The Good Luck of Right Now(54)

A family must have swum out from under the glass divide and into the outdoor open-air water behind us.

“What the f*ck, hey?” Max sort of whispered as he kicked the brightly colored ball toward the man.

The man caught the large ball between his two hands, lowered it so we could see his face, and said, “Thanks!”

He looked like a younger version of you, Richard Gere. Handsome, confident, many muscles in his stomach and chest and arms. Shaggy hair that—even though it was wet—looked like it cost a lot of money and effort to style and maintain. He also reminded me of those underwear models you see in the ads that fall out of the Sunday newspaper. His wife was wearing a green bikini, and while she was no Cindy Crawford, she was just as beautiful as Carey Lowell, which is pretty lovely, as you well know. They had a boy and a girl between them—maybe five and seven years old, both blond with pearly white teeth, the type of kids you see smiling a lot on TV while eating breakfast cereals—and they were all throwing the beach ball around, laughing and trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues, which was when I realized it was indeed snowing.

The steam that rose off their bare skin looked like their souls rising up and mingling above their heads in a playful harmonious dance that made my chest ache.

“What the f*ck, hey?” Max whispered again as his index finger pushed his huge glasses to the top of his nose, and it was like he was saying what I have thought many, many times: What is wrong with us? Why are we so strange? Why does that—the normal family in the pool—seem so right, and what we have and are seem so wrong in comparison?

Even though my mom and I had never gone swimming outside in the winter on a hotel roof that overlooked a foreign city, the scene made me miss Mom, and I said a quick prayer, asking God to let Mom appear to me in my dreams at least once more.

The man who looked like a younger version of you, Richard Gere—he kept glancing over at us, and it took me a few looks to realize that our staring was starting to make them feel uncomfortable.

Two misshapen, ugly, strange men in out-of-style boots and coats staring at anyone is a recipe for misinterpretation, right?

“Let’s go,” I said.

Max nodded and followed.

He didn’t need an explanation.

Max knew what I knew—probably because he has lived the same sort of life as I have, even if his personal details were and are completely different.

Metaphorically, we—and our stories—are the same.

We went to our respective rooms, showered, and dressed for dinner.

Father McNamee took us to Old Montreal and we dined at a small fancy restaurant. Father asked if he could order for all of us, and when we agreed, he surprised me by ordering in French.

“What the f*ck, eh, Frenchy?” Max said, eyes wide, nodding, impressed—like Father had done a magic trick—when the waiter left.

“I hope you will indulge me,” Father McNamee said. “This is a last supper of sorts for us.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Everything will change when you meet your dad tomorrow,” Father said, looking really uncomfortable. “Nothing will be the same afterward.”

I nodded, just to be easy.

It was snowing outside, and we watched the flakes fall through the steamy window.

The waiter arrived with red wine and glasses. Father tasted, approved, and then the waiter poured glasses for all of us.

“To new beginnings, however strange they may be,” Father McNamee said and then raised his glass.

We all clinked and drank.

Baguettes and French onion soup—small round brown bowls covered with bubbling cheese—came next.

Father broke a baguette into four pieces, handed one to each of us, and said, “We four are at pivotal points in our lives. To the miracle of our finding each other and being right here, right now together, which is indeed remarkable.”

Elizabeth and Max didn’t say anything, but bit their bread and began to chew.

“It’s best when dipped into the soup,” Father said and then poked the baguette through the cheese in his bowl until the bread turned brown and began to fall apart.

We all did the same.

“How do you feel about meeting your father, Bartholomew?” Father McNamee said, while examining his soup.

I didn’t know how to answer.

In my mind and heart, my father had been dead for years, and there was a part of me, deep down inside where the tiny man lives, that wanted to keep it that way.

Another part of me still didn’t believe that meeting my father was even a possibility, although Father McNamee seemed very confident, and he had never lied to me before.

“Cat Parliament in two f*cking days, right?” Max said.

“Yes,” Father said, nodded, and looked out the window at the heavily bundled people passing by on the sidewalk.

The waiter returned and said, “Lapin.”

Four plates were put in front of us.

Meat covered in tan gravy, peas, and carrots.

“Bon appétit,” the waiter said and then left.

We all began to eat, and the meat was tender and flavorful and seemed to melt like butter in my mouth.

“What is this?” Elizabeth asked after swallowing.

“Rabbit,” Father said. “Do you like it?”

Elizabeth gagged, spit the food from her mouth, and ran out of the restaurant.