Breakfast with Neruda (25 page)

“Didn't your mom write that he liked science?” Shelly asks.

“Yeah. Maybe he's on a science database somewhere,” Annie says.

We look at Google science and click on science news. She types in his name on the search bar, "Nothing by or about Ashton Meadows.”

“Try Ash Meadows,” I say.

“Fifteen matches!” she says. We scan the titles and all are related to marine life.

The most recent shows Ash Meadows as one of several authors of an article about sea turtles. She clicks on the article. In the author's note it says Dr. Ash Meadows is a marine biologist who splits his time between Hawaii and Seattle. “I think we may be getting somewhere,” Shelly mutters.

Shelly looks at the University of Washington site. “Bingo,” She says. “Ash Meadows is a professor in the biology department.” She moves the screen so I can see it better. “He stole your Hawaiian shirt,” she says.

The photo next to his name shows a good-looking man with longish hair wearing a short-sleeved flowered shirt. The biggest difference between this guy and the one in the yearbook is, besides being twenty years older, in this picture, he is smiling.

She loads her printer with photo paper and prints an 8" × 10" picture. We hold it next to the ones we photocopied in the library. The eyes are the same, as is his face shape. His dark hair is now streaked with silver, but it's the same guy.

Annie jumps up. “We found your father!”

“Yeah,” I say. “It seems surreal.” I sit there, staring at the photo of my biological father, the guy I have been looking for my entire life. It's almost too much to process.

“Funny how Mom always picked smart guys to father her children,” Annie says. “I mean, Jeff's dad isn't a college professor like ours, but Paul's smart in other ways.”

I nod.

Shelly studies me. “You found your dad.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. I sit on her bed, holding the photos.

Shelly sits next to me. “You seem kind of bummed.”

“I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel,” I say.

“Is it because the mystery is solved?” Annie says.

“That may be part of it,” I say. “But now that I have a genetic blueprint I can track down, what do I do with the information? It's not like I can call or e-mail this Ash Meadows guy and say, ‘Hey dude, I'm your long-lost son. Be my daddy.'”

“True,” Shelly says. “He might have a wife and kids.”

“Go to Seattle and meet him!” Annie says.

“Yeah, right. Let me just go through those millions I have stashed under the front seat of my car and buy a plane ticket to Seattle.”

“Wait,” Shelly says. “Annie may be on to something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why not apply to colleges in Washington?”

After getting expelled, I hadn't even considered college as my next step. I figured I toasted my future with my stupidity. “I wasn't planning on going to college.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, I don't have the money.”

“How did you do on your ACTs?”

I shrug. “I did okay. I got thirty-six in writing and reading, but I tanked science and math.”

“What's your comp score?”

“Thirty-two, I think.”

“Um, duh! A thirty-two is pretty damn good, you idiot,” Shelly says.

“Oh.”

“He got a five on his AP English junior year,” Annie says.

Shelly wrinkles her brow at me. “Jesus, Neruda. How can such a smart guy be such a moron? Write a bang-up essay describing your plight and you'll be flooded with scholarships.”

“You mean tell them I live in my car?”

“Yeah,” Shelly says. “And tell them why. Colleges like quirky people.”

“I got expelled from school for a semester,” I say. “That alone is a red flag. They might question my mental stability.”

Shelly wraps an arm around me. “Your psychosis is part of your unique charm.”

“Play up the hoarding mother and the poverty-stricken-half-orphan thing,” Annie says.

“Yeah,” Shelly says. “You'll have financial aid departments falling all over themselves to send you money.”

Shelly scrolls through the University of Washington website. “Look, they emphasize cultural diversity,” Shelly says. She scans the course listings. “You could learn Urdu!”

I chuckle, yet I feel a fist forming in my stomach. My family is here. Shelly is here. Yet the man I've been looking for my whole life is there.

It's late when we leave Shelly's house. I drop Annie off and find my usual parking spot on the school grounds. Just as I settle in, I get a text from Shelly.

-You okay?

