Happy Families (21 page)

“Right.” Justin’s face is expressionless.

“So, what, you think we didn’t meet our goal? Dad’s willing to be back together with us, right?” I straighten, looking anxiously at my father.

“Right,” Dad says, nodding. “Absolutely.”

Mom, who’s been very quiet, suddenly speaks. “The thing you have to remember, Justin, is that everyone has to find their own way back home, in their own time. Willingness is just the first step.”

So, Dad is only willing? And “willing” isn’t enough? Uneasy, I study my father, who is staring at the carpet pattern.

There’s a silence—uncomfortable, since Dr. Hoenig is scribbling a little on the notepad she always carries, which means that there will be more over-observant questions next time. For a moment I’m apprehensive, and then I remember: this is my last session.

Which means her questions will all be for Dad. Good. For him, I have questions of my own.

“Well, we’ve made a lot of progress this week,” Dr. Hoenig announces, closing her pad. She pushes to her feet and holds out her hand. “It was so nice to meet all of you.”

Yes!

After the fastest goodbye I can manage politely, I practically gallop down the stairs to get away from Dr. Hoenig’s office. I wait impatiently at the car for my parents to catch up, feeling a strange urge to move away from her office as fast as I can, to avoid finding out more things I’m not sure I want to know.

Justin reaches the car just ahead of Dad. “Are we leaving right now?”

“The beach at Goat Rock a two-hour drive,” Dad says, pressing the lock remote. “We’re going to take off at four, so we’ve got time to do some grocery shopping and run a few errands beforehand.”

“Ooh, let’s make hobo dinners tonight,” Mom says. “I haven’t done those in years.”

Justin makes a face. “I’m sure there’s a really good reason for that.”

“Ha ha,” Mom says dryly, and puts on her seat belt. “Hobo dinners are what we had in Girl Scouts. You take veggies, potatoes, and sausages, add some butter or mayo, salt, and pepper, wrap them in foil, and then bury it in the coals of the campfire. In about an hour it’s done.”

“Sounds good.” Dad glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Belly, you need anything special for your dinner?”

“Just something with chocolate,” I say, and lean back with a yawn.

“Oh, that’s the basis of a vegetarian diet, all right.” Mom shakes her head. “We might as well get the shopping out of the way right now.”

After a quick grocery run we return to Dad’s and unload. Mom gets me started measuring off squares of foil and scrubbing
potatoes while she dices onions and carrots. Justin reluctantly cores apples with a newly purchased apple corer—Dad’s kitchen seems to be lacking in all the little gadgets Mom likes—and packs them full of cinnamon sugar and butter to be wrapped and roasted.

“Real hobos would do this on the road,” Justin points out.

“You’re more than welcome, if you want sand in your teeth,” I tell him.

Dad runs back to the store to buy a bundle of firewood, charcoal for the grill, and ice for the cooler. He’s already packed up the sodas and his little grill by the time we’re finished with the bulk of the dinner packs. Mom makes a plate of sandwiches, and we stop and eat a quick lunch.

“Don’t forget to wear something warm,” Dad advises as we grab blankets and tarps to protect us from the sand. “The fog is tricky this time of year: you never know how cold it’s going to be.”

“I’ll get my sweatshirt,” I say, and head for the stairs.

“Justin, you can borrow my old running shoes again,” Dad begins.

“No, thanks,” Justin says, crumpling his napkin. “I’ll just wear mine.”

Dad blinks. I burst out laughing. “Oh,
right
, Justin. You suddenly don’t care if your shoes get dirty?”

Justin tosses his napkin into the trash. “As long as I can run in them, it doesn’t matter either way.”

“Well, they’ll last longer if you keep them out of the sand and the wet,” Dad says, still dangling the shoes. “May as well avoid replacing them as long as you can.”

“They’re just shoes,” Justin says, looking away. “It’s no big deal to wipe them off after I wear them.”

“Okay, who are you, and what have you done with my brother?” I joke.

“There is no need to ruin your shoes just to make a point,” Dad says roughly. “Just take the shoes, Justin, and let’s load up the car.”

“Dad, I don’t
want
them.” Justin’s voice is low.

“Suit yourself,” Dad says tersely. He disappears into his bedroom.

Eyes wide, I turn to Justin. “What was that? What point is Dad talking about?”

Justin scowls. “Nothing. I’m not trying to make a point. I’m just not going to be weird about my shoes anymore, that’s all. It’s not that big a deal.”

