“A little.” My face ishot.
“Do you garden?” He leads me off the patio floor and onto a greenlawn.
“No,” I say, though I’m not sure he has heard me. Walking on large, flat pavers, we cross the backyard and around the side of thehouse.
“I think everyone should garden. It’s good for the soul.” Paul stops and stepsaside.
The entire side yard, at least ten feet across and fifteen feet long, is filled withplants.
I walk around the raised beds, peering into them, as Paul talks about what fills eachone.
I listen, watching his excitement as he regales me with the garden’s history, how it almost wouldn’t grow. He also tells me all the plants he cannot get to grow for the life ofhim.
His glasses slowly descend the slope of his nose because he talks with such animation. So different from my own father. My dad’s words slide out of his mouth like they’re facingresistance.
“Paul,” Lucia’s voice ringsout.
“Better get going.” He pulls his hands from the mint, a few stems in his grasp. “The boss is calling.” He winks atme.
All afternoon I keep waiting for the questions to come. They must want to know the sordid details of how they have a family member they knew nothing about. At some point, will one of them demand a paternitytest?
The questions never come. Not when we’re eating lunch or enjoying the cupcakes. Not when we play catch with a football, or when Lauren tells me about her job. When Lucia asks me to help her in the kitchen, I think,this is it, but it doesn’t happen. She hands me soapy dish after soapy dish, and I rinse and dry them, waiting for the accusations and questions to leave her lips. But they never come. Instead she talks about Isaac’s job, how fortuitous it was that we ran into each other again, how happy they all are to have me and Claire in their livesnow.
I knew it the moment I saw their smiling faces lying on top of the contents of a moving box. This family isperfect.
Everything changedafter the day at Isaac’s parents’ house. When Isaac walked us to my car that afternoon, I said what I’d been thinking. Instead of thinking about itone more time,I blurted out mydecision.
And made Isaac the happiest man in the world. The consequences of my words are almost worth the joy of seeing him that happy.Almost.
Isaac doesn’t waste time. That’s one more thing I can say I’ve learned abouthim.
One week after telling him we’d move in, we’re doing just that. I started packing two days ago. Claire’s room first, and nowmine.
Isaac’s been busy this week, getting ready for us. Claire called him every night at bedtime to say good-night, placated only by the fact that we’d be moving in with him and soon she’ll see him every night at bedtimeandwhen she wakes in the morning. After Claire and Isaac finished their conversation each night, he waited on the line for me to finish my good-night with her. Every night, when I got back on the phone, he talked about what he’d accomplished that day. Aside from fixing broken bones, he also buys princess beds with canopies and constructs them. Because I guess he’s not busy enough. Apparently, when Isaac puts his mind to something, there’s no stoppinghim.
And now it’s movingday.
“How’s it comingalong?”
My dad leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. He eyes the piles of clothing, the boxes, the stacks of books. I’ve never considered myself a packrat, but I’m starting to think maybe I have a tendency to hoard. A little less than five years ago, I moved back into the room that had been mine all my life, and in that time, I’ve managed to amass enough stuff to furnish a small village. The donate-pile is large. I stare at the item on top—my breast pump. It was a big purchase for me. Claire was an infant, and I had to work. If I wanted her exclusively breastfed, I was going to have to shell out for it. Setting the pump in the giveaway pile was hard, but what am I supposed to do with itnow?
I swing my arm out to the room. “It’s coming, Isuppose.”
Dad nods. He doesn’t say anything, but he stays in his spot. He hasn’t offered to help since I started packing, and I haven’t asked forit.
I start loading all my books in abox.
“Aubs, that’s going to be too heavy. Distribute the weight between a few boxes. Books first, maybe a quarter of the way up, then clothes on top. Something like that.” Dad comes in my room, snatching an empty box as he walks by it. Together we pull the books out of the box they’re in and re-pack them as heinstructed.
“Thanks.” I pick up stacks of clothes and place them ontop.
“Anytime. Need help with anythingelse?”
I look around the room. “I think I’ve gotit.”
He heads for the door but pauses in the threshold. He keeps his back to me. “Now that you’re moving out, I don’t know if I want you to.” His voice is reluctant, the words stuck inmolasses.
The tears I’ve been holding back prickle my eyes. A few roll down my face. I clear my throat, as if somehow that will stop the tears. “I know, Dad. I’m scaredtoo.”
