Page 107 of Maybe We Can Fake It

Once we have the food set out on the largest round table and everyone’s served themselves, I have nothing left to distract me from the building panic. What are we supposed to do now? Do we just start saying shit about April? Who goes first? And is there any chance I can get away with not speaking at all?

Travis pulled the blinds down over the diner’s big glass windows to give us privacy. I appreciated it when he did it—because lord knows, I don’t want the whole town to witness this sobfest. But now it’s getting claustrophobic in here.

“I know this is a little unorthodox,” Elise starts, glancing around the table at each of us. “We had a memorial service after April passed away, of course. But May was only a baby, and after she and I discussed it, I realized that she’d appreciate the opportunity to hear more about her mom. So we don’t need to be formal here. We can all share whatever we’re comfortable with.” She turns to May and places a hand over her wrist. “And if there’s anything you’d like to ask us, please do.”

May sets down her fork, a huge chunk of pancake speared on the end of it. “I wouldn’t even know what to ask.”

“That’s okay,” Grant assures her. “You can just jump in if you think of anything.”

“Would you like to go first, Brenden?” Elise asks.

As everyone’s eyes focus on me, I avert mine down to my plate where I’ve drowned my pancakes in a lake of syrup. “No,” I say meekly.

Thankfully, no one pushes me. Elise begins talking about April as a child, her favorite games and books and movies. I swirl my fork through the syrup lake while I pretend to listen. When Grant joins in with Elise, I force myself to eat just so I’ll have something to do.

They keep the conversation flowing for a while, and May chimes in with comments and questions. Beside me, Travis is quiet, but I can tell he’s listening.

Once they move on to talking about April in high school and college, it gets harder for me to let their words float in one ear and out the other. I have things to say. This was when April was my favorite person in the world, and I want to talk about how awesome she was. I want to tell May how much of her mom I see in her. But I’m afraid of what will happen if I open my mouth.

I’ll either start sobbing instead of talking, or I’ll start talking and never be able to stop. Neither of which is productive.

It keeps itching at me though, the desire to talk about those years with April. But is it appropriate to tell her parents and daughter about how often April snuck out of her house to spend the night at mine? Do they need to hear how much Elise and Grant drove her crazy?

They definitely don’t need to know that she gave her first blowjob before I did, and then I made her demonstrate for me with a hairbrush handle because I was worried I’d do it wrong.

Although I’m avoiding eye contact with anyone, I can sense May watching me. Without looking at her, I can’t tell if she’s concerned at how silent I’m being, or if she’s disappointed in me for not participating. Either will make me feel like a failure.

Travis’s chair scrapes across the floor as he scoots closer to me, but the conversation continues. He puts his hand on my leg, right above my knee. The form of comfort doesn’t magically work like it has every other time he’s touched me like this. But I’d give anything for him to keep his hand there anyway.

Actually, I’d give anything for him to pick me up and carry me right out the door, but I know that’s not going to happen.

“Dad?”

My eyes instinctually look up to find my daughter’s, and I can see she’s been crying. I feel awful. It’s my job to shield her from things that would make her cry.

I’m failing. I’m failing. I’m failing.

I need to get her out of here.

“Can you please try to talk about her? For me?”

Oh.

She doesn’t want to leave. She wants to keep sitting here and talking about these things that are making her cry. How is she so strong? She certainly didn’t get it from me, because I’m not sure how I’m going to make it through this. She must have gotten it from her mother.

But didn’t April tell me I was strong, and that I’d teach May how to be too?

My lungs start to fill with something other than air until Travis squeezes my leg.

I glance down at my soggy pancakes, then back up at May. My brilliant, wonderful daughter. I agreed to do this for her, but I’m not really doing it, am I?

I’m supposed to teach her how to be strong.

And it’s becoming impossibly harder for me to hold back my memories. Because here we are, having pancakes for dinner, which April would’ve loved. And suddenly, something that April said to me when she asked me to adopt May comes to mind, along with another memory. But this one’s not of April.

“I don’t know if this counts...” I start slowly, letting my voice adjust after the disuse. “But do you remember your seventh birthday? We had a party on the weekend, but I asked what you wanted for dinner on your actual birthday, and you said cookies. It made me remember the talk I had with your mom when sheasked me to adopt you. One of the things she said was that she wanted you to grow up healthy, but she also wanted you to know that sometimes it’s okay to have cookies for dinner.”

Elise makes a small noise, but I keep my focus on May.

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