“Well, how do shoes—” I begin, but Mom pushes a box of foil-wrapped corncobs into Justin’s arms and shoos me downstairs.

“Ysabel. Sweatshirt,” she reminds me.

“I’m going, I’m going. Hey, Dad?”

“Yep.” My father reappears with an armload of sweatshirts and the hat Justin wore on the raft trip, looking grim.

“Do you have a little shovel or something if we want to make sand castles?”

“Think so,” Dad says, brightening a little. He drops the clothes on the couch and heads for the garage.

Downstairs, I dig into the box of spiral flower beads I made. I didn’t think to bring any ribbon with me, but a thin leather cord makes a decent hanger. I don’t have wrapping paper, either, but I fold an origami envelope out of a piece of printer paper upstairs. I stick the package in the pocket of my sweatshirt and head for the car.

We’re about to drive past the store when Mom starts her usual worrying. “Did you pack the salt?” she asks my father anxiously. “The pepper? Did you get the bottle of hot sauce off of the counter?”

“We’ve got everything but the fridge, Stacey,” Dad says soothingly. “We don’t have to feed the whole beach, and it’s a potluck—other people are bringing things.”

“I know.” Mom leans her head against the seat. “It’s just that when everyone knows you’re a caterer, you want to make a good impression.”

“Mom, nobody will care,” I assure her. “It’s a beach party.”

“Remember the time Mom made that banana dish at the park?” Justin asks suddenly.

Dad chuckles, and Mom groans. “You guys aren’t ever going to let me forget that bananas Foster!” she exclaims. “It’s not fair to keep bringing it up!”

“But it was so cool,” I protest. “You were the only mom at the eighth-grade graduation picnic who brought a dessert you could set on fire.”

“Just because it was a picnic didn’t mean it wasn’t a special meal,” Mom says a little defensively. “I just thought it should have a special dessert.”

“It was special,” Dad says. “It’s not your fault the fire marshall had a niece in the graduating class.”

“Nothing like a foot-high fireball over the rest of the food,” Justin snickers.

“I still don’t believe you need a permit to flambé food outdoors,” Mom mutters.

Two years ago, summer, was when my biggest irritation was Grandmama saying my bathing suit was ratty and tight. I wanted
to dye a blue streak in my hair once, but Mom wouldn’t let me bleach it, and without the bleach, the color barely showed up. I had no idea about transpeople or gender identity, or Dad.

“That was a long time ago,” Dad says a little sadly, putting my thoughts into words.

“Yes,” Mom says dryly, “but not long enough.”

“Fortunately, we have the rest of our lives to watch you make new and embarrassing memories we’ll never let you live down.” I yawn, leaning my head against the window.

Mom snorts. “Thank you, Ysabel. I am deeply reassured.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Hike!” Ysabel shouts. She throws the ball and Beth, in her trademark floppy hat, catches it and runs toward the water. A wave comes in and she shrieks, zigzagging away from the foam and back onto the packed sand.

“Tag!” shouts a woman with short, reddish hair, and smacks Beth’s arm. “First down!”

Beth plants the ball, and the rest of the kids charge along the beach. I recognize Marco’s little brother, who trips and knocks over another kid. The two of them roll around and get sandy,
and for a few minutes, it turns into a free-for-all, with screeches and laughter.

I glance up the beach, watching Mom tend the fire. Between the driftwood, our store-bought kindling, and Mr. Han’s big oak logs, we put together a pretty nice bonfire. There will certainly be enough food; even Dad was impressed by the number of boxes and bowls.

At the thought of my father, I look around until I locate him, in baseball cap and sunglasses, the legs of his jeans rolled. He’s dragging Mom away from her fireside kitchen toward the surf. She seems to be arguing with him about this, and pretty soon, she’s digging in her heels—for all the good it does her. Dad laughs as she breaks away from him and runs back to the fire. Score one for Mom.

Dad catches my eye and gives a brief smile before glancing down at my running shoes. I look down at my shoes myself, trying to picture Christine as someone who would drag Mom into the ocean, but I remind myself that Christine is Dad. There are parts of him that we will never lose.

“Viking!” The dark-haired woman scans the beach, shading her eyes. “Come play!”

“Be right there,” Connor yells from behind me. I turn as he slogs through the sand in my direction. His legs and the bottom of his shorts are wet. “So, you don’t do football,” he says, and dusts the sand off his arms.

