There’s a plate with crumbs on it. He’s already eaten and I worry that I’m late. He’s a big man, his arm muscles all bunched up, and it makes the table look even smaller. I wonder if he lifted weights in prison. His hair is short, almost a crew cut, and going gray. He has a beard. I don’t remember him having a beard and I’m panicking now. What if he’s always had one and it’s something else I’ve forgotten? It feels like I’ve been watching him for five minutes. People keep bumping into me. I should walk over but I can’t make my feet move.
He glances up. I can tell he doesn’t recognize me, the way his eyes skim past without any expression in them, then he takes another look, and smiles, but it’s kind of crooked, like he’s embarrassed or something, and his cheeks are turning pink.
He stands, wipes his hands on his jeans. He’s not as tall as I thought, but his shoulders are large in his brown knit sweater.
I walk over and stand in front of him. “Hi.” My hands are clutching the straps of my backpack, like it’s a parachute and I can leap out of here anytime I want.
“Your hair,” he says. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Yeah, sorry. Forgot to warn you.” I didn’t think about how he would react to my choppy cut, shaved over my ear on one side, long on the other, and the violet color.
“I like it.” He pauses, just staring at me for a moment. “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown up. I mean, I know it’s been years, but wow. You’re not a kid anymore.”
I don’t know what to say, the mood is so intense. I need to lighten it up. “I didn’t recognize you at first either. I thought maybe my father was that bald guy over by the door.”
He laughs. “I’ve been looking at every teenage girl walking in here. I kept thinking the staff were going to ask me to leave.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of creepy.”
“My bad,” he says, and smiles at my look. “Hey, I learned a few expressions in prison. We had TV. Not much else to do!” He sits back down in the chair.
I glance around the room. I don’t see anyone we know so I shrug my backpack off my shoulders and sit down, but I leave my scarf and hoodie on.
“I didn’t order for you,” he says. “I didn’t know what you’d want.”
“I’m not hungry.” Mom would have dinner ready in an hour. We often eat in the living room, watch TV and talk about our day. It feels like rubber bands are around my body, snapping and pulling. What are you doing? I hear my mom say in my mind. How could you lie to me?
I just want to know what he’s like, I remind myself. I have a right to know my own father. I feel a surprising stab of anger at my mom. If she had let me visit him in prison, I wouldn’t have to sneak around. I know she was trying to protect me when I was a little kid, but I’m older now. I can make up my own mind about people.
“What about a tea or coffee?” He spins his coffee cup and I remember how he used to make me hot chocolate after we’d been playing in the snow and how he’d spin the cup around so the marshmallows swirled and say it was for good luck. I’d forgotten all about that.
“Hot chocolate,” I say. “I want a hot chocolate.”
We drink slowly. It’s raining outside now and people dash into the coffee shop, their coats slick and shiny, shaking their wet hair, giving that laugh people have when they’ve escaped something. I think about Mom and wonder if she’s feeling better. I wish she didn’t have to work today. I know she’s still upset about what happened when she was cleaning Mrs. Carlson’s. I wish I could tell her it couldn’t have been Dad—he was working at a job site on the weekend.
I think about taking her something home from the shop, maybe some soup and a fresh-baked bun, or those spicy chicken sausage rolls she likes, but then she’ll ask questions, and I’ll have to lie about who I was with and what I was doing and I might mess up somehow.
He’s been talking about his job. He’s working as a construction foreman for a company so he can get back into the swing of things, then he’s going out on his own again. I can tell that he’s picking his words so he sounds upbeat and positive, but I don’t think he really likes his boss.
“I knocked off early. Didn’t want to be late.” He points to his coffee. “I’ve already had two of these.” I study his face. He looks honest, almost a little shy. “How’s your mom?”
“I don’t think we should talk about her.” He’s never asked about her on the phone or in any of his letters and I was glad about that. Now I feel uncomfortable. I glance at his ring again. It definitely looks like he’s still wearing his wedding band. Mom would hate that so much.
He notices my look, touches the ring. “I know I screwed things up,” he says, “but it doesn’t mean I’ve stopped loving her.”
“She’s happy now.”
My dad pauses and I think about my mom, wondering if what I said is true. I think she has fun with Greg—he’s really nice and has a good sense of humor, always teasing Mom about something, like how she lines up all the sponges on the sink according to color. He’s perpetually happy. I mean, who wouldn’t be when you get to wear shorts to work most the year? But she doesn’t talk about him much. Maybe it’s because there’s not much to talk about. He’s just Greg.
“I’m glad she’s happy,” my dad says. “Is she seeing anyone?”