Archives: August 13-August 19, 2006

August 13, 2006

It's funny that after one of the most awkward conversations I've ever had with my father, I actually start to have a decent time with him. He ended up catching a couple fish yesterday. For the first time in over who knows how many years, I prepped the fish for cooking, recalling the lessons from my childhood. Dad put them over the campfire and we had ourselves a dinner.

We did some hiking today, and got to talking about things more. I told him the basics of what had gone done with me and Emma, and me and Veronica. He told me some stories about him and Mom, from back when they were dating.

It's not until the sun is going down that I'm feeling confident enough to ask my father again about Katherine and Derek O'Malley.

Dad looks down. “I guess that's the reporter in you. You have to get the story, huh?”

“I don't think I'd care if I didn't know that there's a story there. But the way you talked about it—I know there's something.”

He nods. We're sitting at the water's edge, watching as the sun dips behind the trees on the far side of the lake, and water reflects off his eyes. “Katherine was a client of mine. Owned a shop in town, and some hack was trying to sue her because he fell down in her store and twisted his ankle.

“Anyway, I helped her win the case. We got along so well, though, that we kept seeing each other after.”

“What are you telling me here, Dad?”

“Long story short, we had an affair. Didn't stop until she was pregnant.”

“So Derek—”

“Is my son,” he finishes my sentence. “And just after I learned that was the case, your mother told me she was pregnant too—that we were going to have you.”

“Does Mom know about this?”

Dad nods. “She almost left me. I promised it was an isolated incident, though—and I meant it. I'd never done anything like that before, and never did after. I don't think she ever really forgave me for it. But for whatever reason, she didn't kick me to the curb. Maybe it was for your benefit.”

“So what about Katherine? Did she leave town? Or is she still around?”

“Katherine didn't survive labor.”

We're both looking out at the water now. “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right. It was a long time ago—and it was hard. But, in a sense, that just marked the end of that chapter of my life. There was no one for your mother to hate. No temptation for me to fall back on. Except for the baby, it was like none of it had happened.”

“And that's Derek O'Malley. He was all right?”

“Derek's alive and well to this day. A good family took him in.”

“So you know where he is, then?”

Dad nods. “So do you, Preston .” He clears his throat. “I guess it's not coming to you because you usually just use his last name. It's Derek Chang.”

August 14, 2006

“So I shouldn't bother with any of this stuff?” Chang asks, eying the piles of magazines and books he had set aside to bring with him to college.

I shake my head. “Trust me, I'm an English major. Leisure reading just doesn't fit into your schedule—at least not on a regular basis. Bring two or three or three books, a couple magazines—the rest is just going to kill space in your room.”

“All right, I'll listen to the master,” he says, starting to leaf through one of the paperbacks.

“So your folks talking to you much about college?” I ask.

“They're trying, but it was different for them. I mean, my dad went to school to study computer science, my mom started prepping to be an accountant—they both had a plan when they left home.”

“I thought you were set on being a history teacher.”

He shrugs. “It sounds good. But it's just that I'm not going to college as a trade school. I'm going for that whole college experience thing—and I'm not sure that really translates in their heads. Kind of thing that reminds you I was adopted.”

It was the opening I was waiting for. I ease in, though. “The fact that you're a freckly red head and they're both Chinese doesn't make it clear enough?”

Chang shakes his head. “Not everybody looks like their folks.”

“I suppose that's true.” I look away. “So tell me something, Chang—is it strange growing up in a house like this. I mean, not knowing your real parents and all?”

“Well I do think of them as my real parents.” He waits for me to look at him again. “I do. It's just a matter of them not being able to physically give birth to a kid—and my birth parents, for whatever reason, not being able to handle the rest.”

“That makes sense. I guess I just wondered if you ever wonder—”

“Who my birth parents are? Where they are? Why they couldn't raise me?” He nods. “Yeah—I mean, you've gotta be curious. But I guess there's always a part of me that's figured it'll come out someday—one way or another.”

“Yeah, I guess you'd have to wonder.” I pick up a baseball from his dresser and toss it up and down in my hand. “What do you think you'll say to them when you do find them?”

“I'll have a thousand questions.” He sets one book aside and picks up another. “Bug I guess more than anything else, I'll just be relieved to know the truth.”

