Happy Families (22 page)

Sofia returns with a plate of empanadas, which Marco
steals. Ysabel interrupts their fight, asking, “So, Marco, your dad couldn’t come today?”

Marco returns the empanadas and shakes his head. “Nope. He’s somewhere in Argentina at the moment.”

“Ooh, Argentina’s on my bucket list,” Ysabel says. “I’d love to go.”

“I’m the only one of us that’s ever been,” Sofia says, snagging an empanada back from her brother’s pile. “Our parents grew up there.”

“Sweet,” I say. “You at least always have a place to go on vacation.”

Sofia snorts. “I wish. I can’t afford airfare when I’m buying textbooks. Going home on the weekend is as much a vacation as I get.”

Marco interrupts. “You could afford it if you asked Dad for the money.”

Sofia’s face tightens. “Which I won’t. So, we’re back at ‘I can’t afford it.’ ”

“Whoa. Sorry,” I say, realizing I’ve stumbled into an old sibling argument.

Marco shrugs. “It’s nothing. My father … can’t deal with things right now. So, he’s working for an import company in Argentina instead of living here. He sends money—”

“He just won’t send himself,” Sofia says, wiping her fingers on the napkin. She smiles a little. “I don’t want anything from him but that.”

“That sucks,” Bethany says, grimacing. “It would be rough if my mom just … left, and stayed away. I’m sorry.”

In the little silence that follows, I realize that Ysabel is looking at me, her expression troubled. I meet her eyes and
give her a
What?
look, but she shakes her head slightly and looks away.

Sofia says, “For some people, it’s impossible to live with being transsexual, I guess.” She flicks a glance at her mother on the other side of the fire, talking animatedly to Mr. Han. “I’m taking a Gender and Culture Studies course at school, and our professor talked about how shame forces people into certain behaviors in this culture.”

Connor makes a disgusted noise. “Shame sucks. If you couldn’t talk to your wife, or your priest—I guess going away would make sense.”

“He’s just embarrassed,” Marco mutters, and shrugs.

“He should be embarrassed,” Sofia says, her voice sharp. “He’s been gone so long Lucia barely remembers him. Who cares if he’s not like every other dad in our society? He should come home.”

Abruptly, Ysabel stands and heads up the beach at a fast walk.

I’m on my feet a moment later, jogging a few feet to fall into step with my sister. I keep my mouth shut, letting the boom and the hiss of the waves crawling up the sand fill the space between us.

Ysabel walks until the others are a ways off before she veers toward the waterline to pick up a half-submerged shell. She flings it sideways into the surf and stares after it. “Dad’s doing what Marco’s dad did.”

I consider pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about, then breathe out a huge sigh. “Pretty much, yeah. Mom says it was all his decision to leave.”

Ysabel picks up a rock, then throws it down viciously. “So stupid.”

“Well.” I hesitate. “We were pretty twisted for a while. I think we needed the space. Dad never meant for us to find out, Ys.”

Ysabel shakes her head, still staring into the waves. “I don’t mean
Dad’s
stupid. I mean, I feel stupid. All this time, I kept worrying about him coming home and freaking out our friends. I kept feeling like we’d lost our father.”

My stomach gives a guilty twist. “I know.”

“I kept thinking, ‘Man, what are people going to say about Mom? That she’s a lesbian?’ I couldn’t stop thinking how people were going to look at me, you know? Then I got up here, and talked to him, and met Treva and Mr. Han and it didn’t scare me so much anymore.
Dad
wasn’t scary. He was just Dad. I thought, ‘Okay. I can deal with this.’ I figured I could work it out later if something else came up.” Ysabel drags in a breath and shoves her hands in her pockets. “And all this time, he wasn’t even planning on coming home.”

“That’s not true, Ys.” I say the words as much to myself as to my sister. “He says he’s coming home. Probably if we act like we expect him, he’ll show up. We’ve just got to give him some time.”

“How much time?” Ysabel asks, her voice rising. “I don’t want to be like the Andrades, waiting for years.” She looks at me, her eyes distressed. “I’m still not sure about Christine. I still worry about what people are going to say. But Dad staying away is wrong.”

“Well, Mr. Lester says in order to defeat an opponent, you not only have to have a watertight argument, you have to deliver it in unexpected ways,” I begin.

Ysabel interrupts furiously. “You want to have a debate? Now?”

