
He moves his head up, but his eyes are still stuck on the pages. “What?”
“Are you allergic to something? Devin could die if he eats peanuts.”
“Mmm.”
He closes his book and pushes it aside. “The story is that once, when I was a baby, I threw up all over my aunt’s shoulder after I had been fed a bowl of canned pears. But my uncle had just finished swinging me around his head. So who can blame me?” He pulls my supper toward him and finishes it off in one big gulp. “Until the day she died, Aunt Daisy claimed I was allergic to pears. But I haven’t thrown up after eating them since.”
“Maybe one day I will eat something and be allergic and die,” I tell him. “In school, Mr. Howarth keeps Devin’s EpiPen in his desk. Devin used to take care of it himself, but he kept losing it. Should we get an EpiPen for me? Just in case?”
Dad takes the dishes to the counter and dumps them in a messy heap. He bends down to open the door of the dishwasher. Then he closes it again when he sees that it is full. He pushes the dishes in the sink with a clatter.
“If the stuff in the dishwasher is clean, you have to put it away,” I say. “If it’s dirty, you have to turn it on.” I get up from the table and open it again. “See? All clean.”
“Okay. I’ll unload. You put them away.” Dad boosts me onto the counter.
I reach down for him to hand me the plates. “Do you think I might be allergic and we just don’t know?”
“Tansy. There is absolutely no point in worrying about things that don’t need worrying about. It may be better to be safe than sorry about lots of things. But right now we have more things to worry about than allergies.”
But I can’t help it. As I put things on the shelves in their proper places, I make a list in my head of all the things at Miss Stella’s that might make me sick.
Artichoke hearts. They don’t look like hearts at all.
Pita bread out of a package. Parveen’s Bebe-ji makes theirs from scratch. She calls them rotis. The ones in Miss Stella’s fridge look very old.
Omega-3 eggs. Do they have three yolks? Mom always says that double yolks are lucky. What would she say about three?
Bird’s custard powder. Miss Stella used to have this for dessert when she was a kid, and she said she still likes it. She’ll make it for me one day.
Toasted soy beans. She said they are good on salads. They look like nuts to me.
The dishwasher is empty, and I’ve put everything away before I can think of any more items for my list. Dad swings me down, and I go in the living room to do my homework.
When the phone rings, I am working on my last three math questions. Dad answers it in his bedroom. He must be listening most of the time, because I don’t hear his voice very often.
“Was that Grandpa?” I ask him when he comes back. “Did you talk to Mom? I wanted to talk to her.”
He sits on the couch next to me and pulls me against him. “Mom is on new medication that makes her very sleepy. We can talk to her in a couple of days. Okay?” He rubs his chin in my hair and gently pushes me away.
Maybe what Dad needs is a Trusted Other. His friend Paul has gone away for two years to the Arctic. Is that north or south? I used to know. And Dale and Jenny were really Mom’s friends, and they haven’t called lately.
I do not believe that Dad tells me everything. But I guess it’s okay; I don’t tell him everything either. Maybe I should ask Mr. Howarth if parents can talk to the school counselor.