Happy Families (16 page)

“When I came in, you were humming loud enough to go deaf.”

I scowl, tossing down my pizza. “Who are you, Dr. Freud? I hum. So what?”

Justin raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Ease up. It just seemed like you were trying to drown me out, and I wondered if you were okay.”

“No, I’m not.” I pick up my pizza and take a vicious bite. “This day sucks.”

Justin thumps his head against the door. “Weird how that happened, isn’t it? It was great until we got back.”

I swallow, my stomach suddenly rebelling against the lump of cheese, peppers, and onions in my throat. “It was fine until I started thinking about Mom.”

Justin sighs. “Today was great. We met some really nice people. But—”

“Yeah. ‘But.’ ” I move the pizza box. “I like Treva. I like Mr. Han. We’d probably really like Connor’s Maddie. But—”

“—but,
Dad
.” Justin’s wordless gesture says it all.

I nod. “I know. And I know that’s probably prejudiced or something. To be okay with it when it’s somebody else, but not
our
family.”

“It
is
prejudiced. And lame. And I don’t know how not to feel that way.” Justin leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know how to be okay with it being
our
family. I don’t know how to stop feeling scared about the first time I see him up close as Christine. I look at Connor and Beth, and they seem okay. I just want to get to that point, you know?”

The silence stretches. Both of us jerk when Justin’s phone beeps.

“Who—” Justin cuts off the question as he pulls out his phone. He flips it open and stares at the message. Then he sighs and drops his arm, his face expressionless.

I lean forward to look at the call screen.

“Callista again?”

“Yeah. She left me a message earlier. Still wants me to call.”

Callista and Justin never actually broke up. The indecisive, wistful expression on Justin’s face makes me sad for him. “Well, are you going to? Call her?”

“I’m going to take a shower.” Abruptly, he’s on his feet and at the door.

I kick the pizza box across the room and lean my head against the bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s not fair that Justin and Callista are messed up. Justin really,
really
liked her. But how do people date when their lives are like this? How would we explain Dad?

“This day sucks, God,” I announce, but God doesn’t answer.

“Ysabel!” Dad’s voice is strident and grating on my nerves. “I’ve called you three times! You have thirty minutes to be in the car before we leave for Dr. Hoenig’s.”

“I’m up,” I mutter, rubbing my face. I slide to the end of the bed and check the annealing kiln. Six new medallion beads sit
cool and perfect in its depths. I had the idea for a pendant and had made a few trial beads to see which one I liked. I worked until almost two this morning, but I’m happy with how they turned out.

“It’s not like it’s my spring break or anything,” I mutter, throwing open my bag and pulling out a fresh shirt and a pair of leggings. “It’s not like I should be able to
sleep in
or anything.”

By the time I’m showered and dressed, my hair in a damp and uninspired ponytail, Dad’s pounded on my door twice more, and I am in a pissy mood. It’s too late for breakfast, I know, so I grab the last half slice of cold pizza and get it down while I’m lacing my boots. My brother is already in the car by the time I come into the kitchen.

“I said thirty minutes,” my father mutters, and hurriedly thrusts two wax-papered bundles into my hands. Herding me into the garage, he presses the button to open the door, then hustles around to the driver’s seat. “We’re going to be late.”

Standing next to the car, I take a quick peek inside the wax paper. I see what I expect: two pieces of toast, slathered with mayonnaise, cradling two eggs, over medium, dotted with flecks of black pepper. I close it quickly, my stomach hurling itself toward my throat. “Here,” I say, passing it to Justin, who takes both and shoves them into his jacket pocket. My father twists around and glares at me, then closes his eyes.

“Eggs,” he says, and his face gets that expressionless expression that means he’s angry. Hopefully he’s angry with himself—I won’t take responsibility for him forgetting that even the smell of soft-fried eggs makes me want to vomit sometimes. That’s the breakfast he used to make for
Justin
when he was going to miss the bus, not for me.

“I had leftover pizza,” I tell him, sliding into the backseat. Justin is slumped next to me, wearing his sunglasses. Dad starts to say something, then shakes his head and starts the engine. He backs out of his meticulously clean garage and into the May sunshine.