“I play. Just not in the mood.” I shrug, looking out over the sparkling waves.

“Huh.” Connor stands next to me, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I give him the lie, because there’s nothing else to give him.

Connor turns to say something, then waves as the woman calls for him again.

“Viking! Come on!”

“Viking?” Ysabel emerges from the knot of little boys in the sand, balancing on one foot to try and dump the sand from her shoe. “As in, your other car is a longboat?”

“Ha ha. I picked up that nickname in Little League,” Connor says, and gently kicks a hill of sand over Ysabel’s other foot. He changes the subject. “When did you guys get here?”

“We’ve been here about a half hour or so.” I glance back up the beach toward where my father is now turning food on the grill. “I had to dig Mom a fire pit.”

“Your family are the most organized cookout people I’ve ever met,” Connor says, grinning. “You actually brought a shovel? To the beach?”

“It’s for a sand castle,” Ysabel explains, sitting flat and dusting the sand from her bare foot. She looks up as the ball flies past, then surges to her feet. “Hey, I’m still playing!”

In the area of churned-up beach, the dark-haired woman steals the ball from Ruben and passes it to a little girl, who runs in the other direction with it. Pursued, the girl throws the ball back to the woman, who turns and wedges it between her knees and holds out her arms.

“Red light!” she shouts, and all the little kids stop running. Ysabel, in the act of freezing, falls over laughing.

I turn to Connor. “Okay, what was that?”

“Mom plays football by her own rules.” Connor grins. “Come play.”

“How am I supposed to play when I can’t figure out the game?”

“It’ll come to you,” Connor says, smacking me on the shoulder.

We play a strange version of Keep-Away and Red Light/Green Light, with the occasional down, pass, and wobbly punt involved. Ysabel enjoys the game until she drops something out of her pocket and screams for everyone to stop. There’s a moment of ceremony as Ysabel retrieves a piece of jewelry and presents it to Bethany, who shows off the glass flower pendant and ties it around her neck. And then Mr. Han yells that it’s time to eat.

There are a few last introductions as the people wipe off sandy hands and grab plates. Marco’s mother, Mrs. Andrade, and his older sister, Sofia, are the makers of a pile of golden-brown empanadas, which Ruben and Marco’s youngest sister, Lucia, claims she helped make. Connor’s mom, who asked us to call her Laura, dishes out a chicken salad with grapes, almonds, and apples in it, which is surprisingly good. The Hans have brought deviled eggs, chili, and a massive fruit salad. Madison turns hamburgers, turkey dogs, and spicy hot wings on Dad’s little hibachi grill, her long silver tongs moving quickly as she serves.

Ysabel follows Bethany to the edge of tarp furthest from the fire and pulls open her hobo dinner, fanning the steam away from her face. Connor and Marco follow. Sofia joins us for a moment but then has to drag a pouting Lucia back to sit with the smaller kids.

“How much older than you is Sofia?” I ask Marco.

“Three years. She’s already a freshman at Stowe,” Marco says through a mouthful of food. “Statistics major.”

“Statistics.” Ysabel winces.

“Exactly,” Marco agrees.

Beth laughs. “You guys are such wimps.”

“Just because you’re a numbers person doesn’t mean we have to be,” Marco objects.

“I wonder if you can inherit that,” Ysabel says. “Is your mom good at math, Marco?”

“Madison’s a history professor,” Beth says. “Connor aces history. Obviously inherited.”

“That’s bogus, Ys. Mom’s a caterer, and you don’t cook. Connor’s probably only good at history because Madison would freak if he wasn’t.”

“Oh, trust me,” Connor agrees. “She acts like it’s the end of the world if I get a B.”

“Mama’s a nurse,” Marco says gloomily. “If I was going to inherit anything, I wouldn’t want the ability to stick needles in people and clean up—”

“Dude! Eating here,” Connor warns him.

Marco says something rude in Spanish, and Connor answers. Bethany puts her hands over her ears and sings loudly. “I can’t
heeeear yoooou
.”

Ysabel chuckles. “You guys are so weird. I wish we had more time to hang out.”

“I know.” Bethany puts her hands down and pushes out her bottom lip. “I can’t wait till your art show. Mom said we’ll be there.”

“Are we invited, too?” Connor asks.

“Um, anybody can come,” Ysabel says, and looks pleased. “We have lots of room.”