What I Thought Was True

Chapter Twenty

This could be bad. Very bad.

Dad’s house is on the water. I mean . . . on the water. It’s on the marshy, open-to-the-ocean side of Seashell, near Nic’s and my jumping bridge. You walk from the road through a patch of woods and then out across some double planks to his house, which is on wooden pilings, so it’s six or seven feet over the marsh to get to the tiny porch and his little ramshackle red house with buoys hanging outside, and fishing rods always stacked by the door.

“Hurricane bait,” Dad calls it, but kind of with love. He got it cheap from this island guy who was moving to Florida, just at the right time, when he and Mom were splitting up, the year after Em was born.

Tonight, when I take Em for our weekly dinner with Dad, I put his life jacket on, just to cross that tiny three-slab-long stretch of sun-dappled water. Even Emory thinks this is crazy. He keeps shoving at the straps, saying “Gwennie, off.”

I’m pretty sure, to him, the whole falling off the dock thing was much worse for Hideout.

I can smell pancakes as we come up the path. Dad always does the breakfast for dinner thing. He gets sick of actual lunch and dinner, after churning them out at Castle’s all day and night. I’m carrying Emory, who may not have a fear of the water but seems to hate setting foot on the ground now.

“How’s the old lady?” Dad calls as we come in. “And what the hell is your brother doing in that thing?”

There it is.

I miserably explain about the fall. Mom and Grandpa didn’t blame me aloud . . . but this is much worse than not fixing a broken door. Dad’s not exactly one to hold back on the criticism.

Kneeling down, Dad unbuckles the life jacket, then hands Emory a plate of scrambled eggs with ketchup frosting.

“Hideout fell in. Superman save him,” Em summarizes cheerfully, settling down at the card table where we eat.

“Yeah, fine.” Dad clears his throat. I left out the Cass part of the story, so he no doubt thinks that’s just another one of Em’s dreams. “Guinevere.” He stands, looks at me. “You screwed up, but you didn’t lose your head. Still, the kid doesn’t need a life jacket on dry land. You’ll get him all worried.”

This time I do tell him about Cass and the lessons. “Somers . . .” Dad says doubtfully, rubbing his hand against his stubbled chin. “Like Aidan Somers? The boat-building guy?”

“His son.” I turn to the cabinet, pull out more plates, haul out the syrup, start moving it all to the table.

“Rich kid,” Dad says flatly. “Don’t know about that. Besides, why isn’t your cousin doing this, Mr. Big Swimmer?”

“Nico already tried to teach him, Dad, and wanted to try again. Grandpa said no, he said it was easier to learn from someone who isn’t family.”

Dad grunts. “That’s hogwash. I taught Nic to change a tire, pitch a tent, drive. He learned all that just fine.”

“Well,” I venture. “You’re not technically related to Nic. I mean—he’s mom’s nephew, but—”

“Technically?” Dad says, dumping more eggs onto a plate and tossing the pan into the sink with a muffled sizzle. “I took that kid under my roof when he was a month old, changed his diapers, took him to the ER when he broke his arm, paid for his whole life. That makes me family, the way I see it.”

He hands me the big serving plate of pancakes, eggs shoved to the side, mutters “Technically!” again, and sits down at the table, immediately picking up his fork.

“What’s your interest in all this?” he asks, scraping his chair in with a loud squawk.

“Wha—?” I’m blushing again, picturing Cass asleep on his stomach, the smooth, taut lines of the muscles in his back, the look on his face when I blurted that question, his eyes flashing wide and ears going bright pink. Little boy Cass that summer, cheeks puffed, blowing a dandelion wish for me when I told him my secret about Vovó.

I stack pancakes on Em’s plate, adding butter and syrup. Cutting them up neatly and precisely, tasting a forkful to make sure it’s not too hot. Avoiding Dad’s eyes.

“How well do you know this guy?” he finally asks against my silence, whacking the bottom of the ketchup bottle to dislodge the last dregs.

