“I love you, Dad.”
His spontaneous and heartfelt sentiment catches me off guard. It fills a void left open from long ago—so many happy endings that never had the chance to happen, so many things left unsaid.
All of it cut too short, and far too soon.
I want to give Devon those things I missed, but even more, I don’t want my pain to become his legacy. I know, perhaps better than most, the need to make every second of every day count.
I kiss his forehead, shut off the light, then leave his room.
But opening one door feels like stepping suddenly through another, memories of my own father waiting just on the other side. Memories that are good in so many ways.
But in others, so terribly tragic.
5
A LIE CALLED FOREVER
Summer evenings with Dad were my favorites.
I’d lean back in bed, immersed in the smell of jasmine as it drifted through my window. Distant crickets chirped as cars rolled by, creating music that moved seamlessly to the beat of a soft, settling night.
And I remember the comfort and security of my father’s smile.
“Daddy,” I said, settling beneath the cool sheets, gazing out at the starry night. “What comes after the sky?”
He looked there, too, and considered my question. “After the sky comes outer space.”
“What’s after that?”
“Then it’s the universe.”
“And after that?”
He paused for moment, his expression thoughtful. “Well . . . we don’t really know what comes after. Nobody’s ever gone that far.”
“How come?”
“Because it just goes on and on. And it’s a long way back.”
“You mean like, forever?”
“That’s what some people think, yes.”
I fell silent and considered the darkened skies, my young mind trying to process the massive complexity of eternity. Turning back to my father, I said, “But nothing lasts forever.”
“Some things do.”
“Like what?”
His warm smile. “Like my love for you. That will never end.” Then he looked more serious. “My love will always be with you, Christopher, and you’ll always know where to find it.”
“Where will it be?”
“Deep inside your heart.”
I had no way of knowing that disaster lurked silently in wait, ready to take a chunk of my heart and eclipse that love. Each day, I struggle to find balance between the before and after, clinging to the good. But while these fond memories of my father are so very precious, they are also far too few.
The bad ones, painful and far too many.
6
As I enter our bedroom, Jenna looks up from her laptop. With a soft, welcoming smile, she pats the spot beside her on the bed and says, “Come here.”
I gladly accept the invitation.
She rests her head on my shoulder, and we indulge in the moment. No words necessary, just silent commingling that feels profoundly exhilarating.
A few minutes later, she exhales softly, and waves of unrest roll across her face.
“Talk to me,” I say.
“It’s about your son.”
“I sort of gathered . . . Wait. My son?”
“Yes. He’s always yours when he misbehaves. We’ve discussed this.”
“Got it. So, what has Devon the Mischievous done now?”
“It would appear that he hasn’t been eating the lunches I’ve been making.”
“But I thought he liked your lunches. Isn’t that the whole reason you started packing them? Because he hates the cafeteria food?”
She serves me a deadpan stare.
“Point taken,” I say. “He’s a fussy eater.”
“But now with a disturbing new twist. Not only hasn’t he been eating his meals”—she pauses—“he’s been selling them. It seems our young entrepreneur has been holding auctions at the lunch table.”
“Auctions,” I repeat, trying to get a visual on this.
“And my lunches have been quite the hit. For everyone except Devon, of course.”
“How long has this been going on? The lunchtime profiteering?”
“There’s no telling.”
I fall back onto the pillow, shake my head. “This food thing . . . It’s like—”
“Totally out of hand.”
“I mean, I was bad, but this kid?”
“He’s got you beat by a country mile, sweetie.”
“So how do we handle this?”
She flops back next to me. “We already have. Or I did. There was a discussion. Also a lot of defensive posturing and a lot of yelling. Perhaps a protestation or two of basic human rights violations.”
“Which, judging by his behavior at dinner, didn’t appear to sink in.”
“Setting the table was actually part of the punishment. Of course, as only our son can do, he turned it into a carnival.”
I pull Jenna against me, run a hand up and down her back. “I’m afraid punishment doesn’t work so well for him.”
“Ahh . . . the psychologist speaks,” she says, walking her fingers along my arm. “But unfortunately, there’s more to this sad little tale.”
I don’t answer. I’m afraid to.
“According to Dr. Fratiani,” she continues, “the situation went to hell in a hurry today.”
“Oh, jeez . . .” Fratiani is Devon’s principal. Adding to the problem, this is the woman who replaced Jenna after she resigned, so there’s always been an underlying note of territorial friction on Fratiani’s part.
My wife goes on. “Apparently, one of the kids got a little too excited over my apple cobbler. He tried to outbid a boy who’d offered up his Xbox.”
I cover my face with one hand, motion with the other for her to continue.
“Kid Number Two volunteered his mother’s Maserati, which our son graciously accepted, then demanded payment. That’s when the fight broke out.”
“Oh, God. There was a fight . . .”
“There was, indeed.”
“Anybody get hurt?”
She shakes her head, expression grateful, bemused even, but nevertheless distraught. “Luckily. But Devon got very upset. He left school and walked home.”