I roll my eyes. “No. Mom says Dad needs to find his way home. We’re going to figure out a way to leave him some clues. I don’t know how yet either, but if we both think about it, we’ll come up with something. I’m not willing to wait as long as Marco’s family has.”

Ysabel picks up another shell fragment and pitches it into the waves. “We miss him. I know he misses us. It doesn’t seem like he’d need that many clues.”

“Maybe he won’t.” I turn to see my parents walking up the beach toward us.

If this were a movie, my parents walking along the beach would be accompanied by some random piece of sentimental music, maybe with lots of violins. Dad grabbing Mom’s hand would be Something Meaningful, and the angle of the sinking sun would make them blind to everyone but each other.

Unfortunately for all involved, this is not a movie. Dad walking toward me, all smiles and swinging Mom’s hand, makes something inside of me twist.

How did things get so complicated? We all love my father—Mom does, even in ways I don’t understand. Justin loves him,
even though it freaks him out to think of Dad as a she. I love him, even though I admit I know it will be more than tough when I meet Christine. We all love Dad. Poppy and Grandmama love him. So why can’t he just pack up his generic little condo and come back and live with us?

Why is he pretending he will?

“You guys done eating already?” Dad asks, pulling off his sunglasses to squint at us.

“What’s going on?” My mother’s observant eyes narrow. “Are you two fighting?”

“Why are we even here?” I blurt, which confuses both my parents.

“On Earth?” Dad laughs, but my expression shuts him down.

“You know what I mean. Why are you making jokes? I hate it when you make jokes,” I say, frustrated. “I need you to be serious.”

“Okay,” Dad says, wiping the smile off his face with a wave of his hand. “I’m serious.”

“You’re not ever coming home, are you?”

Dad’s brow furrows. “What?”

“I figured it out. You’re going to just keep putting us off, and it’ll be
years
, like Marco and Sofia’s dad, and you’ll just keep stringing us along, like that’s okay, and it’s not okay, Dad. I need to know, right now. Are you coming home? If you’re not, just—don’t pretend anymore, all right? Please.”

My parents exchange looks, and Dad moves close to me. “Ysabel. I don’t think you understand—”

“I’m not finished,” I blurt, warding him off with a raised hand. I have to say this before I lose my nerve. “We didn’t ask for this, Dad. Things were fine, and then we found out you were transgender, and we thought we would lose you, but then you
were still Dad, and I thought that someday we were going to be okay. But it’s not going to be okay, is it? Things are going to suck forever.”

My mother sighs, and I’m grateful she doesn’t voice her usual objection to the word
suck
. She wraps her arm around my waist, silently supportive. My father looks conflicted, his expression moving from stunned to angry.

“It’s not low blood sugar this time,” I add, defensive even though no one is speaking. “I just hate that we’re all pretending. If you’re not coming home, Dad, just say so.”

There’s a pause. Dad glances at Justin, who’s stepped back a little, his arms crossed. “Well, Justin, since you started this, do you have anything to add?”

“He didn’t start this!” I exclaim.

Justin shrugs, but his body language is stiff. “Hey, don’t blame me. It’s not my fault if the shoes don’t want to stay in the box.”

My mother steps between us. “Time-out a second—just wait.”

“But—”

“Ysabel.”

Impatient, I look off toward the water, watching a flock of gulls bobbing on the surface. Next to me, Justin shifts, his hands going into his pockets. I turn back to see my father watching me.

“Okay.” Apparently our Mom-mandated moment of silence is over. “Nothing is going to be solved by shouting or accusing each other,” my mother says, and I barely resist rolling my eyes.

“Sorry.” Even though I’m not.

“I don’t apologize. I didn’t start this,” Justin repeats, stubborn.

“All right. I apologize, Justin. Blame is uncalled for,” Dad says, then heaves a heavy sigh. “Ysabel, I am coming home. If
I could give you three a date, I would,” he says, pulling off his baseball cap and rasping the palm of his hand over his close-cut hair. “I know that’s not the answer you want, but right now it’s what we’ve got to work with.”

“So, that still means you’re coming home … ‘someday,’ ” I say, making air quotes. Mom squeezes my shoulder.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you what you’re after,” my father says tiredly. He closes his eyes. The laugh lines around them look like scars. “Everybody fears change, Ysabel.
Everybody
. Even me. This isn’t easy. I’ve kept a part of my life to myself for as long as we’ve been a family. It’s going to take time to work through that.”