August 15, 2006

When I pull into the driveway at home after closing up at Stephon's, I can spy my father inside, in the kitchen. He's still wearing the day's collared shirt, albeit all buttoned down, meaning he can't have come home more than an hour earlier himself.

“Hey Preston ,” he says over the hum of the microwave. “Just fixing myself a plate here. You hungry?”

I shake my head. “That's all right, Dad.” I mean to walk off to my room, but find myself sitting down on a kitchen chair instead. My mind still circles around the same thoughts it has for the last three days. I think of my half brother, and how little he knows about it—how little I knew about it before, and how little I still know. It's just surreal to think of the secret my father's been keeping.

“So I take it you talked to Derek,” Dad reads my mind, as he pops open the microwave.

“I did.”

“And I'm assuming you didn't tell him anything you shouldn't have.”

“I didn't tell him anything. It didn't feel like it was my business to do the telling.”

Dad nods, carrying the plate of left over turkey and gravy to the table. He sits down and takes a sip of the sweating glass of iced tea he left there. “And you think that I should tell him?”

“Dad, how could you not think that you should?” I catch his eye. He doesn't look away, and in a moment, I do. “He told me he always wonders about it—that he wants to know who his parents are, and why they didn't want him, and where he comes from. And I can't believe that you wouldn't let him know that.”

Dad finishes chewing his first bite. “And tell, Preston , what would it accomplish if I did tell him the truth? Would he start coming here Christmas? Would he start sending me home his grades from college?”

“Would it be such a bad thing if he did?”

“My point is that he has a family—a good family. And they know the truth. I used to meet up with them every now and again to check up on him. When he was little, I offered them money to help raise him. But they both have careers and they didn't need it. The fact is, he's provided for. He's doing well. And that curiosity is his. He doesn't need to know the whole story.”

“But who are you to decide that for him?”

“I'm—”

“His father. I know.”

Dad shakes his head, gathering up another forkful of turkey. “That's not it at all, Preston . I'm not going to take that away from his folks—from the Changs. Maybe it'll come up some day. But until it has to, he's all right, Preston . And I think if you get past the surface of things, you'd see that. You'd see that his mother and father love him very much, and that he loves them. And I'm not going to be the one to get in the way of that.”

August 16, 2006

A little koala bear sails through the air, as I toss a yellow baby tee across the table to Anastasia. A couple months ago, we were at each other's throats, racing to sell these shirts. Now they're on their way to the discount rack.

“So then he said he was convinced my friend would be better off not knowing who his father was—because it would take away from the relationship he has with his adoptive parents.” I've been leaving out all the names, protecting my father and Chang. As much as I've come to resent my father over the last few days, I know it's still not my place let everyone know his business.

“That sounds about right to me.”

“Really?” I work a black baby tee onto a hanger. “I mean, I just don't understand why you would keep someone in the dark like that. It's just such a big part of your life—knowing where you came from.”

“But sometimes you're better off not knowing the truth,” she says. “Take Theresa. She's never going to meet her father—at least if my sister, my mom or I have anything to say about it.”

“Yeah, but the way you told me it, the dad's a total deadbeat.”

“And the point remains that the kid is better off not knowing, as much as she wonders.”

“But you would tell Theresa something. When she's old enough to understand, you would tell her father was a bad guy—”

“Would I? And when will she be able to understand—understand that half of who she is, and where she comes from, was a total asshole.”

“Okay, but the father that I'm talking about—the birth father—he's not such a bad guy.”

“And he didn't have the baby out of an affair?”

“He did.”

“So even if the birth parents were good enough people, I'd say that that wasn't the best beginnings—that your friend was a mistake, resulting from his father cheating on his wife.”

“Well my friend doesn't have to know all the details—”

“He'll want to know,” Anastasia cuts me off. “Curiosity doesn't just go away. You learn one thing, then you want to know another. Once your friend knew his father was, it would only make for more questions. And while he was off chasing down all that, his parents—the ones who have taken care of him since he was a baby—would just get lost in the shuffle.”

I hate that she's making a lot of sense. I throw another yellow shirt her way, and begin hanging another black one.

