Camp Utopia & the Forgiveness Diet (9781940192567) (27 page)

A fury rose so fast it shocked me. The words “You are a fat bastard,” tore out of my mouth. My temperature rocketed to hot, fueled by fiery, blistering rage. Like they were controlled by a higher power, I saw my hands—my own hands—dig out a bagel and hurl it at my dad. Then another one. I scooped up a mound of schmear and flung it. The plastic bottle of orange juice arced beautifully seconds before it splooshed over his shirt. Cream cheese slid down his glasses. Greasy bagel papers twisted violently in the air.

“I knew you saw me!” The entire crew probably heard me. I grabbed bagel after bagel, screaming the whole time. “And you ignored me?”

My dad barely moved. He did not even talk to me in a library voice and beg me to calm down. He did lean left and then right as bagel after bagel missiled past him. He appeared to actually listen while this voice shrilled, screamed like something alien, only to find out the cold, metallic voice belonged to me. He knew almost everything in my jar only to turn around and use it against me. My rage launched words like weapons of mass destruction; it spattered food everywhere until I was suddenly transported back to the minivan, somewhere in Ohio: Jackie driving, Doug hollering. Good Lord. Was it my destiny to be trapped in an eternal food fight?

I concentrated on the fog tiptoeing over the grassy dunes and willed my rage to fizzle. I watched the curious crew members in the boat ahead of us, and the occasional students on the path. I felt like such a fool. A complete 'tard. A raging shithead. Why had I tried the diet in the first place? Why did I write the e-mails? Why must I fall for everything?

When I veered hard to my right, the boat tipped just low enough for my dad to lose his balance. He faltered and lurched to his left before grabbing the edges of the boat. When I leaned a little further, panic lit his face in the half-second before he slid off the seat and fell in.

Let him drown
, I thought.

His head surfaced starboard, his hat nowhere near it. “You ignored me because you were ashamed of me,” I said. “I had all that pizza on my plate.”

“No,” he said, his voice watery.

As quickly and delicately as I could, I crouched on my knees and switched from my seat to his. I brought the oars to my chest just as I'd seen him do. I pushed. Nothing happened. I glanced back at the other crew team hoping they'd telepathically transmit their maritime knowledge, but the oars felt awkward in my hands. I cursed. Even rowing a boat was beyond me. “You ignored me because I was fat,” I screamed at my father. I knew if I wasn't fat he would have hugged me at Chuck E. Cheese's, or better yet, invited me to the party in the first place. If I wasn't fat, I would be better. Nicer. Prettier. TJ would want to sleep with me. Hollywood wouldn't chuck phones at my face, and I WOULD KNOW HOW TO ROW A BOAT. I just wanted to start over. I just wanted to wake up and be someone new.

Sopping wet, my father managed to look surprised. His ball cap floated next to him among bagel detritus. “What? That had nothing to do with it.”

And he went on. Treading water, he shouted words I never heard. I pulled one oar out of the ring, dunked it in the water and pulled. Sploosh. My dad reached for the boat, nearly gripped it, just before I managed to move it. One stroke. Other Side. Two strokes. Switch. One stroke. It was a lot harder than it looked, but by some miracle of the universe, I rowed my way back to the shore.

At the picnic table, my hands were bleeding and raw. Splinters buried themselves in my palms. As I rubbed my aching shoulder, my dad emerged from the water like a lagoon creature. Soaked to the bone, he adjusted his bent glasses, which were laced with kelp. He zigzagged across the sand, water streaming from his pockets. He stood in front of me, breathing so heavily he barely got the words out. “I see you still have your temper,” he said.

Why that struck me as insanely funny, I couldn't tell you. But I laughed harder and harder as he edged closer and closer. And when he sat down next to me, water puddling by our feet, that was when I cried. Not hot, raging tears, but shameful ones. Humiliated tears. Sad tears. I leaned into his cold, wet Hawaiian-printed shirt. He wrapped his arms around me, rubbed my back, and told me it would be OK.

“I was in Chuck E. Cheese's with my kids and wife when suddenly my own daughter walks in, and I don't even know her. I don't even know you, Bethany. I let that happen. I was ashamed of myself, not you.”

“Then why recommend a diet book?” I asked his chest. “Why suggest The Forgiveness Diet?”