“How are we supposed to get used to Christine and everything if you’re up here? When is that even going to start?”
How am I supposed to get past this, and just get on with my life?

Dad shakes his head. “Belly, I don’t know. I can’t give you a timeline. But we’ll get there, eventually. It just takes time.”

“Okay,” I say, defeated. I don’t understand, but I try to smile. “Whatever.”

“Belly,” Dad says, and pulls me to him. He touches his forehead to mine, and I feel Mom’s hand on my back. “I will come home, soon. I promise you. I promise
me
.”

I blink hard, then pull back from what threatens to be a group hug. “Yeah, okay.” I duck away from my parents and pick up another piece of shell.

Dad takes a deep breath. “Justin?”

“I’m good,” Justin says, hands still in his pockets. Dad watches him for a little while, and I wonder what he’s thinking. My father wanders closer to the water and finds a shell, and instead of throwing it, he hands it to Justin, who examines it. The two of them stand side by side, looking out at the water.

I throw another shell with more force than necessary. My mother glances at me sideways. “Still mad, huh?”

“No.” I hurl more fragments at the sea.

“The hardest thing I’ve had to learn from all of this is that love doesn’t force. We can’t force your father to do what we want.”

“I know that.” I pick up a rock this time.

“He’s angry with himself. He’s ashamed of who he is right now.”

My throw goes wild and bounces on the sand. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You know the chapter in Corinthians about love—” Mom begins, and I turn on her, my jaw tight.

“I know. I
know
. Mom, I have it on a teddy bear. ‘Love bears all things.’ I
get
it.”

“No, you don’t,” my mother says, and her very firm hand on my arm stops me from throwing. “See if you can
listen
, Ysabel Marie. It’s not just that love
bears
all things. It believes, it hopes, and it endures. A million broken promises, and love is still there, Ysabel. Love. Does. Not. Give. Up.”

I look at Mom, and she nods, the set of her chin determined. “This family will not be giving up on your father.”

When she lets go of my arm, I halfheartedly fling my last shell. Together we watch as it spins across the water and rebounds, making three effortless little skips before disappearing into the waves.

The sun dips toward the horizon in a smear of coral and pink, and we move toward the bonfire, which burns down the last logs in a shower of sparks. Laura brings out s’mores ingredients, and Beth makes me special chocolate-covered graham crackers,
marshmallow-free. Madison wishes aloud that
someone
had a guitar. Marco shyly produces one from the back of the Andrades’ minivan and plays.

When the fog comes in, the cold reminds us of home and warm beds. Mr. Han commandeers the shovel and smothers the fire, turning the coals in the cold, damp sand. Shivering, we carry the rest of the tarps and blankets back to our cars, and start the round of hugs and promises to keep in touch.

“It was nice to meet you,” Sofia says, giving me a quick hug. “I’m sorry if I said something wrong at dinner.”

“It wasn’t you,” I say, giving a quick glance toward the car, where Dad is talking to Mr. Han. “I just realized some things, and needed time to think.”

“If you want to talk or anything, Viking’s got our number,” Marco offers.

“Thank you,” I say, surprised and grateful.

Dad starts the car, and I look at Justin, who is leaning on the trunk next to Connor. Both of them straighten reluctantly and shake hands.

“Well, this is it, I guess,” I say.

“Do you know when you’ll be back?” Connor asks.

I look at Justin, who shrugs. “Nobody’s said anything to me.”

“Well. Phoenix Festival. Three weeks. That’s not bad.” Connor gives me a tentative hug. “Maybe Madison will let me drive down.”

I hug him back as Madison says from behind us, “I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Come on, guys,” Dad says, opening the car door. Beth hurries over for one last hug, and then we’re down the dark road, the headlights behind us receding into a blur.

I want to cry. I feel like another thread linking me to Dad is coming unraveled, and pretty soon, we’ll be on opposite ends of the state, and there will be nothing left of him.

Two minutes later, I get my first text from Bethany and laugh.

I’m glad.

My father parks the car and insists on carrying my pink art case. He comes with us all the way to the security gate to say goodbye. There are people rushing around us, but that doesn’t stop Dad from standing with us in a circle. With our arms linked, we hold each other as Dad prays, as he always does no matter where we are, when we’re going to be apart. Eyes closed, I concentrate on the sound of his words, straining to memorize the cadence of his voice, as Dad prays for our safety. My own prayer is much shorter and to the point.
Please help Dad come home. Please. Please
.