-Yeah. I think so.

-Will you tell your mom?

-Don't know. Today was hard. Lots to process.

-Want me to sing you to sleep?

-Hell NO.

-Yer loss. Sleep well.

-Yeah right.

My future has always been a clean slate. I live day to day, amazed to find I have survived yet another one. Yet as wonky as my life is, it's workable.

In my English class last year, Mrs. Tucker had us write a narrative essay about doing something outside our comfort zones. This was near the beginning of the year when the weather was still fairly warm. I had just begun living in the Blue Whale, and it hit me my life was one giant leap outside of my normal comfort zone. But I wasn't going to write about any of it.

The teacher gave us a list of things we could choose from, such as wear a style of clothes we wouldn't normally wear, or shop in an unusual store. “You guys might want to try Victoria's Secret,” she said. Just the thought of that made me cringe. Another item on the list was to talk to someone you don't know. “This could be a new kid, or someone outside your social circle,” the teacher had said.

I had been the new kid before, and my best friend was someone new I had talked to. At the time of the assignment Rick and I were still good. At lunch that day, I showed Rick the assignment. “Talking to the new kids is not out of my comfort zone,” I said. “I talked to you.”

He grinned. “And look how splendidly that turned out.”

“Yeah, it almost got me killed.” I recalled the near beat-down at recess that day.

“You're pretty brave, though,” he said. He glanced at the list of possible risky tasks. “You have no style, so the clothing thing is moot.”

“Asshole.”

He read aloud from the list. “Be silent for a day, using only gestures or notes.” He studied me. “I've seen you use plenty of gestures.”

I flipped him the bird. “See? That's in your wheelhouse.” Rick looked at the list again and gazed around the cafeteria. He pointed out the pretty blonde I had mentioned to him a week ago. “I'll bet it's out of your comfort zone to talk to her.”

“Well, yeah,” I said. “Because she's about ten thousand light years out of my league.”

He handed me back the project sheet. “There's your assignment, then.” And that was how I started my relationship with Ashley Anders. And look how well that turned out.

So if I chuck it all and move to Seattle to look for a guy who may or may not know I exist, or may not want to be reminded I exist, how will that enrich my life?

Yeah, this is way out of my comfort zone. And I really wish I could talk to Rick about it.

• • •

I hear my name repeated like a mantra. “Michael. Michael. Michael. Michael!” I am startled awake to find Shelly hovering over my head. “My God,” she says. “You sleep like a block of cheese.”

I roll over and groan. I pull the blanket over my head like a mummy. “I think I only slept a couple hours.” I bury my face in my pillow. “What time is it?”

“Seven.” She snuggles next to me and throws an arm over my mummified self. “I'd offer to go get us something to eat so you can sleep longer, but I'm not allowed to drive.”

“You're useless,” I say.

“Yeah, but you like me anyway.”

I am almost asleep again when I hear Shelly say, “Oh, hey.” She pokes me.

I unwrap my head. Earl is standing at the open tailgate, leaning into the car.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says.

“Oh shit,” I mutter.

“It's not what you think,” Shelly says. “I just got here.”

Earl pulls a pack of Red Chief tobacco from his pants pocket and unrolls it. He stuffs a wad in his mouth. “Then why don't you tell me what this is?” he asks.

I sit up. “I, uh, had to work really late last night and didn't want to be late to school.”

Earl leans in and scans the detritus scattered in the back of my station wagon. “What I mean is, why don't you tell me why you're living in this wreck of a car?”

Shelly and I glance at each other.

“Tell you what,” Earl says. “Go get cleaned up and meet me in the lounge.” He eyes Shelly. “Both of you.”

We watch Earl saunter toward the building. Once he's out of earshot, I mutter, “Shit. I'm screwed.”

Earl is sitting with his elbows on one of the lounge tables when Shelly and I walk in. “Where's Hess?” she asks.

“I sent him out for coffee and donuts,” Earl says. He motions for the two of us to sit. “So how long have you been living in your car?”

