Five weeks later
IT’S MIDMORNING WHEN DAD DRIVES me to the airport. He has the radio set to NPR, where mellow voices announce the local Christmas tree lightings, which, of course, I’m missing out on this year. Instead of the Best Christmas Plan Ever, the past few weeks have been filled with the Worst Divorce Preparations Ever. Moving Mom out, getting my new room set up, watching Mom and Dad awkwardly try to divide up a hundred everyday things in the town house until Mom finally said, “Forget it! I’ll just go shopping.” Yeah, it stank. Between that and scrambling around to get ready for the Europe trip, the past few weeks haven’t exactly been very merry.
I glare at the radio dial as if that will make them stop talking about all the fun Chicago Christmas things that will happen without me. The digital display reads 11:01, which is super weird. Those are my least favorite numbers ever since November first became the day I found out about the divorce. I hope it isn’t an omen or something. Today of all days; today, when I’m about to fly halfway around the world; today, when I’m leaving Dad to go on tour with Mom; today, when I wish I could go home and climb back into bed and wake up again and have everything magically return to the way it was last year; today those are not good numbers to see. I take a deep breath and stare at the dashboard until it switches to 11:02.
Dad takes a sip from his travel mug, and the familiar smell of coffee plus his favorite hazelnut creamer drifts toward me. Good old Dad, driving his same old beat-up pickup, wearing the same tattered overcoat he’s had forever, drinking from the same photo travel mug I got him for Father’s Day two years ago. The pictures on it show all three of us playing in the surf at the beach one summer, sailing little paper boats in the fountain downtown, sitting in front of the flocked Christmas tree I begged us to get a few years ago, but the colors are all faded now.
I feel that lump in my throat again, the one that appears whenever I think how different everything is going to be this year. No Christmas at home. No flocked tree, no ice-skating downtown, no last-minute Christmas shopping, no Christmas party with my friends, no caroling, no cookie making, no Most Wonderful Time of the Year.
I try to shut those thoughts off. I mean, come on. Europe! I should be dying to go. And I totally would be if we had gone on this trip, say, seven months ago. With both Mom and Dad. And not at Christmastime. Because as awesome as Europe is, nothing, and I mean nothing, beats Christmas. Okay, so I know there’s Christmas in Europe, but it’s not the same. Like everything else in my life, Christmas is going to be really different this year.
“Chris,” Dad says over the NPR news briefing. “You haven’t even touched the doughnuts. Come on. Dig in. You don’t want to count on the airplane food being actually edible.”
I reach for the red-and-green bag that’s perched on the seat behind Dad and unroll it to scope out the options. Two maple doughnuts—one with some kind of crunchy cereal on it and another with a mystery topping—a fancy one with silver snowmen on wintry white frosting, and a couple of unidentifiable filled doughnuts. Shoot.
“Hand me a maple bar,” Dad says. I oblige and can feel his sideways gaze on me. “Don’t you want to try one of the others? The lady at the shop said they’re the newest flavors.”
I shake my head and start to fold the bag back up. No way do I want to try some sort of surprise doughnut on the way to a transatlantic flight.
“There’s another layer under there,” Dad says around a mouthful of doughnut. “Old-fashioned glazed.”
I ignore the tight knot of guilt. “Old-fashioned doughnuts are classic,” I say, unearthing one and taking a perfect bite with a sigh. No fancy sprinkles or trendy flavors or layers of weird crunchy toppings. Flying halfway around the globe is wild enough; I don’t need what I put in my mouth to be some kind of new experience, thankyouverymuch.
Outside the car window, soft flakes drift down, coating everything with a thin white layer. “I wonder if it will snow anywhere in Europe,” I say as I pull out the water bottle tucked into my backpack and take a sip.
“Probably not in London,” Dad says. “And it’s not likely in Florence either, though parts of Italy get snow. There’s a slight possibility it might in Paris.” Dad owns a travel agency, so he knows all about travel and other countries, but I hope he’s wrong. Christmas just wouldn’t feel right without snow.
I reach for the second old-fashioned doughnut in the bag, making sure not to touch the mystery one next to it.
“Old-fashioned again?” Dad clears his throat. “I’m looking forward to hearing what you think about all the different European delicacies. I hope you’ll try all sorts of new things. You’ll be visiting some of the most famous food locales in the world. What an adventure!” Dad always talks about travel as “an adventure.” His job, after all, is to help people plan their dream trips around the world, so he has some pretty incredible stories about visiting the Great Wall and the Taj Mahal and a million other exotic places. But his voice sounds a little too cheerful.
I stare at the doughnut. I hate it that Dad has started commenting on what I eat. I mean, I really, really hate it. Believe me, I’d love it if I could go back to the way it used to be, if I could grab the mystery doughnut and go for it, just like old Christa. But I can’t. Like, literally can’t.
“I guess,” I say, and try to spin my new food preferences as a joke or a quirk or something. “Don’t judge. Classics are classic for a reason. If you want to be all crazy with your food while I’m gone, have fun with that. I’m just glad Europe is also famous for its bread.”
Dad laughs, and I can tell he’s trying to be playful, too. “Trying something new won’t kill you, you know.”
