9
“WHAT’S IT LIKE?”
Dad paced the floor of my bedroom. His shirt was untucked, and he kept pulling off his ballcap to rub his hair, as if it itched. “Honestly? Not great. It’s sort of … well, you’d think it was pretty boring.”
“What about God? Or heaven?”
He shook his head, kept pacing. “Nah, none of that stuff.”
I’d been waiting for him this year, excited to see him. After his first visit on my seventh birthday, he came again when I turned eight, but I’d been so tired he had to wake me up again.
Tonight, after a trip to Disneyland with Mom and my best friend Harry, I was exhausted, but forced myself to stay awake until he showed. I badly wanted to see where he came in from … but missed it.
One second the room was empty, the next second he was just … there.
I turned on the small lamp. Whatever had scared me from doing it before, I wasn’t scared now. It was just my Daddy, after all.
He sat at the edge of my bed, like he always did. He looked a little pale and acted like what my schoolteacher Mrs. Bridges would call fidgety.
“How’s Mom, huh?” he asked, wringing his fingers. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s fine,” I said. “We went to Disneyland today. It was awesome.”
“That’s cool. I’ve never been there. Guess I won’t be going anytime soon, huh?”
“I guess not. Except maybe you could be one of the ghosts in the Haunted Mansion,” I said excitedly. “You could really scare some people, I bet.”
He chuckled and rubbed my head with his cold hand. “I’m sure I could.” Then he made a weird face and threw his hands in the air. “BWAAAH!” he yelled, and I screamed despite myself. For a second, I was stuck between crying and laughter, but when he smiled the fear went away. It was pretty funny, after all.
I just hoped he’d never do it again.
12
FOR MY TWELFTH BIRTHDAY I went camping with Harry and our friend Tyler.
I’d been nervous most of the day, aware of what—of who—would visit me late that night. It was the first time in my life I wasn’t home on my birthday, and while I enjoyed the idea of hanging out with Harry and Ty in the woods (Harry’s dad was there, too, but with a tent of his own), I missed my mom, missed birthday cake and candles and opening presents in the living room while she took a hundred photos.
But it would also be the first time I’d see Dad outside of my bedroom. He always visited me there, and almost always at the same time. Just before midnight. Sometimes an hour, sometimes less. When I turned eleven, he only stayed about thirty minutes, but that was okay with me. He’d been angry, agitated. Kept asking about Mom. Asked if any strange men had come to the house.
He’d lost his Tigers cap somewhere and when I asked about it he just stared back at me with this strange, annoyed look. As if I’d insulted him.
He still paced a lot, and sometimes his hands twitched. More than once over the last few years he’d mumble something, as if to himself, and when I asked him what he’d said he ignored me, as if he didn’t understand what I was asking. As if he didn’t know, maybe, that he was even doing it.
So being out in the woods made me wary, and anxious. Would he even come? I mean, me and the guys were sharing a tent. It’s not like he could sit with me and talk, they’d see him for sure.
And wouldn’t that be something.
That night we ate hot dogs and smores, cooked up over a small campfire. Harry’s dad told a lame story about a maniac who lived in the woods. We knew he was trying to scare us, and it was pretty funny. I think Tyler was sort of freaked out, which made it even funnier. After, we brushed our teeth at a small stream near the campsite and settled into the tents to sleep. Me and the guys chatted for a while, farting and telling bad jokes, but I kept an eye on the watch Mom had given me that morning as my gift. It lit up green when you pressed a button. It could also go underwater or get dropped off a plane without breaking. Pretty neat.
I faked a yawn around eleven o’clock, and the guys caught on. Soon they were both asleep. I heard them breathing, and Harry tended to snore.
I waited.
Before long, the zipper of the tent started to slide up slowly. A draft of cold air pushed inside, sterilizing the warmth of our bodies. When the zipper got to the top, my dad stuck his head through the gap, looked at the two other guys, then at me. His eyes shone in the dark, otherwise he was nothing but shadow.
I reached for my flashlight, but dared not turn it on, horrified by the idea of my friends waking up to see my dead father’s glowing face. Probably turn their hair white.
I lifted one hand and waved. My dad lifted a hand, waved back.
He sat there for a while, not saying anything, not moving.
I wanted him to leave. But he stayed. Just sat there for almost an hour.
By midnight I was quietly crying. I hid my face in my sleeping bag so he wouldn’t see, wouldn’t hear. He didn’t seem to notice.
And he never said a word.