I clear my throat. No sense in lying about it now. “A few months.”

“So you've been homeless for a while.”

“Technically I still have an address,” I say, “so I'm not homeless. I choose to live on my own.”

“Interesting.”

“I get along fine with my mom.” I glance at Shelly, and continue. “But I'm eighteen. I can live anywhere.”

Earl leans back in his chair and studies me. “You'd rather live in your car than in a house?”

“I thought it would help my mom to have one less person to feed.”

“So if I call your mother, she will say she did not throw you out? That you left on your own accord?”

“Yeah,” I say. “But please don't call her.”

“Why not?”

I shoot Shelly a look. She gives me a slight nod. “My mother . . .” This is where I usually fabricate some lie, like my mother doesn't speak English, or she's out of town, but I know I can't bullshit Earl. “My mother is a hoarder.” This time saying it out loud does not fracture me. “I can't breathe there,” I say. “The amount of junk inside her house is . . . indescribable.”

“What about your siblings?”

“Annie still lives there. Jeff lives with his dad.”

“I see.”

He looks at Shelly. “And you knew about this?” She nods. Earl wraps his hands behind his head and rocks back in his chair. I'd love to know what's spinning inside his head.
Please don't call Children's Services
.

He eyes me. “What about when it starts to get cold out? Where are you planning to live then?”

“I . . . uh . . .”

Hess rescues me by strolling in with a box of donuts from Dan's and four cups of coffee. “Breakfast!” Hess announces and sets the grub on the table.

We each take a cup of coffee. I choose a chocolate-covered cake donut.

“So, is this a staff meeting?” Hess says.

Earl wipes powdered sugar from his lip and points at me. “Kid's been living in his car for several months.”

“Whoa,” Hess says. “That's different.”

“Says he'd rather live in that blue wreck than in his mom's house.”

“Really?” Hess chomps for a few seconds. “So it's kind of like you're camping all the time.” He swigs some coffee. “Could get old, though.”

I am immobilized. My donut sits untouched on the napkin. Shelly, who is munching mindlessly, has been no help at all.

“Don't you have any other family you could stay with?” Earl says.

“I might move in with Jeff's family when it starts to get cold,” I say.

“No you won't,” Earl says. I flush. How does he know I'm lying? “Our kids are grown. We have this big rambling house. We got room.” He grabs for a second donut. “Plenty of room for you there.”

I am about to fall out of my chair.

Shelly and I exchange glances. Living with Earl? “Have you asked your wife?” I say.

“Dot and I talked about you at great length,” he says. “Told her what I suspected about your living arrangements a few weeks ago. It's her idea.”

“One thing for sure,” Hess says. “You'll eat well. Dot's the best.”

“Since you're over eighteen,” Hess says, “you won't have to mess with courts or anything.”

“I'd rather not have Children's Services involved,” I say. “I'm afraid my mom could get in trouble.”

“Michael, what about Annie?” Shelly says. “She can't live on your mom's back porch forever.”

Earl looks like he may explode. “Your sister is living on the back porch?”

I nod.

He stands and wipes his mouth with a paper towel. “Get up. You're taking me to your mother's place now.”

It's bad enough Shelly had to see the horrors inside my house, but I don't know Earl well enough to gauge his reaction when he sees it. “Uh . . . it's pretty horrible,” I say.

“Kid, nothing I see at your house is gonna horrify me. I did a tour in Nam.”

“My mom might be sleeping,” I say.

“Then we'll wake her up.”

I am silent inside Earl's pickup truck as he follows the directions I give him. He leans his arm out the window and chews on a cud, his eyes on the road.

I breathe a small sigh of relief when I see my mother's car is not parked out front. A confrontation between her and Earl would not go well. Hopefully she's still at work and not shopping.

Earl and I get out of the truck and he walks up the steps to the front door. Earl is not as heavy as Hess, but he's big enough. I don't think he will fit inside the door. “We should probably go through the back,” I say. “It's easier to get in that way.”