The Lifeguards(48)
He considers making a TikTok of the reunion: turn the camera on himself, hold out his arm to capture the moment they embrace, edit it later with captions. This seems crazy but also a way to diffuse the situation, to make it content rather than pain. Rather than terror. Life hurts less when made into funny videos.
At baggage claim, Charlie looks at the screen to see that his father’s plane from Boston has landed. Charlie scans the waiting area for the restroom: he might actually puke; he feels bile in his mouth.
He turns on his TikTok, flips the camera, hits record. The timer counts down and he’s on. All he has to do is smile. He ruffles his hair, tries to look pensive. Acting like a scared child makes him less actually scared—he imagines some sorrowful song, like “Jocelyn Flores” by XXXTentacion or “If the World Was Ending” by JP Saxe.
He’ll put captions above his forlorn face, one by one:
I HAVE NEVER MET MY FATHER.
MY MOM WOULDN’T TELL ME WHO HE WAS.
I FOUND HIM AND PAID FOR HIS PLANE TICKET TO AUSTIN.
I’M ABOUT TO MEET MY FATHER FOR THE FIRST TIME.
(FOLLOW ME FOR PT. 2)
He feels immediately better, endorphins or serotonin or whatever they are flooding him even at the thought of posting his video. This is what cutting feels like, Roma told him once—you press a razor blade into your skin and feel immediately better. She used the word “released.”
Jesus, Roma. Charlie can’t help but think about her sometimes, even though they slept together only that one time, ruining everything. He misses her. She’s scary but also exciting, showing up in the middle of the night when you don’t expect her, being kind when you thought she was angry. She has problems for sure. Charlie wishes he knew how to solve them, how to help her, but she uses that feeling against him. Amir says she’s a psycho. He might be right.
Charlie watches the escalator. He sees men of all shapes and sizes and colors, imagines each being his dad. But as soon as he sees Patrick Hamilton, he knows. His father is wearing slim jeans with loafers, a white button-down shirt. He looks wealthy, confident, a bit skinny. Charlie tells himself his father’s hair is fashionably long and fashionably disheveled. Charlie hears his own inhalation of breath. His father looks just like him.
He cannot help himself: he runs. He runs to his father and his father, looking dumbstruck, breaks into a huge smile and opens his arms.
-1-
Salvatore
THE NEW NANNY, MAE MAE, showed up promptly at 6:00 a.m., parking a black Crown Victoria in Salvatore’s driveway. Salvatore opened his front door and raised an eyebrow. Mae Mae, a fifty-something woman in camouflage pants and a tight black T-shirt, smiled sweetly. “Detective Revello?” she said. “I’m Mae Mae.”
“Is that your Crown Vic?” said Salvatore.
She smiled. “Sure is. I got it at CarMax, but I like pretending I’m a cop’s daughter, you know? Or a cop’s wife. Or a cop!”
“Huh,” said Salvatore.
“I never get pulled over, and I like to think you guys are looking out for me.” Mae Mae wore lavender eye shadow and maroon lipstick, her silver hair brushing her shoulders. Salvatore’s take was that she was a low-key lady who had made an effort this morning, but might not wear makeup again. All of the visuals added up, but something needled at Salvatore. He made a mental note to call her fourth reference when he had a moment. The first three had checked out and he’d been tired.
“Nice to meet you,” said Salvatore.
The kids approached, smiling shyly. Salvatore felt a wave of sweet relief. He could do his job now, knowing they were safe.
Weren’t they?
Mae Mae followed them all into the kitchen. Salvatore filled his travel coffee mug and listened to Mae Mae listening to his kids. God, they had so much to say. His stomach ached at the thought of how long they’d kept silent around him. “OK, guys, I’m off,” he said.
“Bye, Dad!” said Allie.
“See ya,” said Joe, not looking at Salvatore.
“You OK, buddy?” said Salvatore.
“They’re fine,” said Mae Mae. “Have a great day! If you’re not home by six, I’ll drop them with the woman next door.”
“Peach,” said Salvatore.
“Peach,” Mae Mae repeated.
“But I’ll be home by six,” said Salvatore.
“Whatever,” muttered Joe.
Salvatore paused, but he wasn’t paying Mae Mae half his salary so he could stand around and worry. He headed out the front door, climbed into his car, and left, feeling lighter the farther he got from his house and his children.
Salvatore sipped his coffee as he made his way to Barton Hills Drive. No alternative suspects had turned up yet, so he was going to troll his childhood neighborhood, drive by the teen lifeguards’ houses, wander the green and swampy trails.
The first kid, Charlie Bailey, lived with a single mom on Oak Glen Avenue.
As he turned in to the neighborhood, a boyhood emotion rushed over him—look! I’m a cop now! Driving a cop car! He felt lit up, proud.
The history of the area had always fascinated him. A pioneer named Barton had set up his homestead on the southern banks of the Colorado River in 1837; almost two centuries later, the springs still bore his name. Sections of the twisty hiking trails held secrets—Salvatore and his friends had discovered a cave they’d christened Smoker’s Hollow, storing pilfered cigarettes there. But now the neighborhood he’d roamed with his friends was in transition. Some of the old ranchers remained, including the one his mom had sold for peanuts in the eighties. But parts were unrecognizable, giant mansions sprawled over the large lots, fancy cars parked in gated driveways.