Things We Didn't Say

Chapter 20

Michael



Casey doesn’t understand that her attempt at soothing me is making this worse. I don’t want soothing, I want answers. Action. Results.

I swallow hard, exhale, shake off Casey like a dog shaking off the rain and pick up the phone again, finishing up my conversation with the well-meaning woman on the other end who won’t stop expressing sympathy.

The phone rings again. It’s not a hopeful sound anymore.

“Hello.”

“Are you the father of Dylan Turner?”

“Yes.” I sit up straight at this, my ears pricked, my hand reaching by rote for the notebook.

“Your goddamn son has run off with my daughter. I’m pressing charges on him when they find that sonofabitch.”

“My son did not coerce your daughter anywhere. In fact, we have e-mails that show this whole stunt was her idea.”

“I’ll just bet. I know what horny boys are like. He just wanted to get her alone and vulnerable, away from her parents and their strong moral values!”

My hand grips the phone so hard I might break it.

“We need to help each other. Two families looking betters the odds. And last I heard they were in Cleveland. Are you in Cleveland?”

There’s a beat of silence. I can feel the anger wafting from him and I feel it, too, both of us hurt and furious.

“Yeah.”

“Then you can put up posters. Let me send you a picture of Dylan, and you can put your daughter on the poster, too.”

He huffs into the phone. “Fine. But this isn’t done. When we find them, it sure isn’t done.”

This guy is an a*shole, but I appreciate that confident “when” in that sentence.

It takes me a moment to identify that rumbling in my gut as hunger. I haven’t eaten breakfast and only picked at last night’s pizza. Not that I feel like eating—can’t help but wonder, Is Dylan eating?—but it’s something to do, once I send the picture of Dylan to Tiffany’s father.

Angel comes down the stairs with her damp hair making dark circles on her purple T-shirt. The shirt’s neck scoops low, and her collarbone juts sharply from her upper chest. As she walks into the kitchen, I notice her grab a belt loop and hike up her pants.

“Angel, have you eaten today?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“A bagel.” She scowls as she pours more coffee.

“We’re out of bagels.”

“I don’t know, whatever. I don’t remember.”

She’s not yet gaunt, but there’s less of her than I remember.

I grit my teeth, considering. I could let it go, today. But how many times in the last weeks have I wondered about Dylan—when his stammer showed up again, when he quit inviting Casey to hear him practice—but something else came up, swept me along in the tide of everyday busywork, and I never asked? And now he’s gone.

“You have to eat something.”

Angel sighs, tosses her head. “I’m not hungry.”

“Eat something small.”

“I don’t feel well.”

“Then don’t drink that coffee. It’s acidic.”

She pours out the coffee and slams the mug down on the counter. For a moment I remember her mother, hurling another mug from that same set. They look so very much alike, and I recognize the expression on Angel’s face now, as Mallory Furious.

“I don’t want to see you starving yourself.”

“God.” She leans hard on the kitchen counter, folds her arms. “Is this what it’s going to be like now? Dylan acts like an idiot and runs away and I’m under surveillance?”

“Can’t you see that I love you? And I don’t want you making yourself sick?”

She looks at me sideways now, a wet strand of hair hanging over one eye. In the silence there’s a sad awareness of how rarely I’ve said out loud, “I love you.”

“I’m fine,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t take Dylan’s problems out on me.”

Mallory approaches from behind me. I’d almost forgotten she was here, she’d been so quiet with Jewel in the living room, no sound but the racket of commercials and dopey Nickelodeon shows.

“What’s your problem now, Mike?”

“I’m worried. She’s not eating.”

“Of course she’s not! I’m not eating today, either.”

Mallory walks to Angel and folds her in a hug, and together they walk out, arm in arm, looking even more alike from the back, as they retreat from me.

Does she think I don’t love her? How could she think that? I stayed with their mother years longer than I should have, because I couldn’t bear to be apart from my children. I kept them with me after the split instead of surrendering them to Mallory’s unpredictability, I have given up any life outside of work, home, and one hour at the gym . . .

Not true, I correct myself, sinking down into a kitchen chair, my bones so tired they have a will of their own. Not true because I dated Casey, fell in love, and moved her in.

And now Casey and Angel spark up against each other like flint and tinder, have been for weeks, and it’s only been worse of late. And yet still Casey is here. Maybe Angel thinks I’m choosing Casey over her.

Why should I have to choose? I tighten my fist and clench my jaw until my molars hurt.

“Should” is meaningless. Reality is all I’ve got.