The Lucky Kind (13 page)

Flying

I
love airports. Especially at Christmas when it’s crowded and everyone’s hurrying, carrying extra bags full of presents that will inevitably be crushed before they reach their destinations. I love it because they’re all going somewhere: back home, or on vacation to someplace tropical, excited to go someplace new, or to meet someone new.

This trip has never been new. By the time I was old enough to understand what an airport was and where we were going, I’d already been on this trip so many times that it was familiar. So it is very strange to be anxious now, at the airport, watching my mom pick out magazines and buy gum while my dad loads up on snacks. He always buys junk food before a flight, as though he thinks there’s a chance the flight might last for days and days and he needs to make sure we won’t starve up there.

He should be more nervous, certainly. At least, he should be more nervous than I am. But he doesn’t seem anxious at all: He’s humming while he grabs Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups; he keeps taking my mom’s hand and kissing it; he even tousled my hair as we got into the cab.

No, he’s not nervous. He’s like a kid going to Disney World for the first time: He knows what’s there, he’s seen the commercials, he’s looked through the brochures and planned out which rides he’s going to go on and which characters he’s going to meet. But all that preparation hasn’t prepared him for the actual thrill of going on Space Mountain, and now it’s all he can think about.

I wonder if he was that excited when my mom was pregnant with me. I wonder if he held her hand in the cab on the way to the hospital, got candy at the gift shop, tapped his feet on the floor in the delivery room.

We do the same things at the airport every year. The candy and magazines are first, and I’m ready now to move on to the next thing: coffee from the greasy-looking Starbucks next to the security line.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, “think you can tear yourself away from the candy long enough to grab a latte?”

He looks surprised at the suggestion. We’ve been doing this forever; when I was too young for coffee, it was hot chocolate.

“Sure, Buddy,” he says. He hands his candy to Mom, and we walk to Starbucks.

On line, he sways back and forth next to me, like he’s dancing to a song only he can hear. His head bops from one side to the other. He looks like those men in old movies, the ones in the hospital waiting room, waiting for their children to be born.

“Do you want caramel on yours?” I ask, and he nods, looking off ahead of me. I even have to pay, since he’s so distracted he just walks away when the barista rings up our order.

He walks ahead of me to the gate, and I follow him with our drinks. I feel like a waiter.

“Thanks, Buddy,” he says when I hand him his drink. He takes a sip and looks out the window; I don’t know if it’s holding the warm drink or looking at the orderly way the planes outside are arranged, but he seems calmer now.

He says, “Look at all those planes lining up. It seems more crowded every year; more people coming home.”

Especially this year, I think as I take a sip of my drink. My father is still looking out the window as he says, “I think, Buddy, I think I may owe you an apology.”

I don’t say anything. I look at the planes, too.

“I don’t know, honestly, what I should have done differently, when I might have told you sooner, or how I should have told you.”

I nod. I don’t know what the right way would have been, either.

“When I signed up for the registry, you were so young. And then the years passed, and he never called. I ignored your mother—she thought I should have told you years ago. But I had started to think he was never going to call. I couldn’t see the point in telling you when he hadn’t called.

“I never should have put you in a position where you were going to answer the phone one night and have it be the baby I gave up. I can’t see any way around it, but I should have found a way.”

I nod. I notice that he still refers to the nearly thirty-year-old man whose name we now know as the baby he gave up. Maybe Sam will be a baby until tomorrow, when my father sees that he is a grown person.

I say, “I didn’t know it was him at the time.”

“Yeah, but afterward. You might have had flashbacks,” he says, and he smiles. It’s a lame joke, and not very funny, but I’m grateful to my dad for making it, since it makes the lump in my throat recede.

“Anyway, Buddy,” my dad says, “I just wanted to tell you that. I don’t want you to think you weren’t foremost in my mind when I decided that I wanted to meet Sam, or when Sam and I started talking. I was already thinking about you the very day we gave Sam up, before you and I had even met. I was already worried about how it might impact the family I’d have someday. I wish I could have thought of a better way to have done all this.”

I nod. I wish I’d done it better, too, I say to him silently.

Dad reaches into his pocket to make sure the tickets are there. Then panic crosses his face when they’re not, followed by relief when he remembers he gave them to my mom to hold, followed by panic when he realizes that if Mom is holding them, he can’t check to make sure they’re still there. And then I laugh, out loud. Even if I’m not a part of it, I can’t remember the last time I saw my father so excited.

