I laughed. “He doesn’t look like a string bean. He’s hot.”
Dad gave a mock-beleaguered sigh. “I never thought my progeny would find string beans attractive.”
I shook my head, still grinning. “Do you have popcorn? And mini chocolate chips?”
“What do you take me for, a monster? Of course I do.”
We made stovetop popcorn and sprinkled in chocolate chips alongside the salt, letting them melt and stick the popcorn together in delicious globs. I loved hanging out with Dad like this, laughing and joking though the movie, ordering Thai food for dinner. It felt like being home.
If Dad sold the house, would anything ever feel like home again?
“Where would you want to go if we sold our house?” I asked tentatively, after the movie ended and we’d cleaned our plates. “You mentioned Boston?”
Dad had always been easy to read; now he looked surprised, like he hadn’t expected this conversation. Then he braced himself, ready to make his best effort. “I’d like to live closer to the city, yes. Though it would mean less space. It’d be nice to feel not so…isolated.”
“We don’t feel isolated,” I said automatically, before realizing, you know, Dad was a different human being than me and might have different feelings.
“Jordan,” he said, leaning forward. “I know this is hard. I know how much you love the house.”
I shrugged and looked out the window. A bird flew by, small and dark, a splash of red on its wing. “I thought we both loved it.”
“We do,” he said. “I do. However, sometimes change is good.”
“Yeah, but I’m already going to college in two months. Do we really need more change?”
He looked away, then back at me, determinedly. “I think it might be good to live somewhere where we can make new memories.”
“What do you mean?” He meant something, and I could feel it in my stomach, in the way the bottom was trying to detach and fall away.
“I love our house. More importantly, I love you. And we will always have each other. But I think it might be time to live somewhere where not all the memories are about Mom.”
Oh.
Of course the house had memories of Mom for Dad. Of course he wanted somewhere new and fresh. That was good, and healthy, and right.
Only the thing was—I didn’t have my own memories of Mom.
I had the house. I had the town. I had Dad, and Aunt Lou and Uncle Jerry, and anyone else who could unearth a few memories for me. I kept them in a little box in my mind,Stories About Mom, and I pulled them out when I needed them. I pulled them out most easily in places where I’d seen photos of us together, or where a faint ghost of a memory lingered. The rocking chair, where she’d cuddled me. The kitchen, where she’d made mac and cheese and convinced me to eat mushy carrots. The window nook in the den, where she’d read me Spot the Dog.
Dad had real memories of Mom. They’d had a life together.He didn’t need the house to keep them safe or bring them to life.
Okay. I wanted Dad to be happy, didn’t I? So time for me to grow the fuck up. “What would it be like?” I asked, staring at my plate. “An apartment? Would I have a room?”
Dad sounded horrified. “Of course you would have a room.”
I blinked rapidly, relief suffusing me. “Okay.”
“Jordan, you willalwayshave a place, wherever we are.”
“Cool,” I said, trying to sound cool. “Just don’t want you to turn the spare room into an office as soon as I’m off at college.”
“You’ll have a room,” Dad said again. “Always.”
I borrowed Dad’s bike to get home, wind in my face as I sped along the path paralleling Milestone Road, past forests and moors. I felt itchy to do something, like the summer dusk was a drug leaving me aching for experiences. Worse, a storm was coming, clouds rolling in from across the sea, the balmy day now foreboding.
I made it back to Golden Doors around nine, as raindrops started to splash against my skin. In the cousins’ room, I found several Barbanels cozied up with their partners, watching a movie, with several more cousins spread about. Too tame for how I felt, so I headed to my room and called Grace. Talking soothed some of my strange agitation, but when we hung up around ten thirty, I still felt jittery.
At eleven, the thunderstorm started in earnest.
