a small puddle. Normal and expected, except for the fact that he did all this in silence.
“How was your day?” I asked, as always.
“The same,” he answered. As always. He smiled again but added nothing else.
My dad, the social misfit. I wondered again why he found conversation so difficult and tried to imagine what he’d been like in his youth. How had he ever found someone to marry? I knew the last question sounded petty, but it hadn’t come from spite. I was genuinely curious. We ate for a while, the clatter of forks the only sound to keep us company.
“Savannah said she’d like to meet you,” I finally said, trying again.
He cut at his steak. “Your lady friend?”
Only my dad would phrase it that way. “Yeah,” I said. “I think you’ll like her.”
He nodded.
“She’s a student at UNC,” I explained.
He knew it was his turn, and I could sense his relief when another question came to him. “How did you meet her?”
I told him about the bag, painting the picture, trying to make the story as humorous as possible, but laughter eluded him.
“That was kind of you,” he observed.
Another conversation stopper. I cut another piece of steak. “Dad? Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Of course not.”
“How did you and Mom meet?”
It was the first time I’d asked about her in years. Because she’d never been part of my life, because I had no memories, I’d seldom felt the need to do so. Even now, I didn’t really care; I just wanted him to talk to me. He took his time adding more butter to his potato, and I knew he didn’t want to answer.
“We met at a diner,” he said finally. “She was a waitress.”
I waited. Nothing more seemed forthcoming.
“Was she pretty?”
“Yes,” he said.
“What was she like?”
He mashed the potato and added salt, sprinkling it with care. “She was like you,” he concluded.
“What do you mean?”
“Umm . . .” He hesitated. “She could be . . . stubborn.”
I wasn’t sure what to think or even what he meant. Before I could dwell on it, he rose from the table and seized his glass.
“Would you like some more milk?” he asked, and I knew he would say no more about her.
Six
T ime is relative. I know I’m not the first to realize it and far from the most famous, and my realization had nothing to do with energy or mass or the speed of light or anything else Einstein might have postulated. Rather, it had to do with the drag of hours while I waited for Savannah.
After my dad and I finished dinner, I thought about her; I thought of her again soon after I woke. I spent the day surfing, and though the waves were better than they’d been the day before, I couldn’t really concentrate and decided to call it quits by midafternoon. I debated whether or not to grab a cheeseburger at a little place by the beach—the best burgers in town, by the way—but even though I was in the mood, I just went home, hoping that I could talk Savannah into a burger later. I read a bit of the latest Stephen King novel, showered and threw on a pair of jeans and a polo, then read for another couple of hours before glancing at the clock and realizing only twenty minutes had passed. That’s what I meant by time being relative.
When my dad got home, he saw the way I was dressed and offered his keys.
“Are you going to see Savannah?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, rising from the couch. I took the keys. “I might be late getting in.”
He scratched the back of his head. “Okay,” he said.
“Breakfast tomorrow?”
“Okay.” For a reason I couldn’t understand, he sounded almost scared.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
“I’ll probably be sleeping.”
“I didn’t mean it literally.”
“Oh,” he said. “Okay.”
I headed for the door. Just as I opened it, I heard him sigh.
“I’d like to meet Savannah, too,” he said in a voice so soft, I barely heard it.
The sky was still bright and the sun was bending
“How was your day?” I asked, as always.
“The same,” he answered. As always. He smiled again but added nothing else.
My dad, the social misfit. I wondered again why he found conversation so difficult and tried to imagine what he’d been like in his youth. How had he ever found someone to marry? I knew the last question sounded petty, but it hadn’t come from spite. I was genuinely curious. We ate for a while, the clatter of forks the only sound to keep us company.
“Savannah said she’d like to meet you,” I finally said, trying again.
He cut at his steak. “Your lady friend?”
Only my dad would phrase it that way. “Yeah,” I said. “I think you’ll like her.”
He nodded.
“She’s a student at UNC,” I explained.
He knew it was his turn, and I could sense his relief when another question came to him. “How did you meet her?”
I told him about the bag, painting the picture, trying to make the story as humorous as possible, but laughter eluded him.
“That was kind of you,” he observed.
Another conversation stopper. I cut another piece of steak. “Dad? Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Of course not.”
“How did you and Mom meet?”
It was the first time I’d asked about her in years. Because she’d never been part of my life, because I had no memories, I’d seldom felt the need to do so. Even now, I didn’t really care; I just wanted him to talk to me. He took his time adding more butter to his potato, and I knew he didn’t want to answer.
“We met at a diner,” he said finally. “She was a waitress.”
I waited. Nothing more seemed forthcoming.
“Was she pretty?”
“Yes,” he said.
“What was she like?”
He mashed the potato and added salt, sprinkling it with care. “She was like you,” he concluded.
“What do you mean?”
“Umm . . .” He hesitated. “She could be . . . stubborn.”
I wasn’t sure what to think or even what he meant. Before I could dwell on it, he rose from the table and seized his glass.
“Would you like some more milk?” he asked, and I knew he would say no more about her.
Six
T ime is relative. I know I’m not the first to realize it and far from the most famous, and my realization had nothing to do with energy or mass or the speed of light or anything else Einstein might have postulated. Rather, it had to do with the drag of hours while I waited for Savannah.
After my dad and I finished dinner, I thought about her; I thought of her again soon after I woke. I spent the day surfing, and though the waves were better than they’d been the day before, I couldn’t really concentrate and decided to call it quits by midafternoon. I debated whether or not to grab a cheeseburger at a little place by the beach—the best burgers in town, by the way—but even though I was in the mood, I just went home, hoping that I could talk Savannah into a burger later. I read a bit of the latest Stephen King novel, showered and threw on a pair of jeans and a polo, then read for another couple of hours before glancing at the clock and realizing only twenty minutes had passed. That’s what I meant by time being relative.
When my dad got home, he saw the way I was dressed and offered his keys.
“Are you going to see Savannah?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, rising from the couch. I took the keys. “I might be late getting in.”
He scratched the back of his head. “Okay,” he said.
“Breakfast tomorrow?”
“Okay.” For a reason I couldn’t understand, he sounded almost scared.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
“I’ll probably be sleeping.”
“I didn’t mean it literally.”
“Oh,” he said. “Okay.”
I headed for the door. Just as I opened it, I heard him sigh.
“I’d like to meet Savannah, too,” he said in a voice so soft, I barely heard it.
The sky was still bright and the sun was bending
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