again.
‘What is that?’ I ask.
‘I study language and the way people use it.’
I still don’t get it but I don’t want him to think I’m dumb so I shut up and nod. Niall has started, throughout this exchange, to rub at the skin of his wrist and when he claws his hand, switching from using his palm to using his fingernails, I am putting out my hand to stop him, because you have to do that with Niall, have to remind him not to scratch, when I see that Dad is doing the same.
Dad has his hand on Niall’s inflamed arm. ‘Still bothered with that, huh?’ he says.
Niall shrugs.
‘What have they got you on, these days?’
‘The usual.’
‘Which is?’
‘Steroids and emollient.’
‘Hmm.’ Dad puts his head on one side. He’s tapping on Niall’s wrist, where the skin is torn and red, the way I’ve seen Niall do sometimes and I’m wondering how Niall is doing with this because he doesn’t like to be touched, doesn’t like to talk about his skin. ‘Same old, same old,’ Dad says. ‘You still see Zuckerman?’
Niall sits, his back in a curve. ‘Nah. Self-prescribe, mostly.’
‘You still go to the …?’
Niall lifts his head and looks Dad in the eye. ‘Daycare unit?’
Dad stops the tapping. He withdraws his hand. I feel again the tide pulling between them. ‘Yeah,’ he says, fiddling with his cup, putting the spoon in and out.
‘No,’ Niall says. ‘I don’t.’
There is a pause and I’m wondering if the people around are looking at us and whether any of them could guess the situation and what they would say if they did.
‘So, what grade are you in now, Phoebe?’ Dad says. ‘Tenth?’
‘Eleventh,’ I go.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Eleventh. How are you liking it?’
‘It’s OK.’
There is another pause. Niall picks up his wet teabag from his saucer. It weeps a stream of drops onto the table. He puts it back.
‘Any classes you particularly enjoy?’ Dad says.
I shrug. I want to leave, I think, and I’m wondering if Niall feels the same.
‘Do you have any notion yet of—’
‘Where have you been all this time?’ I shout, because suddenly I’m mad, I’m mad as hell. How can he just walk into a coffee shop and ask about Niall’s job and my grades and expect us to answer and pretend everything’s normal? Because that’s what this scenario feels like: normal. It feels outrageously, weirdly normal to be sitting here with our dad, and it is normal, except that it totally isn’t.
‘Where did you go?’ I’m yelling. ‘What happened? How could you leave like that? Why haven’t you come before?’
Niall is saying, ‘Don’t,’ in that way he has, like the way he talks to the dog if it’s barking or Mom if she’s losing it and he’s scared, I can tell, because he knows he’s the one who’s going to have to deal with me after this. Not Mom, because we probably aren’t going to tell her; not Stella, because she hates me now; not anyone.
‘Don’t, Phoebe,’ Niall is whispering, holding on to my elbow like a cop. ‘Don’t.’
‘It’s OK, Niall.’ Dad is calm. He is leaning forward, holding out a wad of napkins. ‘You’re perfectly entitled to ask those questions.’
I take the wad. I press it to my face and it feels good.
‘It’s a natural reaction,’ Dad is saying. ‘You’re completely within your rights to yell at me.’
I take the tissues away from my face to look at him.
‘I would yell at me,’ he continues. ‘In fact, I often do. The thing is, Phoebe, I’ve been living abroad. But I wrote you both every month and again on your birthdays. I don’t suppose you ever … got those letters?’
I shake my head. Niall stares down at his hands; he starts on his wrist again with all five nails but this time Dad and I don’t stop him.
‘I used to hope one might make it through,’ he says, almost to himself, ‘just one. I would apply for permission every year, sometimes more, to see you but it was never granted.’
I picture all
‘What is that?’ I ask.
‘I study language and the way people use it.’
I still don’t get it but I don’t want him to think I’m dumb so I shut up and nod. Niall has started, throughout this exchange, to rub at the skin of his wrist and when he claws his hand, switching from using his palm to using his fingernails, I am putting out my hand to stop him, because you have to do that with Niall, have to remind him not to scratch, when I see that Dad is doing the same.
Dad has his hand on Niall’s inflamed arm. ‘Still bothered with that, huh?’ he says.
Niall shrugs.
‘What have they got you on, these days?’
‘The usual.’
‘Which is?’
‘Steroids and emollient.’
‘Hmm.’ Dad puts his head on one side. He’s tapping on Niall’s wrist, where the skin is torn and red, the way I’ve seen Niall do sometimes and I’m wondering how Niall is doing with this because he doesn’t like to be touched, doesn’t like to talk about his skin. ‘Same old, same old,’ Dad says. ‘You still see Zuckerman?’
Niall sits, his back in a curve. ‘Nah. Self-prescribe, mostly.’
‘You still go to the …?’
Niall lifts his head and looks Dad in the eye. ‘Daycare unit?’
Dad stops the tapping. He withdraws his hand. I feel again the tide pulling between them. ‘Yeah,’ he says, fiddling with his cup, putting the spoon in and out.
‘No,’ Niall says. ‘I don’t.’
There is a pause and I’m wondering if the people around are looking at us and whether any of them could guess the situation and what they would say if they did.
‘So, what grade are you in now, Phoebe?’ Dad says. ‘Tenth?’
‘Eleventh,’ I go.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Eleventh. How are you liking it?’
‘It’s OK.’
There is another pause. Niall picks up his wet teabag from his saucer. It weeps a stream of drops onto the table. He puts it back.
‘Any classes you particularly enjoy?’ Dad says.
I shrug. I want to leave, I think, and I’m wondering if Niall feels the same.
‘Do you have any notion yet of—’
‘Where have you been all this time?’ I shout, because suddenly I’m mad, I’m mad as hell. How can he just walk into a coffee shop and ask about Niall’s job and my grades and expect us to answer and pretend everything’s normal? Because that’s what this scenario feels like: normal. It feels outrageously, weirdly normal to be sitting here with our dad, and it is normal, except that it totally isn’t.
‘Where did you go?’ I’m yelling. ‘What happened? How could you leave like that? Why haven’t you come before?’
Niall is saying, ‘Don’t,’ in that way he has, like the way he talks to the dog if it’s barking or Mom if she’s losing it and he’s scared, I can tell, because he knows he’s the one who’s going to have to deal with me after this. Not Mom, because we probably aren’t going to tell her; not Stella, because she hates me now; not anyone.
‘Don’t, Phoebe,’ Niall is whispering, holding on to my elbow like a cop. ‘Don’t.’
‘It’s OK, Niall.’ Dad is calm. He is leaning forward, holding out a wad of napkins. ‘You’re perfectly entitled to ask those questions.’
I take the wad. I press it to my face and it feels good.
‘It’s a natural reaction,’ Dad is saying. ‘You’re completely within your rights to yell at me.’
I take the tissues away from my face to look at him.
‘I would yell at me,’ he continues. ‘In fact, I often do. The thing is, Phoebe, I’ve been living abroad. But I wrote you both every month and again on your birthdays. I don’t suppose you ever … got those letters?’
I shake my head. Niall stares down at his hands; he starts on his wrist again with all five nails but this time Dad and I don’t stop him.
‘I used to hope one might make it through,’ he says, almost to himself, ‘just one. I would apply for permission every year, sometimes more, to see you but it was never granted.’
I picture all
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