Page 49 of We Fell Apart
Tatum brings us tall glasses filled with wineberry-banana smoothie.
“If they ran away,” I ask, “wouldn’t you go looking for them? When they were younger, I mean.”
“They never did run, but no.”
“You’d let them leave? Little kids? When it’s your responsibility to keep them safe?”
“You’re stirring up trouble, Matilda,” says Tatum.
I turn to Tatum. He is so infuriating. “It’s just a conversation.”
“It’s okay,” says June. “Iwouldlook for them,” she acknowledges to me. “But I don’t think I’d make them come home. I’ve learned that forcing people into things is a very painful choice, even when it appears necessary. Even when it’s for their own good. Because once you force them, they begin to fear you. And that fear can easily become hate. Hate is very hard to undo.”
“I don’t think a child would hate you for bringing him home,” I say.
Tatum looms over me. “June took in a kid who was full of rage and grief,” he says. “A kid who was mean, who lashed out at her all the time. She kept me in school and taught me healing practices and she had endless patience with me when nobody else did. And then she took in Brock. He was a complete stranger, absolutely lost and only barely sober. He was just a collection of tics and television mannerisms. He didn’t even know if he was a person underneath it all. And June was patient with him, too. She let him stay. So you are absolutely not going to misunderstand her way of thinking as not caring.”
June puts a gentle hand on his arm. “I said it’s okay,” she says. “You make it sound like I’m a saint.” She turns to me. “Domestic situations don’t need to be permanent. You can let go of the idea that the world owes you stability. When you do that, you stop being angry, because you have no expectations.”
It’s true. I am angry.
At Luca, for dumping me and making everyone hate me. At my mother, for leaving. At my father, for not being here. At myself, for needing a parent when I’m supposed to be an adult.
“If you don’t like waiting for Kingsley, you are free to go,” says June.
She’s right. I should grow up and let go of my expectations of other people. “I appreciate your hospitality,” I say. “It’s time to stop waiting for something to happen.”
This isn’t a quest to understand my origin. It’s just a visit that’s gone on too long.
My father doesn’t care enough to come back and know me.
This place is a beautiful, depressing trap. I should be spending a normal summer after high school, playing video games and earning money and listening to music and making friends with people who will be first-years at UC Irvine. I should be shopping for stuff I need for college—not sitting around in a state of suspended animation, waiting for a man who isn’t coming. “If I can use my computer, I’ll arrange for a flight back to LA tonight,” I tell June.
“Don’t.” Meer is standing in the doorway, his hair tousled from sleep. “Please. Do not go.” He comes over and sits on my lap, almost knocking over my smoothie.
“You’re too big to be a lap boy,” I say.
“I’m not.” Meer wiggles around and tucks his legs up so he’s in a ball. “Stay here and be my sister. Matilda, I’m serious. I need you to stay. Please. I have plans for us that haven’t happened yet.”
“What plans?”
He laughs and gets off my lap to pour himself a cup of smoothie. “I’m planning plans, okay? They’re gonna happen, but they takelogistics,and I suck at those. But also, I want you to meet Kingsley. I want you to know our dad. And understand him. Because he’s what connects us. Please? Please stay?”
I tell him I will.
34
Half an hourlater, Meer takes me by scooter to Meadowlark Barn, which is a dairy farm that has a small shop on the property. It sells homemade cheese and freshly laid eggs.
It’s probably too late to get their pastries, Meer tells me. They sell out. But when we get there, the shop has two raspberry scones left. We also buy a carton of eggs and two hunks of cheese, but mostly we’re there so Meer can say hello to the chickens. Yes, there are chickens hopping across the lawn in front of a large triangular coop. There are maybe forty of them.
As we eat, Meer squats down and gives tiny scone scraps to the birds. He says encouraging things to them. “You’re a good nice roundie one with a sharp beak,” he says. “Yes, I noticed your beak. I like how it’s so pointy. Did you lay an egg today? Did you do a good job?” He turns to me. “I read that when chickens start laying, like the first couple weeks they ever lay, they lay mini eggs. Isn’t that cool? They have to work up to a big egg.” He sighs and flops down to sit on the grass. “You made me think about later,” he says. “Like do I want to learn tattooing or travel to Japan or what…”
“And?” I sit down next to him.
“And maybe one question is, do I want chickens? And maybe goats and a horse and another horse to keep it company, and maybe some ducks?”
“Why later?” I ask. “Why not now?”
