I push his shoulder. “You sailed destroyers for twenty years and now you're all excited about some leaky old fishing boat?”
He gives a wheezy laugh, and out of habit starts fumbling around for the cigarettes he hasn't smoked in five years. (Another thing he gave up for me.)
“Yup. Sad, ain't it? But the
Julie-
Anne
is mine. That's the difference. No âYes, sir. No, sir' for me anymore. I'm the admiral of this fleet.”
I get a little twinge at the “Yes, sir. No, sir” thing. I remember Tara saying how I didn't like taking orders. I tell myself to forget it. There are people you should worry about and people you shouldn't waste your time on. I ask Dad where he keeps the boat and what he plans to do with it.
He tells me it's tied up way out in Halibut Cove because he'll be damned if he'll pay the crazy mooring fees they have in the city.
He stops talking all of a sudden, and I think for a second he's got heartburn or something. Then he looks away. He clears his throat. He asks if I'd like to get out for a couple of nights on the boat with him before I leave.
I realize why he never married again. If it's this hard asking your own son on a boat ride, imagine how hard it would be asking a woman on a date.
I say, “Sure. Sounds great,” but I don't hear his answer. For some reason, I'm thinking about Tara again. My body sort of flip-flops every time I think of her. I love her. I hate her. I love her again.
This is ridiculous. I gulp down the last of my coffee. I don't need her. There are lots of other girls.
Christie Fox, for instance. She's pretty. And she actually smiles occasionally.
I'm going to call her.
Martha brings the bill. Dad pays in cash and leaves too big a tip, as usual. She tries to give part of it back, but he won't take it.
That gets me thinking too.
She's a little younger than Dad but not much. Mom was
way
younger. Martha's not bad-looking either, and they seem to like each other.
Maybe I could convince him to ask her out.
Dad and I shake hands on the sidewalk and make plans to go on the boat ride next weekend.
Martha's at the cash ringing out another customer. Dad waves at her as he walks past.
I've never had any problems with girls. Maybe I could give him some pointers. Maybe I could help
him
for a change.
I get up early the next day. Our neighbors are moving and they need some help with the hide-a-bed. Anthony says his back is bothering him so he can't do it. A week ago that would have driven me crazy, but nowâwho cares? I'm going to be gone soon.
The husband and I manage to get the couch out, but there's still a pile of boxes to move so I help with those too.
I get home around eleven. I'm craving a raspberry slushie, but I pour myself a glass of water instead. Tara works next door to the convenience store. I don't need a slushie that bad.
I suck back two glasses of water and decide to call Christie. No point wasting any more time.
Christie's surprised about Tara and me, but after I explain the situation, she doesn't hesitate. We're going for dinner Thursday at the Nectar House. I'm going to have a good job soon. I can afford to take her someplace nice.
If Tara gets upset about that, too bad. She was the one who didn't think it was a good idea for me to get a real job. She was the one who left.
I pull off my sweaty clothes and get in the shower. I make a mental list of things I have to do before I leave.
That boat ride with Dad.
Some quality time with the little kids, especially Olivia. She's been hanging off me ever since that dinner.
I also want to have one last gig with the band. Riley texted me last night. Jasper's cousin's a decent guitar player and said he'd step in for me. The guys are apparently ready to forgive me after all.
I've got this idea for a song that I want to try out before I go. It's called “B Negative.” It's still just a rough concept, but I think there's something there. The basic idea is that I've made this big life decision and everyone is, like,
be-ing negative
about it except me.
The funny thing is that I'm the one with the-B negative blood. Dr. Wallace said something about B negative being perfectly good, just unusual, and I thought I could maybe work that in too.
I hum this little riff that's been going through my head for a while. I try it again faster. It's starting to seem like a more upbeat song than I thought it was going to be.
I get out of the shower and towel myself dry. I feel good. Good about the Army. Good about the song. Good about Christie.
I wait until Anthony goes out for his run before I head downstairs. I check my email. Nothing from the recruiter yet, or Tara for that matter, but I wasn't expecting anything from her.
There is an email from Dad, though, saying he's going to have to cancel our boat ride.
It kind of catches me off guard.
I never got an email from Dad before. He always calls. He's not a big writer. Even all that time he was at sea, the most he ever sent home was a postcard.
And he's never canceled anything before either.
I write back,
You not talking to me
now or something?
but then delete it. Dad might not know I'm joking. Instead I put
No problem. Still on for lunch at
the Bluenose next week?
and send it.
I go into the kitchen to get something to eat. I notice the tap dripping. Typical Anthony. You can't even trust him to turn off the water when he's finished with it.
I turn the handle hard. The water keeps dripping.
I'm going to have to fix that before I go too. There's also the broken door on the hall closet that needs replacing and the window in the little kids' room that has to be unstuck. No way Anthony would ever get around to doing any of that.
This is going to be a longer list than I thought.
I'm rooting around in the top drawer for a pen when the phone rings. I recognize the number. It's Dad's office.
“Ahoy, matey,” I say.
“Hello?” It's a voice I don't recognize.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Would this be Patrick Armstrong?”
“Yes.”
