What Happens to Goodbye(44)

“So,” he said, once I sat down. Across the restaurant, Opal was at the bar, washing glasses and talking to Tracey, who was dusting the plant I’d noticed was so dirty on our first visit here, what seemed like ages ago. “What’s the verdict on lunch? I can probably get away for a full hour. We can really go crazy.”
I smiled, feeling even worse. The truth was, the last place my dad needed to be on a busy game day was anywhere but the kitchen here, and we both knew it. But he felt bad about canceling on me, and was trying to compensate. That made two of us.
“Um,” I said, glancing over at Opal, who was wiping down the bar, the cloth in her hand making smooth, big circles across its surface. “Actually . . . I sort of have plans this afternoon.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, maybe we’ll shoot for breakfast tomorrow or—”
“With Mom,” I blurted out. It wasn’t pretty, these two words just falling from my mouth and landing like dead weight between us. Then, since I was already in it, I added, “She’s coming down with Peter for the game and wants to see me.”
“Oh,” my dad said, and it was amazing to me how this, the same word he’d just spoken, one syllable, two letters, could sound so totally different. “Right. Of course.”
Over at the bar, Opal was restocking glasses, the sounds of happy clinking drifting over to us. Everyone was bustling around, the energy building. They were opening in ten minutes.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t want to. But things have been pretty strained since the move, and Peter asked me to do this. I just didn’t think I could blow it off.”
“Mclean,” he said.
“I mean, I could blow it off,” I continued, “of course, but they’re probably already on the way here and will freak out, and I know you don’t need that. . . .”
“Mclean,” he repeated, stopping me from going further, although I had no idea what I was planning to say. Something equally lame, I was sure. “You’re supposed to want to see your mom.”
“I know. But—”
“So you don’t have to apologize to me for that,” he continued. “Ever. Right?”
“I feel so bad, though,” I told him.
“Why?”
He was watching me, really wanting to know. Oh, God, I thought, swallowing hard. This was exactly the conversation I did not want to have. “What she did,” I said, starting shakily. “To you. It was really, really awful. And it feels disloyal to act like it wasn’t.”
It was horrible, talking about this. Worse than horrible. I felt like I was chewing thumbtacks, with each word another spoonful forced in. No wonder I’d taken such pains to avoid it.
There was a clang from the kitchen, followed by someone letting loose with a string of curses. But my dad kept his eyes on me, for once not distracted. “What happened between me and your mother,” he said slowly, taking his time, “was just that: between us. Our relationships with you are separate things entirely. Being with your mom isn’t an insult to me, or vice wa. You know that, don’t you?”
I nodded, looking down at the table. Of course I knew this: it was, after all, my mother’s party line, as well. But in the real world, you couldn’t really just split a family down the middle, mom on one side, dad the other, with the child divided equally between. It was like when you ripped a piece of paper into two: no matter how you tried, the seams never fit exactly right again. It was what you couldn’t see, those tiniest of pieces, that were lost in the severing, and their absence kept everything from being complete.
“I just hate that it’s like this,” I said softly. I looked up at him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not,” he said. “You couldn’t. Okay?”
I nodded, and he reached over, taking my hand and squeezing it. And this simple connection, reminding me of the one between us, made me feel better than any words he’d said so far.
“Gus?” I turned, seeing Jason standing in the kitchen doorway. “Fish guy’s on the phone about that rush order.”
“I’ll call him back,” my dad said.
“He says he’s about to leave for the day,” Jason told him. “Do you want me to—”
“Go,” I said, patting his hand. “Take the call, it’s fine. We’re fine.”
He cocked his head to the side, studying my face. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I told him. “I have to get home anyway and get ready for . . . you know.”
“The game,” he said, speaking the word for me.
“Right.”
He pushed out his chair, getting up. “Well,” he said, “it should be a good one. I have a feeling you might have decent seats.”
“I’d better,” I replied. “If I’m not on the actual bench, I’m leaving.”
“Of course,” he said. “How are you supposed to talk smack to the refs from anywhere else?”
“Forget the refs,” I replied. “I’m planning on telling Peter what I think about his offense.”
He gave me a rueful smile. It was weird to be talking about basketball again after such a long time away from it. Like we were speaking a language we’d once been fluent in, but we now had to struggle with verbs and tenses.
“Have fun,” he said to me. “I mean it.”

“You, too,” I told him. He smiled again, then started back toward the kitchen. Jason, who was waiting, pushed the door open, and my dad walked through, taking the phone as he handed it off to him. I thought again of how I’d seen them at the cooler earlier, working in tandem, the ongoing intricate dance of making this place somehow come together and perform. Through the open door, I could see the kitchen staff loading carts and chopping and cleaning, a blur of movement around my dad as he stood in the center, the phone at his ear. Always the calmest one in the chaos, even when all hell was breaking loose.