Page 112 of Roommate
His eyes flicker open, and he turns his chin to see who’s there. “Kieran,” he says tiredly. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice cracking. “Sure.”
He closes his eyes again. “That’s how we always do it, right? We say we’re okay no matter what.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “We do.”
“Your mother told me everything. I can’t believe how we failed you. In a tree at church? That is not how I wanted you to hear the truth.”
“I wasn’t supposed to hear it at all, right?”
His eyes flip open again. They’re a dark brown color that the Shipleys all share. “I’m sorry. That was a mistake. If I could go back in time and find a better way, I would. You were such an angry teenager, and I struggled with it.”
“I know.”
“I understand now that you probably thought I loved your brother more. He was easier for me to understand, though. I had no idea what you were going through—that it was my fault you were so angry.”
My throat is closing up now. “Water under the bridge,” I croak.
“Secrets burn you,” he whispers. “I didn’t understand that when I was young. Don’t make the same mistake, if you can help it.”
“I’m trying,” I say, fighting off tears. “I swear.”
He swallows hard. “Good.”
“I have a boyfriend. You met him,” I blurt out. “Roderick. Maybe that seems weird to you, but it doesn’t to me.”
“Okay,” he says. “I’m sure I can get used to the idea. Thank you for telling me.”
I gulp back tears. “You’re welcome.”
“Hey, my wallet is in that drawer.” He nods toward the table beside the bed. “There’s a picture in there. Pull it out for me.”
Grateful for something to do, I open the drawer and fish out my dad’s ancient leather wallet. Inside there are slots for two photos. One is a picture of Kyle, circa first grade. And the other one is a photo I’ve never seen before. I’m maybe one year old. My dad is holding me, and I’ve got my small hand on his face. And he’s smiling so widely at me. The way a man smiles at his little boy.
“It wasn’t always difficult,” he says. “Let’s both try to remember that.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice breaking.
“You take that one,” he says. “I have the same photo on my bureau at home. Show it to your boyfriend, so he knows what a cute baby you were.”
I slip the picture out of the plastic sleeve. My relationship with Dad is heavy. But the photo is light in the palm of my hand.
* * *
When I finally come out of Dad’s hospital room, I find Roderick and Father Peters on adjacent waiting room chairs, their heads bent together in deep discussion.
“Hey,” I croak. “What are you two scheming about?”
“Tacos and enchiladas!” Father Peters says. “We’re trying to figure out which one is easier to serve to two hundred people.” He jumps to his feet. “How is your father?”
“He’s all right for a guy with severe lacerations and no spleen.”
“Ah. I’ll visit him in a moment. How are you holding up?”
“Fine.” I take a deep breath. “Better, actually.”
“Good.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I’m going to ask you a question, but I don’t expect an answer right away.”