“Not because I wanted you to lose weight. Look at me,” he said, grabbing my wrists. “Look at me. I recommended the book because I wanted you to forgive me.”

I looked into his face and said, “Well, I don't.”

“I guess I deserve that,” he said. He aimed his now-ruined watch into the garbage pail. “You reminded me of so much in your e-mail. All that anger. You reminded me of me.” His voice wavered with emotion. “Of the person I used to be before I became an asshole.” Behind his cheese-smeared glasses, his eyes, shiny with tears, threatened to spill.

Watching him, I saw for the first time what my mom'd been saying for years. We looked alike. Something about the slant of the nose, shape of the mouth, an uncanny ability to sit for lengths of time without getting bored. “You had no problems being an asshole before. Why the shift now?”

When my father smiled, his teeth were straight and close like mine. “Because of this,” he said and withdrew a slip of paper from his water-logged wallet. It read:

I forgive myself for being a terrible father.

“I swear it must've blown right out of my jar,” he said, staring at it curiously. “Caleb found it in the sandbox. He kept saying he didn't understand because he thought I was a good father. I always read them stories and watched their soccer games and swim classes and hosted parties at Chuck E. Cheese's.” He stopped. A muscle in his jaw worked. “But it wasn't about Caleb and Cullen. It was about Jackie. It was about you.”

The sun reached its warm fingers through the fog. Smells of warm pavement, sunscreen, and wet grass transported me to other summers when things weren't this complicated. Listening to my dad, I tried to hold on to my anger, but found it was a lot like holding on to a bird. It quivered in front of us, held steady, then took flight. He crumpled up his forgivelet and flicked it into the Pacifica. His wet hand covered mine. “I have a getaway car, you know. I rented it at the airport.”

I could hardly believe my ears. “Even though I just dunked you,” I asked, “you'll still sign me out?”

He pointed to the parking garage behind the stadium. “Anywhere you want to go, I'll take you.”

49

FINDING FORTUNES

TURNED OUT THE Honda Fit he rented at the airport wasn't the getaway car I'd imagined. So instead of heading for the hills, we discovered the college town just outside CUP's gate. With his hands stationed obediently at the ten and two o'clock positions, my father chauffeured me past smoke shops, tattoo parlors, bookstores, and smoothie stands. We passed a record shop where silver musical notes swung in the window. I thought of Gabe, his obsession with the SPOOGE band, his kiss last night, how the place we left things off seemed both full and empty of promise.

My father braked at a yellow light and a flock of cyclists wheeled past. Then on the corner of Steinbeck Street and Quark Avenue, we spotted one lone Chinese restaurant ambitious enough to comfort us. Blessed be the sign that read OPEN.

The restaurant with red velvet walls prepared food so savory my tastebuds shivered in ecstasy. Pulling apart the seams of dough protecting a dumpling's insides, I realized the last time I'd eaten Chinese food was with TJ, the night before I left for Utopia. How different life seemed to me now, in this pastel town, tie-dye sheets hanging out of storefronts like laundry. Inside the restaurant, customers ordered off a chalkboard and sat at cafeteria-style tables. Me and my father shared a table with eleven strangers. Richard Goodman was a slow and deliberate eater who made a lot of “mmmmm” noises. In front of him were two cups of soup: one egg drop, one wonton, and a plate overflowing with crab dumplings, spareribs, fried noodles, and several other dishes I couldn't identify. Despite the early hour, the restaurant was loud and chaotic. Ferns hung from the ceiling, and three different televisions blared Asian music videos. Even though we could throw a stone at the campus from where we were sitting, Utopia felt about a billion miles away.

My dad's glasses sat cockeyed on his face and his shirt, which had somewhat dried, was smeared with dirt. Despite all that, he looked about as happy to be eating as I did. No paternity test needed here, folks. We both ate with elbows on the table and a look of concentration on our face. Dunking an egg roll in duck sauce, he started, “So I know about Jackie. And I know about Doug. I know what you meant when you mentioned Chuck E. Cheese's.” He peeled off a layer of egg roll skin, just like I did. “But I still don't know what happened between you and TJ.” Another dunk in duck sauce. “Would this be a good time to tell me about it?”

