If You're Out There(26)

Anyway, it turned out to be exactly what I needed—and I totally kicked his ass.

“Not really,” I say as I take my seat. “Do you?”

He rips through the staples of a paper takeout bag. “I’ve got a presentation to go over before bed. Nothing major.” Dad’s an account executive for an advertising firm, like a modern-day Mad Man without the morning Scotches and submissive secretaries. In fact, I’m pretty sure their receptionist is a dude.

“Anything good?” I ask.

“Toilet paper,” he says as he sets out the to-go containers one by one. “We’re going with a luxurious angle.”

I can’t help but grin. “How about ‘A little swipe of heaven’?”

He shudders. “You’re a natural. . . . Don’t be like me.” Dad used to write the slogans for his agency—back when he was a “creative.” I think he liked that better, but the promotion came with perks, and money, and it’s not like cranking out one-liners for plug-in air fresheners ever filled his soul like John Coltrane or Dave Brubeck or Billie Holiday did. His standing bass still rests in the corner by the bookcase, unplayed and out of tune. Mom always says she wishes he’d pick it up again.

“All right,” says Dad, crumpling the paper bag and tossing it in the recycling. “Get it while it’s hot.” He sets out chana bhaji and saag paneer. I take a scoop of both and rip off some naan before making a dash for the lamb vindaloo.

Dad stops my hand. “That’s lamb.”

“I know,” I say.

He frowns. “I thought you were vegan.”

“None of this is vegan, Dad. The chickpeas have ghee. And that’s cheese in the spinach, not tofu.”

“Oh. . . . Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not vegan.”

He still looks a bit puzzled.

“I just work at a vegan place?” I say, jogging his memory with a sigh. There are times my dad seems so in tune with the world around him. And then come the moments when I wonder if he’s ever listened to a word I’ve said.

He mutters to himself—“Right”—and walks back behind the counter to grab a roll of paper towels. “And you’re not a vegetarian.”

“Nope.”

“So . . . why haven’t I been ordering more meat all this time? I very much like meat.”

“Because of Priya,” I say. She usually joined our weekly dinners. I never had to explain myself when I asked her to tag along, but I think she knew. She was a good buffer. She moved the conversation. Kept everything easy and fun.

Dad rips off a paper towel for each of us and I maintain a neutral face despite a sudden bout of misery. “This was her order,” I say. “She’s the vegetarian. Well, except for bacon.”

At this, Dad smiles. “So her love of animals stops at pigs.”

“Oh, she loves pigs, too. She just also thinks they’re really, really delicious.”

“Well, I can’t argue with her there.” He takes the seat across from me. “So is that whole thing still . . .”

I nod.

He has a look of predetermined regret, like he already knows he won’t be able to conjure up the right thing to say. I don’t mind. I kind of prefer it, actually. It’s a nice break from Mom’s X-ray eyes, slapping scans of my broken heart against the illuminated glass for daily checkups. Dad’s eyes don’t x-ray. In fact, there’s a good amount he doesn’t see when it’s right in front of him.

Harrison emerges from his bedroom in footy pajamas, looking rosy and clean after a bath. Dad gets up to pour a Styrofoam container of mulligatawny soup into a bowl over the sink. He sets it in front of Harrison with some naan on a plate.

“Mmm,” says Harr, his arms outstretched at the table as Dad punctures his mango lassi with a straw. “Come to me, my pretty.”

“Hey, Harr,” I say. “Tell Dad your joke. The one you told me while he was out getting the food.”

Harr wipes his soup-covered lips with the back of his hand. “Knock-knock.”

Dad grins. “Who’s there?”

“To.”

“To who?”

Harrison throws his head back with exasperation. “To! Whom!!!”

Dad cracks up, holding my gaze for a moment. “That wasn’t awful, Harrison. Nicely done.”

It’s weird watching Dad with Harr sometimes. It’s almost like he’s picking up where he left off with me after a long, long gap. I never liked the sound of the term daddy’s girl, but I guess that’s what I was once. Until the weather hit below freezing—as it is apt to do in Chicago—Dad and I would play soccer before dinner every night, rain or shine. I remember having inside jokes, hundreds of them. They bounced between us without a thought. I remember Sunday mornings, after pancakes, when the plucky, low sounds of a bass filled our house for hours.

When he and Mom split up, all that went away, so fast it left me winded. He became a visitor. A fun uncle. The place he moved into felt sparse and sad. Harr was only a baby, so Dad never had us for long. He worked a lot. Took trips by himself.

At the very least, we always had our weekly dinner, but something had died. And every week, I got a little angrier. Until it all became numb and normal.

My brother perks up suddenly. “Can I watch a show while I eat? I promise I won’t spill.”