Page 111 of Lost Love on 6th Street

And then he’s gone.

36

LUKE

Thankfully, my week is full of gigs and obligations. I’m able to forget myself in the work. As long as I’m busy, I can’t think about my dad, Claire, Diane, or Eleanor.

In the slower moments, the ones I dread, it’s no longer Eleanor who comes to me for comfort. It’s thoughts of my mom and dad. The relationship that I thought they had. The one that, I guess, is a total lie.

Poor Eleanor doesn’t deserve my silence. She texts me every day, hoping I’m well, wishing to see me. And I never give her anything in return. I can’t. I’ve already hurt her so deeply. And now that I know the stock I come from, I keep having visions of hurting her even worse. It’s only been a few months. Maybe we should call it quits now before we get in too deep; before we’re married, and I get restless and have an affair with a family friend.

I don’t see that for myself. But I would never have expected that from my dad either.

Mom has been nagging me about what’s going on with my girlfriend, and when she’ll come out to meet the family. And I don’t have the heart to tell her that I don’t know when or if Eleanor will ever meet her.

I love her. Still love her with every fiber of my being.

I always thought that was enough.

According to the way my dad lived his life, apparently it wasn’t. Apparently, it was a lie.

So, when my mom calls on Saturday to invite Eleanor down for Sunday lunch, I break.

“Mom, I have some questions about dad.”

She laughs into the phone. “Why are you sounding so serious?”

“Because I want to know what happened with Aunt Diane.”

The line goes quiet for a long time. I half expect her to hang up on me. She’s always been the type to suggest there are some conversations parents should never have with their children, and I could see her deciding that this isn’t something I have a right to know about.

Mom surprises me with one word. “Alright.”

* * *

We sit out in the backyard on a bench. It looks the same as it did when I was a child, with the same tire swing swaying in the breeze. It’s worn, but still just the same.

I guess we’re all a little worn.

Not the same, though. Not now that I know.

“We all went to school together,” Mom says. “College.”

Her finger circles the rim of her glass of iced tea.

“She was in my wedding. You saw the pictures.” She laughs. Laughs. “She hated the dress I made my bridesmaids wear.”

I have to rein in my impatience. I want to know the truth, the answers. Not the long winding story.

It’s only fair I give her the space to tell it, though. It’s her hardship.

“Anyway, she was as close as family. You know that.”

I don’t know anything anymore.

Mom looks out at the yard. Her expression is even. Not necessarily pained, but intent. “As far as I know, there was never anything between them before . . .” She clears her throat. “Well, Dad got laid off. You remember that.”

“Vaguely.”

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