Another throwback? He is chewing on the corner of his mouth. Good. So I’m not the only one feeling weird. That was one of the things we used to talk about all the time—feeling weird in one’s own home—because if I had family issues, Jack’s were worse. I’d seen firsthand his attempts to get his parents’ attention. But his father was forever distracted by one intellectual cause or another. And his mother? Self-absorbed. Her disappearance would have poured salt on the wound of being her son, for sure. Forsure,her disappearance would have exaggerated his long-running sense of abandonment.
Realizing that, I feel the urge to fill the awkward silence withconsoling words, even to touch his arm. But I’m afraid to reach out lest I be bitten. Like dog, like man.
Speaking of which, I ask, “Where’s your dog?”
“Sleeping. Where’s your daughter?”
“Same.”
A tiny wave breaks, rolling our way in a whisper meant as backdrop alone, because we’re the main attraction, Jack Sab and me. I’ve broken the silence by speaking first, and I can easily make other conversation. Middle children are practiced at lessening awkward moments, and here in my hometown I’m the middle child. But I’ve been away for a long time, been a different person for that long time. And I didn’t call this meeting.
So I wrap my arms around my middle, clutching the folds of the sweatshirt, and wait.
Finally he says, “I overstepped with her. Did I screw up?”
The words are right, even if the tone isn’t exactly apologetic. But then, I don’t know how to be with him, either.
“No,” I say, grateful for the statement regardless. “I’ll just tell her it won’t work.”
“It will on my end. I can always use help.”
“We’re only here a week. Is it worth training her for that little?”
“Training?” he mocks. “To give love to frightened pets who are caged up, waiting for treatment, feeling abandoned? She was a fast learner when it came to my dog. Where’d she come from, by the way?”
Startled, I’m silent for a breath. Then I echo, “Come from?” I hope he doesn’t mean what I think. “New York. With me.”
“But who’s her father?”
Bingo. That’s my Jack, filtered not. There are any number of answers I might give to succinctly end the conversation. Lord knew, I’ve used many of them over the years. But strangers with inappropriate questions are one thing, Jack Sabathian another. I never lied to him. He might have thought it. But what I said about my father was what I believed.
Honestly now, I say, “I have no idea.”
“Really?You?”
I don’t bother to answer. He’s thinking I was drunk, which goes to show how faulty memory can be. I didn’t drink. Never had. There was nothing spontaneous or irresponsible or unplanned about conceiving Joy, and it had been worth every terrifying minute.
“One-night stand?” he asks.
“Sperm donor,” I reply.
That draws a curious half smile splitting dark stubble, which the moon appears just in time to reveal. “Seriously?”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he says without missing a beat, “you can have any man you want. Why use a donor?”
“Maybe,” I say without missing my own beat, “because I don’t like the men who want me, but I wanted a child.”
“Does she know?”
“Absolutely. Joy and I know how to communicate. I told her as soon as she was old enough to understand.”Not making the same mistakes my parents did,my mind adds, and he hears that part, too.
His voice is faintly subdued. “Was it hard?”
“The telling? No harder than explaining adoption. ‘Mommy had a gazillion choices, but she wantedyou.’”
“It’s different from adoption.”
