“Yes!” I say. “Let’s go for Thai food. I have a special place I like. It’s not too far.” I take a deep breath and find a bit of courage. “It’s the restaurant PJ took me to on our first date. Well, it was technically our second date, but I’ll explain. I want to tell you all about him, and it feels right to tell you over a couple of coconut punches.”
“Coconut punch? What’s that?”
“Oh, it’s the gayest, frothiest pink drink you will ever taste. You’re not afraid of a gay pink drink are you, Dad?”
He winks and gives me a big toothy grin. “Bring it on!”
After lunch, Dad drives me home. It was a nice meal, but it was served with a side of strange. We’ve never talked about such personal things. I told him all about PJ and he listened intently and asked a few questions. All I could think was, Who is this person? And what did he do with my real dad? We’re sitting in the car in the parking lot of my building and I’m trying to say goodbye, but I can tell he is stalling and has something more he wants to say.
“I would like to meet PJ,” Dad says. “Officially. Maybe I can take you both to Tara Thai next weekend for dinner. How does that sound?”
“I would like that,” I say. “I’ll ask PJ when I see him later. I’m sure he’ll be excited. Tara Thai is his favorite restaurant, after all, and he always asks me a lot of questions about you.”
“Great! I’d like to ask PJ a few questions too, and get to know him.”
“I should also mention that I haven’t met PJ’s parents yet. They are not comfortable with PJ being gay, so they don’t talk about it much. I don’t think they even know about me, but I’m not 100 percent sure. To tell the truth, I’ve been afraid to ask him about it. So, I’m especially glad you are not like that, Dad.”
A moment of awkward silence develops between us, so I take the opportunity to say, “Well, I better go. I want to take a nap and a shower before I go out tonight. Thank you for lunch, Dad, and for being understanding and letting me talk about PJ.”
As I get out of the car, he puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Wait, Simon. There is one more thing I need to ask you before you go.”
I slide back into my seat. “Okay, shoot.” I notice that Dad is biting his nails. Ah ha! That’s where I get that habit from!
“Simon, I know we haven’t been a family for a very long time. I mean, we are family, but we haven’t lived under the same roof since you were little, and I’ve been a terrible father. With your mother gone…I was wondering if you wanted to possibly…come back home. What I’m trying to say is, do you want to come live with me? I have a lot of lost time to make up for, and we could be a family again. What do you think?”
“Is that what you really want?” I say, stunned.
“Absolutely! I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. I’m changing, Simon, and I want to be the best father I can be to you. You can even bring Sammy along.”
“But you’re allergic to cats,” I say.
“I will survive. We can find a new, larger apartment if you like, or maybe even a small house with a yard. We can have barbecues in the backyard. Won’t that be fun? We can go house hunting together! We can be a real family again.” Dad holds out his hand to me and says, “So, what do you say, pal, do we have a deal?”
32
Pancakes Over Pajamas
Another 11:22 has come and gone. I’m lying in bed with Sammy, but my thoughts drift off to that damn question Dad asked me. I can’t stop revisiting the day or, for that matter, the whole insanity of the week I’ve just had. It’s been a lot. Too much, truthfully. When I’m alone with my thoughts like this, that’s when I find my mind drifts to Mom. These dark, quiet moments are when it sinks in that she is gone and never coming back. The sadness overwhelms me, and I feel like crying, but at the same time, I am all cried out. The alien inside me, now lying dormant, lets me know it feels it too. It almost seems depressed. I think it may be silently crying for me. That’s weird and new. It is not kicking or scratching to get out, but it doesn’t let me forget that it is there. I know it is planning something sinister. I know it! It is not fooling me with its quiet grieving act. It’s biding its time for the right moment to strike. But one thing is for sure, it won’t be tonight. It’s 11:28.
I’ve been so preoccupied with the funeral, food, family, and friends this week that at times, it has felt like Mom is just working her usual long hours at the lab. It hasn’t been all that different. Weeks could fly by, and I would barely even see Mom some days between her working long hours and me being in school and juggling friends, old and new. I also came out and got myself a cute boyfriend to boot. So yeah, life has been busy, and we didn’t see each other all that much anyway. So even though it was Mom’s funeral, it just felt like she couldn’t attend because she was working late.
I find, from time to time, I’m longing for the old days when it was just Mom and me in our old shitty apartment. Dad was living out of state, and we had no money. We survived on store brand peanut butter and generic white bread sandwiches for dinner because Mom could barely make rent. She worked in bookstores, grocery stores, and even cleaned houses—pretty much any odd job that brought in some extra cash. But she always came home in time for dinner to make those peanut butter sandwiches for me. And she always asked me about my day too. It didn’t matter how tired she was; I would talk and talk and talk. I told her if I saw a ladybug on the sidewalk. I told her everything. She never said much; mostly she smiled and listened to me ramble on about my day. You know, I don’t think I ever asked her about her day. Why didn’t I ever ask her about her day? Damn! I was a selfish child, and I didn’t even realize it. And it’s too late now.
I turn my light on and sit up in bed. Sammy meows and leaps off the bed. He gives me the look for having disturbed him, but I ignore him. My thoughts race. Thinking back, Mom was happiest when she was working at that little bookstore in Baltimore. Certainly, happier than at the lab. I don’t even know what she did at that stupid lab. I don’t even know what it was called because I never asked. And now that I’m thinking about it, what important work could she really have been doing? She was a young mother who worked odd jobs most of her life. What was this important work that made us move to Rockville, causing me to change schools in my senior year and forcing Carole to find a new job as well? What could be so important? This makes no fucking sense. I want to knock on Carole’s bedroom door. I want to wake her up and ask, What was so important at that damn lab that it resulted in Mom’s death? The adrenaline surges through me like a lightning bolt, and I throw off the sheets and spring from the bed. I pull on a T-shirt over my boxers and walk across the hall. I’m about to knock on Carole’s door, but my fist hangs in the air. Simon, what are you doing? You’re acting crazy, I tell myself. So, I turn back to my room and close my door. I turn off the light, get back in bed, and try to fall back to sleep.
Ilay awake most of the night, my mind racing. My thoughts won’t leave me alone. The alien can’t sleep either, and it twists and turns inside me as I twist and turn in my sheets. It’s an awful night.
I get in the shower and make the water as hot as possible to wake myself from this fog of exhaustion. I don’t want to go back to school tomorrow. I’ve been out of school for a week now, and there is going to be so much homework to catch up on. Plus, other kids and teachers will be coming up to me all the time to give their condolences. It’s going to be a nightmare. Also, this Thursday is Thanksgiving, and I don’t want to think what that is going to be like. How can we possibly celebrate Thanksgiving without Mom? How? Wait, I know what will make it better! I’ll invite PJ to join us.
I finish my shower, get dressed, and text PJ.
Good morning. Is my Pajamas still in his pajamas?
PJ doesn’t write back right away, and just about when I’m about to give up on him, three little dots appear on my screen and my pulse races with excitement as his replies arrive rapid fire.
Good morning handsome
No pajamas