Actually the timing couldn't have been worse: food sizzling behind us, ancient gumball machines turning at the hands of toddlers, the chatter of strangers next to us. In spite of all this, I found I couldn't keep my secret locked up anymore. Must've been the sticky restaurant, everything coated in oil making it too slippery to hold back. Either way, there was no stopping it.

I told him about TJ, our neighbor. How he was so quiet you'd look up and there'd he be: in the driveway, inside my room, outside on the porch holding up his knuckles like he was on the verge of knocking. Told him about his doves, the patient way he'd trained them to perform. Obviously TJ was handsome, but it was more than that. He was mysterious, moody. I often felt we mortals weren't enough for him. He was above it. Above everything. No wonder he wanted to float so badly.

“After our first kiss, we um,” I stopped and studied my egg roll. How could I tell him these things? I took a big breath. “I mean there was more kissing, here and there. But he never sought me out, you know. It was always my idea. It was me initiating things.”

My dad listened as though an exam would follow. He scooped fluffy rice into his bowl. “So you decided to lose weight?”

“Yes. Last summer. I stopped eating.” Just the mention of last summer made my hands tremble. “Every time I sat at the table, I would think
: If you eat this food, he will never touch you.
He will never love you
. So stupid for me to think about prom, but I did.
If you eat this, no prom dress.
It was like a game, see. I would wobble to the refrigerator, find the strength to open it, only to close it and then chew gum in my room. Mom was proud that I wanted to look normal. Jackie worried she might've had to evaluate her role as the pretty one, but TJ didn't say anything.”

A giant shrimp dangled from my father's chopsticks. “It's a delicate thing to mention weight to a girl. Maybe he was nervous.”

I went on, wanting to get the whole story out before I changed my mind.

“So one night he told me to come over. He asked me to wear a black dress. I thought it was because he'd noticed that I'd lost a few pounds and he wanted to, you know”—I cast my eyes downward—“commemorate the night. So I bought a black dress at H&M and it was grown-up—not the kind of dress Mom would have let me out of the house in. Underneath I wore some oh, never mind, some nice garments. I put on makeup and perfume. I looked in the mirror and was like,
Bring it
.”

My dad, who never used to drink, waved two fingers at the guy behind the counter and ordered a shot of sake. On a Sunday. At ten in the morning. One minute later, he'd downed two of them, eyes tearing as he swallowed hard. “Go on,” he urged.

“I went over to TJ's in a raincoat even though it was hot and muggy. Once I was in his room I took it off it and he goes, ‘Dang, girl. Where you going like that?'”

My dad cleared his throat like he wanted to interrupt, or maybe stop me. I'm sure it was uncomfortable for him to hear it, but not as awkward as I felt saying it. I didn't stop. I had to keep telling it.

“That night, in his room, TJ sprinkled the stupid powder on my dress like he did on the doves at your kids' birthday party. The powder is a microorganism that eats the dye in fabric. He only asked me to wear a dress so he could rehearse a stupid magic trick,” I explained. “That's what it was about. The powder only worked on black material.”

“So then what happened?” he asked. “After he changed your dress?”

I sighed. “TJ must've seen my disappointment because he spun me around and told me how lovely I looked in yellow, which was bullshit. And because I've known him so long I felt this, I don't know, resignation when I sat down on his bed. Not on my part, but his.”

The Chinese restaurant faded, and suddenly I was back in Baltimore, sitting on the bed between TJ and his resignation. “That night I ignored his resignation and obviously TJ did too because, he kissed me first, which he almost never did. A long, lingering kiss with a crescendo that weakened my knees. And I was like,
hallelujah
. I just needed to lose weight. That's all it took. And when he asked me if I'd like to lie down, I was all,
You bet your ass
. TJ adjusted a pillow under my head. Then he kissed my neck and my shoulders. Then he took off his glasses, which I found strange. I mean, wouldn't he want to see me better? He said, ‘I want to look at you,' as he dropped his glasses on the nightstand.”

I didn't mention how TJ slowly untied my dress's knot behind my neck, lifted the now-yellow dress over my head, and straightened my hair out. My iridescent bra and panties were like something you'd find in the bottom of the ocean. He had stared at them.
You my girl, Bee
. He'd said it with like, emotion.