Page 8 of Wish I Were Here
I definitely didn’t get my mathematical brain from Dad, or my desire for organization, order, or punctuality. I have noidea if I got it from my mom. And just like it always does, my heart gives a tiny lurch at the thought of the parent I’ve never met. Growing up with Dad’s freewheeling, nonchalant attitude toward rules and conventions, I’ve spent most of my life feeling like a stick-in-the-mud for wanting to be on time to school and pay the bills before they were due. And the more Dad lost job after job, apartment after apartment, the more I dug in. And the more out of place I felt.
But I’ve always wondered if maybe there’s someone else out in the world who gets what it feels like to have her chest squeeze when she walks into a disorganized apartment. Someone who tucks schedules and lists into her bag because they help her to feel in control. Someone who would rather be an hour early than five minutes late.
Dr. Gupta murmurs something noncommittal, and I need to focus because Dad is still talking.
“Yep, definitely didn’t get it from me.” Dad laughs and gives Dr. Gupta a nudge. “I always thought analgae-brawas something a mermaid wears, if you know what I mean.”
“Okay,” I jump in, mortification finally galvanizing me into action. But I’m sensing it’s far too late. There’s no coming back from this. “I think Dr. Gupta gets the picture.”
“Yes, I—I really should be going.” Dr. Gupta’s voice is polite but clipped. “Andy, it was very nice to meet you.”Lies. All lies.The only reason this meeting could have possibly been nice for Dr. Gupta is if he’s looking for an amusing anecdote to share with his colleagues while his coffee brews in the department kitchenette. But I’m afraid Dr. Gupta doesn’t have enough of a sense of humor to find even this funny. “I have a faculty meeting to prepare for.”
“Nice to meet you, Doc,” Dad says, reaching out his hand again.
Dr. Gupta pretends he doesn’t see it and turns to me instead. “Catherine.”
I wonder if there’s any way to salvage this. “Thank you again for breakfast. I’m really looking forward to working on that paper we discussed earlier.” My eyes search Dr. Gupta’s face for signs that he’s not as alarmed by this whole interaction as I’m suspecting. “October,” I add. “I’ll have it to you then.” He likes my brilliant mind, after all. Surely he won’t hold it against me that my father is essentially a clown with no filter.
But even on a good day, Dr. Gupta is impossible to read, and this is not a good day. He silently heads toward the mathematics building.
I turn to my dad. “What are you doing here?” I hiss.
“I told you. I’m working.”
“What happened to the Harvest Market?”
Dad waves dismissively. “They were so stuffy. The manager got mad at me for juggling a customer’s oranges. Who hates juggling? It’s like hating kittens. And he was so rude when I balanced a carrot on my nose.” He throws his hands up in the air. “For the record, the customers loved it.”
I press my hands to my eyes, a headache coming on. Of course they loved it. The customers always love it.
The truth is that my dad is actually a really talented clown. I don’t mean the kind that wears a red nose and big shoes. My dad dresses in fairly normal, if somewhat wacky, attire. But he can do all kinds of tricks, like juggling fire, spinning a half dozen Hula-Hoops on all of his limbs at once, andwalking on stilts. He can even perform tricks while balancing on a slackline hovering above the ground or riding on a unicycle. But aside from a few kids’ birthday parties, the Renaissance Faire, and Burning Man… oh, and his hat on the ground over there… the clown industry is pretty limited in terms of financial opportunities. And while the customers love it, the managers at Dad’s various short-lived jobs tend to object when their employee is tossing burgers and french fries into the air instead of bagging them up and sending them out the drive-through window.
“You promised you’d try at this job. You promised it would stick.”
“I know, Kitty Cat. But it’s just not me. That grocery store was slowly sucking my soul. Besides”—he brightens—“I have a few things in the works.”
Healwayshas a few things in the works, and rarely do they pan out. The grocery store job was a steady income and a sure bet. But it sounds like it’s too late. That job went up like the flames at the end of Dad’s juggling sticks. I gaze out across the lawn at my dad’s hat still sitting there. “I guess you should get back to it before someone steals your money,” I say with a resigned sigh.
Beyond the hat and the lawn, out on the street bisecting the university’s campus, Luca’s car pulls up next to the curb. Unbelievable. He actually showed. I check my watch:
10:01 a.m. And only a minute late. Luca climbs out of the car and stands up so he can look at me across the hood. He gives me a sideways grin and a wave. After the morning I’ve had, I’m strangely happy to see someone smiling at me.
“I should go. That’s my ride.”
Dad turns around to see who I’m looking at, and when he catches a glimpse of Luca and the Town Car, his eyebrows rise. I get it. Luca looks more like Dad’s friends, with his two days of facial scruff, tattoos, and mischievous smile, while I tend to run in the Dr. Gupta crowd.
I reach over to give Dad a hug. “Let’s talk more about this at dinner on Sunday.” Maybe then I can convince him to get another job.
As I head across the lawn toward the Town Car, Luca jogs around the hood and swings the front passenger-side door open. “Hi,” he says with another wide grin.
“Thanks for coming.” I lift a foot to climb in and then stop. On the seat is a pile of grocery bags.
“Whoops,” Luca says when he notices my hesitation and looks in the car for himself. “Mrs. Goodwin did a little shopping. Let me move these to the trunk.”
He’s already put a big box in the trunk, and I’m not sure if all these bags will fit, too. “It’s fine. I can get in the back.”
I pull open the door and slide into the car. Mrs. Goodwin is still sitting there, behind Luca’s seat, and they’ve picked up another passenger, who is now sitting in the middle. He’s a short, olive-skinned white man, probably in his eighties, with a shiny bald head encircled by a ring of snow-white hair around the sides.
“Hello,” the man says, giving me a smile. “The name’s Sal.”