“This is Earl Colpitts. I work with your dad. You wouldn't know where he is, do you?”
“No. Why?”
“He didn't come in today for his shift and he didn't phone. It's not like him. We tried reaching him, but⦔
The muscles in my neck jerk. Dad has never missed a day of work in his life.
“I've got a key to his place,” I say. “I'll go see what's up.”
The guy says, “Great. Thanks,” and I promise to call as soon as I know what's happening. We're both making the effort to sound relaxed but we're both thinking the same thing.
This can't be good.
I get in the car and burn over to Dad's. I buzz him from the lobby, but there's no answer.
I didn't think there would be. I keep hearing Earl say, “It's not like him.” That what scares me. Everyone knows Dad would die rather than miss work.
Dad would die
.
I buzz again. The foyer hums with the sound of the fluorescent light.
No one's going to answer. I know that.
I punch in the entrance code, run up the three flights of stairs and open the door with my key.
“Dad?” I try to sound like I'm just dropping by. I try not to think of all those years he smoked and drank. I try to blank out that image of the legs on the floor in the Heart and Stroke commercial.
I walk down the hall.
The living room looks neat, bare, almost unlived inâbut that's the way Dad always keeps it. The only signs of life are a pad of paper and a plate with a half-eaten sandwich left on the coffee table.
I say, “Dad?” again, take a breath and check the kitchen. He's not sprawled on the floor there either.
The dining room? Same as ever. Two chairs, a table, and on top of that, his ten-year-old laptop.
I switch on the light in the bedroom. The bed is made up all crisp and tidy. It looks like something you'd see in a motel. His bureau is polished. My graduation photo is framed and staring back at me from the nightstand.
Everything is “shipshape.” Just like you'd expect from a guy who spent half his life in the Navy. Nothing is ever out of place.
That reassures me for a secondâ then it makes me feel worse than ever.
I swing around and look back into the living room.
That dirty plate on the coffee table.
Dad would never leave a dirty plate out. He'd wash it, dry it, put it away and wipe the counter before he sat down again.
My hands start to shake. I clench them into fists and tell myself to man up. Some soldier I'm going to make.
I look around. I notice the light on the computer.
Dad left his laptop on.
He'd never do that either.
My heart booms. I get this weird feeling like my body is totally hollow.
Something's really wrong.
Maybe I should call the police. I go back in the kitchen and grab the phone.
I start to dial 9-1-1, then think, What am I going say? My fifty-two-year-old father didn't show up for work three hours ago and he's not at home either?
Some emergency.
They're hardly going to put out a missing person's bulletin based on that.
I'd be embarrassed even to ask.
Dad
would be embarrassed.
What if he walked in right now from the gym and found out I'd sent the police after him? What if Earl just forgot this was Dad's day off?
Maybe Dad was taking a day off from doing the dishes too. It's not as if the guy doesn't deserve a break now and then.
I put the phone down, but my heart is still pounding.
The light on the computer blinks. I watch it for a while. Maybe Dad keeps a day timer on it or something.
I hesitate, then sort of creep up to the laptop as if it's a wild animal I don't want to piss off.
I reach out and hit a key. The computer groans and beeps, and the screen lights up.
Dad was looking at a website.
Paternitypro.com.
I forget about the day-timer idea.
I scan the site. It seems to be all about blood types.
This must have something to do with our little conversation at the Bluenose the other day. I don't know what the connection is exactly. Then I notice where the cursor is. It's under the line:
Two parents with A-type blood can't
have a child with B blood.
I stare at the screen. I close my eyes, but the sentence is lit up in neon on the inside of my lids. I don't need to read any more. I know what this is about.
There's this pendant that guys in the military wear around their necks. It's called a dog tag. It's got their name on it and their rank and their blood type. I framed Dad's dog tag and a picture of him in uniform when he retired from the Navy. It's hanging on the wall right across from me.
I know what his dog tag says, but I get up and read it anyway.
John Patrick Armstrong
Chief Petty Officer, 1st Class
Blood Type A+.
I don't let myself think too much yet. That would be a bad idea. I could just be making up problems where none exist.
I sit down. I take a moment. I figure out what to say and how to say it. I call Mom's office.
“Child Welfare International.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Paddy! What's up?” She sounds so happy to hear from me. I get a stitch in my side and have to hit it with my fist before I can answer.
“I'm filling out a form for the Army,” I say. “I've got your birthdate but I need your blood type.”
“Oh. Well. That's easy. It's A.”
I get that stitch again, only twice as bad this time. My eyes sting. I'm glad she can't see me.
“You're sure?” I say.
“I'm sure. I give blood once a monthâ¦Why would the Army need to know something like that?”
“Wellâ¦um⦔ There's so much crap on the Internet. How do you know what to believe? What if I'm wrong?
What if I'm right?
Her other line starts ringing while I'm trying to think of something to say.
“Oh, honey, I've got to go. It's crazy here today. Let's talk when I get back. I'm going to make that pasta you like with the tuna.”
She hangs up. I stand there, still holding the phone. The way I'm looking at it, you'd swear it was a hand grenade with the pin already out.