“The library is, like, the single best cross section of humanity,” I tell him. “You meet all kinds of interesting people.”
“And here I thought you were in it for the free books,” Dad teases.
I’m surprised how normal this feels. How nice it is to imagine this version of my father—the one who asks questions about my work, who not only shows up for my birthday, but thinks to tell the server to bring a cake with a sparkler stuck in it—sticking around.
And yes, the attention from paid strangers, forced to sing on my behalf, is fairly far from any gift I’d ever want, but it strikes me as the kind of thing normal dads do. Year-round fathers, who measure their kids on doorjambs and teach them to ride bikes and drive them to their first E.R. visit.
He’s still the dad I’ve always known too: the one who managed, today at the dunes, to just “bump into” someone who owns an entire hotel on Mackinac Island and bond over a shared love of the Grateful Dead to the extent that the hotelier gave Dad his phone number and promised to hook him and Starfire up with free rooms anytime they wanted.
But he’s also asking, “What’s your favorite thing you do at the library?”
And he’s listening with interest as I tell him about the Read-a-thon, about the sponsorships I’ve gotten, about how happy Harvey was about the cash donations Miles has helped me rack up.
“Your passion!” Starfire says, hand to her heart. “Just like your father’s!”
And he’s giving her hand a squeeze, saying, “No, she’s way better than her old man. She’s always had direction.”
I don’t totally understand it, why his pride in me matters. But it does. It matters.
After dinner, he suggests we visit Miles at Cherry Hill, so we leave our car at the brewery to pick up later and take a cab up the peninsula.
The winery is bustling.
Miles waves at us from behind the bar, but he’s too busy to come talk. He murmurs something to Katya, who flags us down at the very end of the bar, sliding an open bottle and three glasses over. “On the house,” she shouts over the noise.
We take our bottle and glasses out to the circular tables on the lawn, the sky turning periwinkle at the edges while the sun holds on for a few more breaths.
I scan the lawn. “No open tables.”
“Chairs are bad for you anyway,” Starfire replies, a curious but confident pronouncement. She removes her bedazzled sandals and lowers herself to the ground. Dad and I follow suit. With the sitting, not the shoe removal, but the grass is so intoxicatingly cool that I don’t blame her for wanting to feel it between her toes.
Dad pours the wine, then passes out our glasses, and there we watch the colors melt across the sky.
“I could see us here, Star,” Dad says, and she sighs.
“Me too. We should ask Karen what she thinks.”
“Karen?” I say.
“Our psychic,” Starfire says.
“The one who told you about the Titanic?” I verify.
She nods. “That’s why we were so surprised about you and Miles. Karen told us you and Miles would go the distance. She’s never been wrong before.”
Not sure how Starfire has confirmed that her past life was indeed an Oscar-winning film, but I let it go.
Even as the lawn clears and the tables empty and the sky goes dark, we stay half-reclined on the grass, watching the string lights pop on, listening to the occasional bat flap past.
When Miles clocks out, he brings us a half bottle of red left over from his shift, and pours each of us a small glass.
Dad proposes a toast: “To our gracious hosts.”
Starfire adds, “To my beautiful new family.”
I feel a twinge.
Of guilt? Like I’m betraying Mom if I let Dad back in?
Or maybe just fear. That I’m doing what I swore I never would: making space in my heart for someone whom experience has taught me not to trust.
People change, I think.
I can.
Dad can.
Miles shifts in the grass beside me, his knee brushing mine like a question. Are you there? Are you okay?
I can be.
I can be here, in the moment, instead of watching for smoke, ready to run.
I lift my glass into the ring we’ve formed. “To family.”
27