August 17, 2006

It's become as routine as driving to my own house. More nights than not, after closing up Stephon's, I have Anastasia sitting shot gun. Some nights, we both work the whole night. Other times, she'll wait around for me, or I'll wait for her. Every night we talk some, but for the most part we're quiet, listening to the wind whistle through our open windows. The last couple nights, she's left her forearm close to me—close enough so we have to touch when I put the car into park.

When my hand brushes against her forearm tonight, Anastasia doesn't make a move. I turn and she's looking right at me. “So, I guess that's good night,” I say.

“ Preston , you're leaving in a week—is that right?”

I look away, at the dash. I'm down to a quarter tank of gas. “Yeah.”

“You know, I've liked getting to know you this summer.” I turn back to her, to find her eyes directed at the glove compartment. “I didn't think that I would, at first. But—it's been good.”

“Yeah.” I turn to my hands, still on the steering wheel, with it's cracked blue covering, worn away from the years in my father's hands, and these months in mine. I remember riding in this car when I first left for college. I remember how excited I was to drive this car to meet Veronica in Duncanville , or going to her house. I remember the drive home. Then I think about all these summer nights. “I guess—”

I never finish. Anastasia kisses me.

I rub my hand along back of her arm, up her shoulder, down her back. She runs her cold fingers through my hair, and down my cheek.

“Good night, Preston ,” Anastasia says, stepping outside.

I get out the words “Good night,” just before she pushes the car door shut.

August 18, 2006

Jermaine laughs out loud.

“What's so funny?” I ask, leaning against my end of the counter.

“I've been telling you to make a move on that girl for how long? And then, finally, it comes down to it, and she's the one who makes it happen.”

I roll my eyes. “You know, in modern America , it is okay for a woman to make the first move.”

“No laws against it, if that's what you mean.”

“And what do you mean?”

Jermaine stretches his arms back and yawns. “My man, all I'm saying is that if the lady has to make the first move, it usually means the man ain't taking care of business the way he should. It probably means the man should have done something weeks ago.”

I shrug. “So tell me something. Is their a lady friend in your life?”

“There are ladies.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Means I'm not looking to settle down just yet. Not in my character.”

“So why are you pushing me on this Anastasia thing if you're not into relationships.”

“I said I'm not looking to settle down. Can't say the same for you.”

“What makes you think we're so different?”

“Guy like me, I'm happy with who I am. Don't get me wrong, I'd like a wife and kids someday. But I'm not in any rush to get there. Guy like you, though—I saw the way you talked about your girlfriend, and the way you've been looking at Anastasia since you became single. You're a commitment guy.”

“And what does that mean?”

Jermaine shrugs. “It's not a bad thing. Of course, it doesn't help that you're also the kind of guy who needs his woman to make the first move.”

“I don't need for the woman to make the first move.”

“Mmm hmm.” Jermaine turns his attention to the customer, setting down a fall jacket and pair of jeans. “Hello, how are you doing today?”

August 19, 2006

There's a drive-in movie theater at the edge of town. I can vaguely recall a few trips there with the family a long time ago. I went there with all the guys—Matt, Chang, Joey and a few others one night last summer. It was one of those last summer, last hurrah deals, a part of the final months when we would all be in town, when we tried to do everything Butterton has to offer.

Tonight's different.

I remember when Matt used to take Julie out to the drive-in, and how, afterward, he couldn't tell me a single thing about the movie they went to see.

Anastasia and I aren't getting carried away like that in the Oldsmobile. We are close, though. She's leaning into me, and I'm holding her, with one arm over her shoulder, my fingers intertwined with hers. After I've held her for a while, she starts to feel really warm. I can feel her breathing against my side.

I can think of a thousand questions I'd like to ask, or things I'd like to say. But the movie's still running. I doubt she would care if I took her attention from it, but I don't want to risk it. As long as we're quiet, she's beautiful and wants nothing more than to be with me, and I'm as cool as I ever wanted to be. As long as we're watching the movie, and only stealing glances at each other, it's going to stay new—we're going to want to keep looking. Right in this moment, anything could happen.

And nothing does.

She takes back her fingers for a moment, scratching under her nose.

I run my fingers slowly, softly down her long brown hair. She really is beautiful.

While I'm looking back at the screen, I feel Anastasia shift, then feel her lips against my cheek.

A second later, we're back to where we began.