Grandad laughs when I tell him what Dad said, just like I thought he would. He’s making the best pancakes you’d ever eat. Adding blueberries to his and chocolate chips to mine. He says, “I’m amused, Mac. I’ve waited my whole life to meet an alien and all this time …”

“Dad,” my mom warns.

“I knew he was weird. I mean, I even told you that time he ate peanut butter with his tortilla chips. That’s got to be an alien thing.”

Mom is smiling now, and it’s kinda funny. I think I’m smiling, too.

Grandad says, “Between that and the way he never wiped his shoes off.”

“And he couldn’t really sneeze,” Mom says. “For real—not even if he got dust or pepper up his nose.”

“And he never played catch or did anything I wanted to do,” I say.

I really thought they’d approve of my contribution, but instead, I stop the conversation cold.

I say, “What? He didn’t. He was only interested in his ship. That’s where he’d spend time with me, but he wouldn’t talk to me or anything, besides asking me to hand him a wrench or whatever.”

Mom says, “I’m sorry, Mac.”

“For what?” I say. “You play catch with me all the time.”

Mom and Grandad look at each other in that way that adults do. Mom chews the inside of her cheek like she does when she’s thinking hard about taxes or how to solve a problem.

Grandad says, “I’m sorry, guys. I meant that to be sarcastic. Or funny or something. I guess I make light of things that cause pain. Old habit.”

“Mac,” Mom says. “You have to switch gears for me. I know this will be a bit hard. But, um …”

“I knew you would do this,” I say. “Adults always want to say that weird stuff isn’t weird, but—”

Grandad interrupts me. “I think plenty of stuff is weird, son, but here’s what I think—your dad isn’t an alien; he’s just kind of a jerk. And that wasn’t a spaceship. It was my car.” He takes a deep breath.

“Sometimes our brains make reasons and stories for other people to help them make sense to us.” Mom says this so softly, I can’t even get mad at her. “If he was pulling you out of bed in the middle of the night, while Grandad and I were asleep … I can’t imagine what stories he’d tell you when you were half-awake.”

Grandad says, “With the top down, that car can feel like a spaceship, I guess.”

“It wasn’t just a car,” I say. “Not to him.”

“That’s true. It was a very special car. Your gram and I—uh—well, we did things in that car that were—uh—full of love,” Grandad says.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say.

Mom and Grandad stare at me and I just know they’re going to say something about how I should go talk to my mom’s sister, Aunt Diane, who’s a counselor.

The two of them are looking at me like I’m a rescue kitten in a shelter window. Mom even has tears in her eyes.

“Mac,” she says. “Come here.”

She gives me a really nice hug and her tears end up in my eyes and it’s weird how she did that. “I’m so sorry, buddy,” she says. “It really is a car. I’ve been in it many times. It was our car when I was growing up.”

“The Karmann Ghia,” I say.

“Yep,” Mom says.

Grandad grunts a little, like he’s remembering the car and all the memories in it. It’s a mix of “huh” and “hmph” and “mm.”

I don’t understand myself right now. I don’t know what to say. Because I guess there was always a part of me that went along with everything Dad said, to the point that I could even have memories of flying in space with him. I don’t know how I can have memories of something that didn’t happen. Like—twenty times. I know the difference between the anime I make up in my head and reality. I mean, I think I do. Right?

“Maybe he was really an alien or magic or something and he could make me believe the car could fly,” I say. “Because I really believed I flew in that car.”

“He was magic all right,” Mom says.

“Yep,” Grandad says. He finally sits down to eat after serving me and Mom. He doesn’t use maple syrup—never has. He says that the fruit is sweet enough. This is the town candy freak.

Maybe he’s the alien.

Maybe we’re all aliens.