I take a deep breath, fighting the queasiness in my stomach. Justin isn’t even eating the eggs, but the air in the car is too warm, and everything is pressing against me. I punch the button and lower the back window. Lifting my chin, I let the wind blast my face, sucking in cold air. I shouldn’t have stayed up so late.

“That’s not an acceptable breakfast,” Dad says abruptly, and I blink.

“What?” My voice is too loud over the roar of the wind. Justin flicks a glance my direction as I roll up the window.

“That’s not an acceptable breakfast,” Dad repeats. “Just a piece of cold pizza.”

I shrug. “It worked for dinner.”

“We don’t have time to stop,” Dad says, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “If we weren’t already running late, I’d make sure you ate something. Your mom’s been worried about you not being home for meals. I want you to—”

“Dad, I just said I’m not hungry,” I interrupt, wondering where all this is coming from. Mom’s been talking to him about me? “I’ll be fine until lunch.”

My father says nothing, turning into the parking garage in front of Dr. Hoenig’s office building and practically jerking the key from the ignition. “Let’s go,” he says brusquely.

I slide out of the car and slam the door in tandem with my brother. The car rocks under the assault of our combined slams, and I know I’m not the only one struggling to keep my temper.
This isn’t good. I stand next to the car for a moment, taking a deep breath.

“Ysabel!” My father’s voice hits me like a slap. “We. Are. Late.”

I blow out a breath and stomp toward the door my father is holding open. God forbid I should have a moment to myself. God forbid we should make Dr. Hoenig miss us for even fifteen seconds.

This is my favorite way
ever
to spend spring break.

“Silence is okay, too,” Dr. Hoenig says calmly, leaning back in her armchair. “You all must have had a busy Tuesday.”

If it would make a difference, I’d say I wasn’t tired, but I’ve figured out Dr. Hoenig. Anything I say can and will be used to worm inside my head. I keep my mouth closed, and my thoughts to myself.

Instead of texting Callista back last night, I finally called Mom—she acted like I’d given her a heart attack—read stupid jokes from Viking, and tried doing one of Mr. Lester’s freewriting exercises to help me think about the future. Maybe it was stupid to quit debate. Mr. Lester still wants me back next year. It might not be so bad to come up north and spend time with Dad—I could use Bethany’s help with calculus. Maybe she’s some kind of forensics expert, too, and she can give me some pointers to take back home.

And as long as I’m trying to reset my life, I should probably talk to Callista. I think it’s pretty safe to tell her that we’ve had some family stuff going on; it’s obvious Dad’s up here and Mom’s down south. If she’s even interested in there being some kind of … us, she’ll understand if I say I don’t want to talk about it.

Won’t she?

It felt good last night to focus on something other than right now. Maybe the only way to start being okay with my life is to just … live it.

“We went rafting yesterday.” Ysabel’s voice comes abruptly from the depths of her usual chair by the door. “It was great.”

“Whalin Glen really is restful,” the therapist says, tilting her head slightly. Her eyes are sharp, despite her mild tone. “At our first meeting, we talked about the number of things that get swept under the rug in this family. Is something new under there today?”

“Excuse us, Dr. Hoenig. I think we’re just running on too little sleep and not enough breakfast,” Dad says with a jokey little laugh, and I grimace. I hate it when adults say “us” and “we” but don’t really include themselves.

“Dad, I said
I had a piece of pizza
.” Ysabel’s voice is edged with anger, like a rattler’s warning. “It’s not
my fault
you can’t tell Justin and me apart.”

“Oh, I can tell you apart, all right,” my father says. “You’re the one who stays in bed until the last minute.”

Thanks, Dad
. I roll my eyes. Ysabel glares at us both. “No, I’m the one who hates your nasty egg sandwiches!”

Dad throws up his hands in exasperation. “Have you
never
made a mistake?”

“You didn’t apologize, so how am I supposed to know it was a mistake?” Ysabel goads. “For all I know, maybe you decided we were all going to
suddenly change
what we do. Maybe I have to
like
egg sandwiches now.”

