“What are you wearing?” I ask, staring at the screen as if my father’s grown a set of horns or something. “Is that the Christmas robe?”
His quick downward glance looks almost sheepish, which makes no sense. “I thought I’d pull it out of semiretirement. Give it a little more air time. You know. Poor thing barely sees the light.”
“Okay.” What’s happening here? What is this? There are some things, like Dad staying up to watch TV until 1:00 a.m., that we can always count on. They are as constant as the stars above or rush hour traffic or going on the New Year’s Banana Hunt, which I realize isn’t a tradition outside our family, but still. For us, it’s a thing. Like clockwork, the Christmas robe comes out on Black Friday and gets sent back to the mothballs January 2. It’s only September. It’s several weeks until holiday robe season. “Are you okay, Dad? Do you need help?”
“Help?” Looking confused, he pushes his glasses up on his nose but doesn’t otherwise react. “Why would I need help?”
In a whisper, I ask, “Is someone there?”
He startles and casts a quick glance over his shoulder. “Here? In our house? No. No one. No one at all. Not a soul.”
“Are you being held up or something? Did you mention we’ve got nothing worth stealing?”
“I’m fine, Rae.” After a pause, he tilts his head and squints at me. “What about you, sweetheart? You seem a little out of sorts. You need to come over this weekend for some musical theater karaoke or a sweet baby huggle? I can make hot chocolate, and you and Otty can do ‘I Feel Pretty’ and—”
Oh god, no. No huggles or chocolate or any other old-school Dad comforts. Especially not karaoke, which everyone knows I’m terrible at. I am the musical dud in a family of Broadway-worthy belters.
“So, you feel okay?” I ask.
“Right as rain.”
“No excessive physical activity? Are you… jumping or something?”
“Nope! Not a thing. No jumping. Thanks, Beanie.” He casts a glance to the side and then looks at me with a long sigh. “You don’t have to take care of—”
“I know.”
“You going out? What’s that you got on? You look fancy.” Leaning too close to the phone. “Are those spiderwebs?”
“Just a… a costume thing. I’m home now.”
“You sure you’re too busy this weekend? I’ve got the extra-special cocoa mix with the little freeze-dried marshmallows.”
The special cocoa in our family is the opposite of what anyone else would consider gourmet. I realized sometime in my teens thatit was all we could afford back when we were little, but like everything else, Dad somehow managed to make it shine.
Even now, looking at him in the Christmas robe, I see the frayed collar, the fading red and white stripes, and understand just how much of our upbringing was cobbled together from smoke and mirrors and pure, unadulterated love.
Stifling a sigh that’s half adrenaline crash, half affection, I shake my head. “I’ve got to finish one of my book nooks.”
“Let’s see it.”
Grinning, I turn the camera around and show him the mini restaurant scene.
Heoohs andaahs until I tell him goodbye. He then opens his mouth as if about to say something, but then closes it. “You look lovely, sweetheart. Glad you’re going out and having fun after…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he doesn’t really have to. We both know he means I’m getting out and seeing people after Brendan. Unlike Hannah and Otty, who’ve unsubtly celebrated since the moment I ended things, Dad has, true to form, kept his thoughts to himself. Even now, see, he turns an incomplete sentence into a full thought without actually saying the awkward thing out loud. It’s an art.
“Okay, Dad. Good night. I’ll just—”
“I’ll let you get back to—”
He hangs up on himself, leaving me staring at my reflection in the black screen.
After a second, I close my eyes and let myself remember just where I was an hour ago and exactly what I was doing.
No regrets. At all. And who knows, maybe I’ll work up the courage to go back to Off the Cuff next weekend.
Yes, actually. That’s just what I’ll do.
