Missing Dixie(59)

“Sure, handsome,” the waitress tells me. “And to drink?”

I glance at my companions. “I’ll have what they’re having. Orange juice, straight up.”

Dixie rolls her eyes but Liam looks mildly amused. Kid could use a little entertainment in his life. And I’ve been where he is. Having people feel sorry for you and giving you sad-puppy eyes, while I know they mean well, doesn’t help. It just makes you more uncomfortable because now you’ve got the burden of their pity and pain and discomfort to deal with on top of everything else.

I understand something about Liam that Dixie may never grasp.

He doesn’t know his situation hurts other people because they care about him. He only knows that his life is the way it is, and as far as he knows, everyone goes hungry, or has junkies all over their house, or gets shoved or hit or kicked or sometimes completely ignored like an unwanted pet. I was nearly in middle school before I completely understood that my life wasn’t like everyone else’s—that it wasn’t that way for other kids. What I understood long before that, though, was the pity and sickening sympathy I got from teachers and social workers and ladies from the local Junior League. I didn’t like it and I’m betting Liam won’t, either, so I resolve to behave normally and to try to help Dixie ease up and mask her concerns—for now, at least. I remain cool and calm and laid-back on the surface, making jokes and small talk until our food arrives.

Under the table I am texting Sheila Montgomery like a madman telling her to call me as soon as humanly possible.

After taking a few bites of my food and scooping a few bites of eggs onto Liam’s plate so he can try them out, I realize Dixie isn’t eating. She’s watching Liam. The way he’s testing food to make sure it’s edible—a habit that develops after you’ve desperately ingested soured fruit or chugged milk that has long since gone bad because you had no other option—and then shoveling it in like it’s his last meal once he realizes it’s okay.

I nudge her knee gently with mine. “Eat, Bluebird,” I mumble under my breath.

She jerks a little as if in a trance and then picks up her fork.

Most of the time we eat in comfortable silence. Liam is out of breath when he finishes because he hardly took one while he filled his belly.

“After this,” Dixie begins, turning to me as she continues, “we’re going to have a campout at my house. Movies and a tent and sleeping bags. We’re even going to make s’mores by roasting marshmallows on the stovetop like Nana and Papa used to. Would you like to join us, Gavin?”

The way she speaks my name, enunciating both syllables, I can tell it’s an invitation of desperation. I know she’d really rather have space from me after everything I told her but she needs my help tonight, with Liam, in not letting her huge heart show.

“What do you say, man?” I dip my head to catch Liam’s eye. “That okay with you? I’m pretty good at roasting stovetop marshmallows. Not to brag or anything . . .”

He shrugs but I can see the interest in his eyes. Not sure if it’s for the camping or the marshmallows, but at least it’s something.

When I glance over at Dixie, she has a certain gleam in her eye as well. Maybe she’s not dreading spending time with me as much as I thought she was.

That’s something, too.

I’ll take what I can get. It’s what I’ve done all my life.





23 | Dixie

I FEEL LIKE I can breathe again when Liam and I arrive home with Gavin following us in a green pickup.

Gavin seems to understand Liam in a way I can’t. He relates to him, chats easily with him, and doesn’t seem as nervous about screwing up as I am. When we were getting into the van earlier, I went to help Liam up and I saw some alarming scars on his back. One is dangerously similar to the shape of a belt buckle.

Each mark on him, each sign I missed all this time while giving him lessons, is affecting me in ways I can’t understand. I do the best I can to hide how much I want to curl up and have a good cry. I don’t deserve to get to cry. Liam is a tough kid and he deserves my strength, not my pity or my tears. Gavin has kept my pity party in check and I’m glad he’s here.

But it’s hard, too. Hard to look at him and not kiss him, hard to be so close and not touch him.

We walk toward the house, the three of us, and there is an odd peaceful feeling soothing me as if I am exactly where I need to be in this moment.

Gavin holds the door open and we step inside and get busy pulling out the old two-person tent he and my brother used to use and every pillow, blanket, and sleeping bag we can find. I put Liam in charge of organizing the snacks on a plate at the kitchen table and he remains very serious and intense about counting out and lining up marshmallows, graham crackers, and pieces of Hershey bar in methodical groups.

“Good job,” I tell him once Gavin and I have the tent and pillow and blanket fort assembled in the living room. “Now let’s get cracking on these s’mores.”

Liam grins, proud of himself for his hard work, and it both warms and breaks my heart to see him smile. He’s so small and vulnerable and my mind keeps drifting to how big his dad is and what kind of life this little boy has had so far.

Gavin catches me tearing up a little and steps in. “How about Liam and I handle the s’mores and you be on movie duty?”