I stifle a laugh. Point goes to Ysabel.

Dad’s mouth opens, and closes. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and holds it, and I know he is warding off a headache. “Ysabel, I am sorry about your breakfast. I certainly won’t make that mistake again.”

“Thank you.” Ysabel blows out a breath and crosses her arms. “I’m sorry I stayed up late and overslept
during spring break
so we were two minutes late. Can we be done with this now?”

Dr. Hoenig’s brows climb to her hairline. “I’m not sure. It seems like a lot of unresolved anger just over breakfast and being a few minutes late.”

My father continues to pinch his nose silently. Ysabel gives a slight shrug.

“Well, it could be we’re running on too little sleep,” she admits.

I snort a laugh, then fake cough, keeping my hand over my mouth. Dad gives me a look that lets me know he’s unconvinced.

Dr. Hoenig swivels in her chair. “How are you this morning, Justin?”

“Fine,” I say quickly, ignoring the way her smile widens. I don’t want her attention on me, and she knows it. “I’m good.”

“Okay.” The therapist opens her notebook and flips back a few pages. “Before, we went over part of Justin’s Bill of Rights. Ysabel, no progress on your list yet?”

“I don’t think I’m doing one,” Ysabel says.

“Ysabel.” Dad sighs.

“It wasn’t a requirement,” Dr. Hoenig interjects smoothly. “It was intended to be a communication tool. So.” She looks down at her notebook again. “Let’s see—”

“Dad was telling us Mom wasn’t selling the house.” I throw the words into the pause, unwilling to leave the choice of topic to Dr. Hoenig. “You said you didn’t know why Realtors were still calling.”

Dad nods. “About a month ago, your mom and I wanted to
price houses in our area because she was thinking it might be less expensive to move than to build an addition. In this economy, I don’t think moving is the answer.”

“Wait, why do we need an addition on the house?” Ysabel looks bewildered. “Are we taking renters?”

“What? No.” Dad laughs, but gives her an odd look. “No renters. We’re putting in another closet, or maybe a big dressing room off the master bedroom. I don’t think we can rent that out.”

My mouth dries. “The new closet’s for Christine.”

“What?” Ysabel’s eyebrows pinch.

Dad’s expression is confused. “Yes. I thought that was understood. I told you that no one was moving or getting a divorce, and your mother and I explained that we’re working on being a family.…” A curtain of wariness falls over his expression. “You thought I would stay away from you.”

There is an abrupt silence.

“Justin,” Dr. Hoenig begins, but I ignore her.
Mom’s enlarging the closet. For Dad
.

I hear the creak of Ysabel’s leather boots as she leans forward and the quiet sound of the couch springs. “Wait—” Her voice cracks. “You’re moving home? To stay?”

“In the long run. That’s the goal,” Dad says, turning to face her. “No one has set a date. We’re not going to rush into this. But we thought our family should be together. I want to work on that … to be home with all of you.”

Another drawn-out silence. Ysabel is perched on the edge of her chair, watching Dad. She looks serious, almost scared. “Well, cool,” she says, and her voice squeaks.

Dad rubs his jaw. “Cool, huh?” he repeats with a half smile. Ysabel rolls her eyes.

Dad turns to look at me, and I flinch. Dr. Hoenig tilts her head, trying to see more of my face. I can’t stop looking at the patterns in the beige carpet, feeling put on the spot.

“Buddy. Justin.” Dad’s voice pulls my attention. “Is there—?” He stops, clears his throat. “I’d like to know what you’re thinking.” He smiles, but tension dissolves it.

I don’t know what to say. “Dad, I’m—”

Dad interrupts, his forehead wrinkled with worry or determination. “Doesn’t matter if it’s not what you think I want to hear. We can’t work anything out if we don’t talk anything out, right? So—let’s hear it. We’ve got time.” He tries the same tentative smile, and though it lasts longer, there is a raggedness to it, as if I’ve already said something to claw it away. As if I’ve already wounded him.

Words are colliding in my head, like they do before a debate event. I try to breathe and find my Zen, like Mr. Lester taught me, but it’s taking too long, and I can’t wait.