Better than I should. Not at all. I knew him the summer we were eight. We go to school together.

“He’s on the swim team with Nic.”

Dad’s impatient. “How well do you know him?” he repeats.

There’s a warm, silty breeze blowing in from over the salt marsh, but I have goose bumps. Does Dad know? What does Dad know? We’re best off when I’m his pal, like when I was a kid. He stopped hugging me the year I turned twelve and suddenly looked much less like a kid than I still was. Every once in a while, he’ll look at some outfit of mine and say something like, “Pull your shirt up . . . there,” gesturing at my chest without looking at me. That time with Alex on the beach . . . he hardly knew what to say. Started with “Nice girls don’t—” and then went mute. He hasn’t mentioned it since. But it’s not forgotten. I can see it in his eyes.

“Gwen?” Dad’s voice is sharp now.

“Be nice to Gwennie,” Emory urges. He leans on one fist, trailing a square of pancake through a lake of syrup. He has a milk mustache.

“Look, I’m not asking for the kid’s résumé. He’s the yard boy. I’m sure Marco and Tony checked him out. But if I’m going to trust him with my son in the water, I want to know he’s responsible.”

Well, not with hedge clippers, that’s for sure. And not with . . . not with . . . I can’t think of an answer that isn’t totally inappropriate. My life lately seems to be an endless series of mortifying encounters. I push my pancakes around on my plate.

“Simple question, simple answer.” Dad’s snapping his fingers at me. “Gwen! You’re zoning out like your ma.”

“He’s responsible,” I say, glancing up.

“All I need to know. I’ll take your word for it, he’s a good egg. Finish your pancakes. I made a ton because I thought Nic would be coming. What’s the excuse this time?”

Nic has skipped the last three dinners. His reason tonight was vague: “Tell Uncle Mike I have something really important I have to do. Really important.”

Pretty obvious why he’d want to bag out this time, but Nic is usually more gifted with justifications.

More engagement ring shopping? A marriage license? A blood test? A doctor’s appointment?

Viv and I have broken the ice. But every time I open my mouth with Nic I close it again without saying a word, this weird twist in my gut. He’s practically my brother and he can’t tell me? How come he and Viv can both confront me about Spence, but I can’t do the same to them?

Snapping fingers. It’s Dad again. “Where are you tonight, Gwen?” He narrows his eyes at me. “What’s wrong? What’s going on with Nic?”

Em’s forkful of eggs and ketchup hovers halfway to his mouth. He peeps back and forth between us, big brown eyes alarmed.

I parrot Nic’s lame excuse, that same spiral in my stomach. I want to say, I don’t know, I don’t know, and I don’t know why I don’t know. And just talk to him and find out and fix whatever it is. Please just fix it, but what comes out is, “Yeah, what is going on with you and Nic, Dad? Why are you being such an asshole to him?”

Silence. Dad frowns over his plate, dicing pancakes with precision, his knife scraping loud.

“Asssshole.” Emory samples the new word, drawing out the s sound, one of the ones he struggles with.

“Just our luck. He got that one down perfectly. Nice work, Gwen.” Dad forks a few more pancakes onto my plate.

“Now you’re being one to me. I mean it. What’s the deal with you two?”

“Your cousin needs to grow up.”

“He’s got another year in high school, Dad.” I hope.

“When I was his age—” Dad begins.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You had shitty luck and—”

“Stop talking like that in front of your brother,” Dad thunders. Em shrinks back in his seat, reaching out a maple-sticky hand for me. I grab on to it, squeeze. Dad grumbles, he doesn’t roar. What is this?

“What I mean is, is that what you want for me and Nic? Just what you had? What about all that stuff you said at Sandy Claw?”

“Eat your pancakes,” Dad huffs, shoving a forkful into his mouth. “At least, without your cousin here there’s enough to go around. That kid eats like there’s no tomorrow. I swear, half the money I give your mom goes down his throat.”

