Page 131 of Give & Take

“Doolittle, dumbass,” Charlie says, smacking him on the back of the head.

“Hey, that’s my move,” I say proudly. Charles, the oldest of my four little brothers, has really grown up this year. He’s going into his senior year, and taken over the mantle of wise older brother since I left.

Mostly. He still snorted with laughter when Will, the youngest, accidentally sucked a tapioca pearl up his nostril this afternoon.

I mean, I did too when Will finally managed to shoot it out—it hit a realtor photo on a bus bench we were walking by right on the cheek so it looked like a very unfortunate mole.

“Are they always like this?” Mom asks next to me. We’re at a large table at one of those big family-friendly restaurants off the I-5, halfway between Mom’s place and Dad’s, so nobody is really that concerned by a bunch ofrowdy teens, but still, I clap my hands. “Dudes, manners.”

“Sorry,” Junior says.

Mom smiles, not unkindly. John Junior’s the quiet middle child, second youngest. He usually has his nose stuck in a book and is the last person who needs to apologize out of these four.

I love my brothers, but going out to celebrate successfully defending my thesis wasn’t my idea. It was my dad’s, of all people. He was the one who suggested I invite Mom, which is bizarre, since I don’t think they’ve seen each other in close to a decade.

But luckily neither he nor my stepmother are here. Dad called and said he was going to be late, surprise surprise. And his wife has a migraine. Another big surprise.

But it’s fine. I’ve spent my whole life trying to get his attention. What’s one more day without it?

Deanie waddles back from the bathroom, looking weary but beautiful. “My back is killing me,” she complains.

I get up and pull her chair out for her. “I booked you for three consecutive massages back in Vancouver the minute you get home,” I say.

“Don’t forget the postpartum ones too.”

“I would never.” I push her chair in.

I owe Deanie. Massages for life won’t even cut how much I owe her. She spent her vacation time this summer down here in California paying a personal visit to each one of my advisors, using her marketing expertise to sell them on the idea of reading my dissertationand allowing me to defend it all within the space of a month.

“You’re lucky they already loved you or my job would have been a hell of a lot harder. And it was hard as hell,” she told me.

Organizing academics in the summer really was a huge feat. I’d paid Deanie in flights, meals, hotel, and massages for a year.

Or at least I’d tried to. Once I told my whole story to her on the phone a few weeks ago—that I wasn’t messing around with Lana; that I’d fallen for her and was going to rearrange my whole life to try to be with her and the girls, with the very real risk she might still say no—she’d burst into tears. “I don’t know if it’s the hormones or what, but I need to see this win,” she told me.

I know she’d been struggling, having decided to have this baby on her own, and so far away from our family back in Cali. I told her if it was too much she didn’t need to do a thing. But she’d insisted. She loved Lana. But more than that, she loved that I’d “finally found my thing.”

This was a level of sappiness I’d never known in my sister. I could relate.

I wait until after our meal is served to give my little speech, just in case Dad arrives. He doesn’t not until we’re partway through dessert.

At that point, he shows up looking haggard; years older than he did when I saw him last at Easter. His suit’s rumpled, and I can’t help notice his wedding ring is missing.

“Did they—” I whisper to Deanie.

She gives me a dismissive shrug. “I don’t even care anymore.”

Truly, my sister is now even more Zen than I am.

Mom, on the other hand, looks furious. Not that most people could tell. Her face is slack, lips straight. But her hands are tight on the table, her knuckles white. Except, Deanie’s are too. I realize she’s just as upset as Mom, but trying not to show it.

I meet her eye for a moment, to see if she’s okay, and she smiles tightly, encouraging me to go on. Mom nods.

“Thanks everyone for coming,” I say, running my hand over the back of my neck. “And thanks Dad, for…footing the bill,” I say.

It’s one of those jokes with an edge. Because that’s been Dad’s MO for life. Financial support. That’s it.

There was a time I cared about it; that I felt like I’d missed out on having the kind of father-son relationships so many of my friends had. But then the boys had started coming, and I was too busy to care. I got to shower on them the love I never got from him.

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