Ariel,” he calls out.
I feel confused and hurt and angry. I want to lash out at Dylan—want to find some words that will pierce his thick skin.
Finally I yell, “Yeah, well, maybe you should mind your own business.”
But Dylan’s already left.
43.
W hen Dad left, he didn’t take a suitcase. It was like he’d decided on the spur of the moment that he wasn’t coming back. Mom didn’t bother to gather up his stuff at first. Then one day I came home from school and I felt it straightaway. Something had changed.
With a turn of my key, the front door of the Big House (we’d already downgraded) opened, and my bag landed in the entry hall with a thump. So far, normality. The first thing I noticed was the hall coat rack. My dad’s things—his golf umbrella, his jacket—were gone.
“Dad?” I called out. “Daddy?”
I waited for a reply, but the only sounds were the ticking of my grandparents’ clock from the living room, the drip of a tap not quite turned off, a fly banging against a window in an effort to escape. Or maybe it just wanted some attention.
“Dad?” I repeated, as I slowly walked upstairs.
But I knew that he’d already gone.
I checked the master bedroom first. Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, framing the dust in the air. Dad’s slippers were missing from under the bed: old brown slippers with a tartan band.
The dressing table looked a little bare. Mom’s things were still there, grouped on the right-hand side. Dad’s silver dish remained—the one he unloaded all his coins into. The one I often borrowed from. But his comb and handkerchiefs were gone.
I opened my parents’ wardrobe doors to find a gap where his clothes had been.
I poked at the hole, like I’d probe with my tongue at the space left by a missing tooth. A few bare hangers remained. His drawers were empty.
I smoothed the cover on the big bed and noticed she’d left his pillow. I hugged it to me, breathing in deeply. The only smell was the fresh smell of fabric softener. My mother had washed the sheets and pillowcases many times since he’d left.
He’d been gone for a while.
I moved on to the bathroom. Aftershave, electric razor, deodorant—all gone.
While his things had been at home, I could still pretend that he was coming back to us. That he would change his mind and we would laugh about it one day and say, “Remember the time you left?”
Well, maybe not laugh.
I moved on to the study, the TV room, the garage, the poolroom. Mom had been pretty thorough, removing any clues that he’d ever existed.
A portrait still hung on the living room wall—a picture of a family frozen in time. A tall man was holding tightly on to a chubby bald baby. You could tell by the way his fingers bit into her smooth pillowy legs that he was scared she might fall. A fine-boned woman leaned against him, her hand draped over the shoulder of a girl with long blonde hair. The woman’s stance was casual, but her eyes were narrowed, perhaps in anticipation of the impending flash. Everyone was looking directly at the camera lens except for the baby. She looked off into the distance with a frown.
I studied the man closely. Clear brown eyes, a sharp nose, ears flat against his head. He seemed happy, but who could tell?
I found what I wanted in the kitchen. It was shoved right to the back of a kitchen cupboard, as if someone had tried to hide it. I grabbed it and returned to the master bedroom. I sat in the gap of Dad’s wardrobe and watched the sunlight grow weaker and turn into night. Mom found me there when she switched on the light.
“Ariel,” she said in her quiet voice. As if it were normal to find me sitting in a wardrobe.
I held the mug out to her. W ORLD’S G REATEST D AD , it read.
“He’s really gone,” I said.
44.
A t home in bed that night, I add another thing to my list for Leonard. It’s more of a statement than a question, but I’d like to see where he stands on it.
I believe that if somebody
I feel confused and hurt and angry. I want to lash out at Dylan—want to find some words that will pierce his thick skin.
Finally I yell, “Yeah, well, maybe you should mind your own business.”
But Dylan’s already left.
43.
W hen Dad left, he didn’t take a suitcase. It was like he’d decided on the spur of the moment that he wasn’t coming back. Mom didn’t bother to gather up his stuff at first. Then one day I came home from school and I felt it straightaway. Something had changed.
With a turn of my key, the front door of the Big House (we’d already downgraded) opened, and my bag landed in the entry hall with a thump. So far, normality. The first thing I noticed was the hall coat rack. My dad’s things—his golf umbrella, his jacket—were gone.
“Dad?” I called out. “Daddy?”
I waited for a reply, but the only sounds were the ticking of my grandparents’ clock from the living room, the drip of a tap not quite turned off, a fly banging against a window in an effort to escape. Or maybe it just wanted some attention.
“Dad?” I repeated, as I slowly walked upstairs.
But I knew that he’d already gone.
I checked the master bedroom first. Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, framing the dust in the air. Dad’s slippers were missing from under the bed: old brown slippers with a tartan band.
The dressing table looked a little bare. Mom’s things were still there, grouped on the right-hand side. Dad’s silver dish remained—the one he unloaded all his coins into. The one I often borrowed from. But his comb and handkerchiefs were gone.
I opened my parents’ wardrobe doors to find a gap where his clothes had been.
I poked at the hole, like I’d probe with my tongue at the space left by a missing tooth. A few bare hangers remained. His drawers were empty.
I smoothed the cover on the big bed and noticed she’d left his pillow. I hugged it to me, breathing in deeply. The only smell was the fresh smell of fabric softener. My mother had washed the sheets and pillowcases many times since he’d left.
He’d been gone for a while.
I moved on to the bathroom. Aftershave, electric razor, deodorant—all gone.
While his things had been at home, I could still pretend that he was coming back to us. That he would change his mind and we would laugh about it one day and say, “Remember the time you left?”
Well, maybe not laugh.
I moved on to the study, the TV room, the garage, the poolroom. Mom had been pretty thorough, removing any clues that he’d ever existed.
A portrait still hung on the living room wall—a picture of a family frozen in time. A tall man was holding tightly on to a chubby bald baby. You could tell by the way his fingers bit into her smooth pillowy legs that he was scared she might fall. A fine-boned woman leaned against him, her hand draped over the shoulder of a girl with long blonde hair. The woman’s stance was casual, but her eyes were narrowed, perhaps in anticipation of the impending flash. Everyone was looking directly at the camera lens except for the baby. She looked off into the distance with a frown.
I studied the man closely. Clear brown eyes, a sharp nose, ears flat against his head. He seemed happy, but who could tell?
I found what I wanted in the kitchen. It was shoved right to the back of a kitchen cupboard, as if someone had tried to hide it. I grabbed it and returned to the master bedroom. I sat in the gap of Dad’s wardrobe and watched the sunlight grow weaker and turn into night. Mom found me there when she switched on the light.
“Ariel,” she said in her quiet voice. As if it were normal to find me sitting in a wardrobe.
I held the mug out to her. W ORLD’S G REATEST D AD , it read.
“He’s really gone,” I said.
44.
A t home in bed that night, I add another thing to my list for Leonard. It’s more of a statement than a question, but I’d like to see where he stands on it.
I believe that if somebody
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