“You’re mad at him for having an appetite now? What in God’s name?”

Dad has the game face Mom never will, but I see guilt flash across it. “You don’t understand,” he says.

“No. I don’t. Help me out. What’s your deal here?”

He reaches for the plastic gallon of milk, sloshes more into his glass. “It never gets better, kid. Bills, bills, bills. Your little brother’s got asthma. He’s got physical therapy. He’s got speech therapy. He’s got occupational therapy. Insurance covers some, but the damn bills just keep on coming.”

“I know, Dad. But what does that have to do with Nic? He didn’t cause any of that.”

Dad clears his throat, looks over at my little brother; abruptly stands and flicks on the television, shoving in a DVD. Em looks at him uncertainly for a moment, but then he curls up in Dad’s big recliner, cuddles Hideout against his cheek, soaks in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Any day can be Christmas for Emory. Dad sits back at the table, leaning toward me to say quietly, “I bust my butt all the time and every dollar that comes in flows back out like I’ve got a hole in my pocket. I don’t play the numbers, I don’t smoke or spend it at the bar. I’m careful with the cash, Gwen. And it still doesn’t matter a damn.”

“So cutting Nic loose will help?”

“You know I won’t do that. Gimme a break. I look out for what’s mine. Like I do with Em. Even if the kid is nothing like me.”

The words hover in the air.

Dad shovels another forkful of food into his mouth.

I feel sick.

Emory has Dad’s brown eyes. He has his crooked big toe. Dad’s smile, though he uses it much more often. Anyone, anyone, would look at them and know they were father and son. But Dad left. He doesn’t see the day-to-day. He doesn’t see Em tilt his head against Grandpa Ben’s shoulder, huskily singing Gershwin lyrics as they watch another Fred-and-Ginger movie. He doesn’t see Emory hurry to the refrigerator to pick out Mom’s bagged lunch when he sees her pulling on her sneakers in the morning. He doesn’t see Emory carefully align his fingers to respond to Nic’s high fives, his face glowing with big-boy worship. He hears how hard it is for Em to talk, the draggy slowness in his voice. He sees that his face is sometimes blank of everything, and even we who love him best can only guess what’s happening inside. He sees everything that makes him different and nothing that makes him Emory. I feel sick, yeah, but I also feel sorry, so sorry for my father.

“My family . . . we’re not the Brady Bunch, but everyone’s always been all there, if you get what I’m saying.”

I think I may throw up. “Emory’s all there.”

“C’mon, Gwen. Your aunt Gules is a nutcase, but she’s not . . .” He’s been sitting straight but now seems to deflate a little. “Not like your brother. No one we know is like your brother. I just don’t know how the hell this happened.”

“Do you know how many things have to go right to make a perfect baby, Dad?” I hold out my hands, settle each finger into the next, slotting them both together. “It all has to—”

His hand closes on mine, rough from work, freckled from the sun. “No, I don’t. I don’t know that sort of thing. I don’t want you to know either, for Chrissake. Just stay away from all that. I only know your brother is never going to get better. There’s always going to be something. Ben’s getting on. Your mother takes crap care of herself. Every time I turn around Nic is working on his body or out messing around with Vivien. With plans to light out for God knows how many years after that. That leaves you and me, pal.”

“Everybody helps with Em,” I say—although lately it’s mostly been Grandpa and me—and my voice is choky, hardly recognizable. “What’s different now?”

“Castle’s. I gotta start doing breakfasts. Put in more outside tables. All costs money. I don’t have extra.”

My knuckles are white around my fork. “Nic’s extra? Or would that be Emory?” I look over at my little brother, his hair sticking up in front because there’s a bit of syrup in it, kicking his foot in time to “We’re a Couple of Misfits.”

Dad scrapes back his chair, shifts over to stroke the back of my brother’s neck. Em tips his neck back, leans his head against Dad’s open palm.

Dad stares at me over his shoulder. “No, he’s not extra. Screw my life.”