Um, I have to disagree. Last month, a girl at my school accidentally ate a cookie with some peanuts in it and nearly died. The nurse had to inject her with a shot and everything, and then she was rushed to the ER. She was okay, but seriously, food could have killed her. After that, I learned from WebMD that food allergies can strike at any age. I know, I know, no one should ever read WebMD, but I did, okay, and it was useful and might save my life someday, because there is no way that I’m buying this whole “try it, it won’t kill you” line that people are always saying. I would like to live, thankyouverymuch, so old-fashioned doughnuts and plain water it is. Besides. Surprises are overrated.
Now the quiet in the car feels anything but sleepy. I’m going to have to try to fill up the silence so Dad doesn’t start thinking more about what I eat. Or don’t eat.
“What I want to know is what you’re going to do on Christmas Day without me.” I grab a napkin and wipe the sugar glaze off my fingers. “I guess you can watch the movie marathon on your own, and we’ve already put up the tree, but how in the world will you do the Great Vasile Scavenger Hunt solo? The neighbors are going to think you’re nuts!”
Every year Dad plans a scavenger hunt for me and my friends by setting it up with all the neighbors ahead of time. Sometimes it’s simple, like snapping a photo of as many ornaments as you can, and there are prizes for the wackiest one, the sweetest one, the silliest one, that sort of thing. It’s so corny. But also a lot of fun, because our neighbors are great and they always also give us loads of candy. One year my friends and I had to look for tacky Christmas sweaters. Another, different kinds of wrapping paper. Last year it was shapes of Christmas cookies.
“Did you ever find all the different cookies last year?” Dad asks. He had wanted to pair it up with caroling, so after we sang—ridiculously off-key for everyone but my best friend, Dani—the neighbors had trays of cookies for us to choose from.
“All but an elf,” I tell him. “Who makes elf cookies, anyway? That’s like cannibalism or something.”
Dad laughs. “I’ll make sure to bake a whole batch of elf cookies while you’re gone. That way I can think of you whenever I turn cannibal and eat them.”
The pristine layer of snow has melted into ugly slush by the time we get off the highway for the O’Hare exit. I see it slumped up on the side of the road in depressing dirty clumps. It matches the gray of the asphalt and the darker gray of the leafless trees against the gray clouded sky. Gray, gray, gray. Bah. We drive up to the toll booth, and Dad puts down his window to toss the change inside, letting in a gust of frigid air. I sink deeper into my new coat. Bright yellow felt to combat the grayness of the winter.
“Now, Chris,” Dad says, warmth returning to the car as he puts the window back up and we accelerate. “Don’t forget to enjoy this trip to the fullest. Anyone’s first visit to Europe is formative. Your whole outlook may be changed after two weeks in the Old Country.”
“I know, I know,” I say. I’ve heard him give his travel company spiel a thousand times before. “It’s going to be unforgettable and fabulous and worth every penny.” I try to tell my groggy and gray almost-homesick self that I am headed to Europe. Europe! But I’m not sure it works, and I wonder if I still will have to go if somehow there’s a miraculous 11:30 a.m. weekend airport traffic jam and I miss my flight.
The car is slowing down now, pulling in toward the departures drop-off. While we wait for a space to open up, Dad turns toward me. “Don’t forget that I love you. I know you are going to have a grand adventure. Just promise me one thing.”
“O-kay.” I really don’t want to have some gushy farewell scene at the airport.
Dad pulls up to the curb and lets the car idle. “Promise me that you’ll allow the unexpected to lead you someplace you were always meant to go.”
“Um.” I let out a half laugh that helps keep me from actually starting to cry and look at Dad to see if he’s teasing. What is that supposed to mean? Next he’ll tell me I should “follow my dreams” and “be true to myself” or something. “Is that from your new travel brochure or what?”
“Maybe.” Dad grins. “But I mean it. I know the past few weeks have been difficult, Chris, and maybe some things have changed that you wished could stay the same.”
I look down at the charm bracelet on my wrist, the one Dad gave me when I first learned about the trip, and study the miniature Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, and the famous bridge in Florence—all things I’m going to be seeing in the next few days. I know he’s talking about the divorce.
“But change doesn’t have to be bad,” Dad continues. “Give the unexpected a chance. Let Europe awaken that part of you, the part that I know loves surprises and challenges, and fantastic things might happen. I love you, honey.”
“I love you, too, Dad.” I lean over to give him a half hug. “I’ll miss you.” Oh, man! I am going to cry.
“Your mom’s over there, waiting by the curbside check-in,” he says. “Go on now. You want plenty of time to get to the international terminal.”
I get my backpack while Dad pops the trunk, coming around with my new luggage. The big suitcase is plain black but my carry-on has the cutest little dog silhouettes printed all over it. I’ve never needed real rolling luggage before now, so Dad took me to pick it out last week. And for some reason, thinking about that makes me want to cry even more.
Dad attaches them to each other. “Don’t forget about the time change. I’m seven hours behind you in Florence and Paris. Six in London. Think of that before you text me in the middle of the night to tell me all about your adventures. Have fun, sweetie.”
I give him one final hug and then roll my bags over to the kiosk where Mom is waiting. I know Dad’s right. This is a big adventure, and it’s supposed to be awesome, and it probably will be. I get all of that, I really do. But there’s this part of me that seriously can’t believe my dad isn’t coming along, too. And an even bigger part of me, the part that sees my dad sitting alone on his side of the table in the morning or watches Mom trade out the big coffeepot for a little single-serve one, wonders if it wouldn’t be worth skipping Europe altogether if we could just have a normal, quiet Christmas all together at home.