On the plane, I pretend to sleep. When I close my eyes, I see Eden’s face, and she’s smiling at me. Much to my surprise, seeing her makes me feel better, makes me calm. And I wish, I really do wish, that she were here, sitting next to me on the plane, holding my hand throughout this strange and radically new trip we’re taking.

Ohio

S
am won’t actually be here until sometime tomorrow. He’s spending Christmas Eve with his real family, I guess. His other family. Or maybe his fiancée’s family.

“Is his fiancée coming?” I ask.

“No, he wanted to come by himself.”

“Where is he staying?” I ask. We’re decorating the tree in my grandparents’ living room.

“The same Days Inn where we’re staying,” Dad answers quickly, because it’s obvious. It’s the only hotel close by.

“How come we never stay with Grandma and Grandpa?” I never thought to ask that before. We’ve always stayed in the same place.

“We never have, not since I married your mother.”

“Why?”

“It just seemed easier for everyone involved.” He reaches down for a bell-shaped ornament. “My mother was already putting so much into getting the house ready for Christmas, it didn’t seem fair to ask her to play hostess any more than that.”

I have other questions. I ask two at once, rapid-fire. “How did Grandma and Grandpa react when you told them about Sam Roth? When did you tell them?”

“Well, your grandmother already knew—I told her when he was born—I didn’t tell your grandfather until I knew Sam was coming for Christmas. But he told me he’d suspected it.”

“He did?”

“Yeah—could have knocked me over with a feather. But I guess there are some things sons can’t hide from fathers without their at least suspecting it.”

He doesn’t look at me when he says it; he’s looking at the ornaments in his hand, like he has to decide whether to put Charlie Brown or the rocking horse on the tree first. But I look at him, and I watch him hang them both, and I wonder whether he’s really talking about his dad, or whether he’s trying to tell me he knows about Eden and me; knows that I loved her, and knows that I left her.

“When did you tell them he was coming for Christmas?” I ask.

“Around Thanksgiving.”

“Before or after you told me?” I ask, feeling my face get hot; it’s really quite something how quickly it turns out I can get angry. I must find a way to put this skill to good use. Wrestling. Acting. Politics.

“After. Jesus, Nick, you know that—I told you that.”

“You did?” I try to remember; he came into my room, he was going to ask me my opinion.

“When you called me snotty,” I say slowly.

“Well, you were being snotty at the time,” he says, but then he smiles at me.

“Right.”

“You used to think before you spoke, I think.”

“I used to,” I agree, and we leave it at that.

The Days Inn

W
hen I was little, my parents and I shared a room at the Days Inn. I’ve never been so relieved to be a teenager as I am tonight, when I get to go into a room with a different key, all my own, and pick up my phone to call Stevie.

“Hey,” I say, lying against the pillows and propping my feet up.

“Hey, Christmas Boy, how are things in the Midwest?”

“Is this considered the Midwest?”

“Sure it is.”

“Oh.”

“Do you even know what the capital of Ohio is?”

“Should I?”

“Dude, we learned the state capitals in fifth grade.”

“Well, we learned long division in the fifth grade and that sure has come in handy since they began letting us use a calculator.”

“Sure has.”

I lean my head back against the wall behind me. “What’s going on back in NYC?”

“It’s cold as balls, I’ll tell you that.”

“Wait, does that actually mean it’s hot? Like when people say cold as hell; shouldn’t that actually mean it’s hot?”

“You are much too easily confused these days, my friend. It’s just an expression.”

“Whatever. What’d you do today?”

“Well, I’ll tell you.”

“Please do.”

Stevie actually hesitates before saying, “I went to the movies with Eden.”

I look up at the ceiling. The paint is peeling. I imagine that if I sleep with my mouth open tonight, pieces will fall in and I’ll get lead poisoning.

“Nicholas?” Stevie prompts.

“Yeah, okay. What movie?”

“Does that matter?”

“I guess not.”

“Aren’t you going to at least ask the obvious questions?”

“They must not be so obvious ’cause I don’t know which questions those are.”

“Let’s start out with: How is she doing?”

“Okay,” I comply, “how is she doing?”

“Bad, man. Really bad.”

“I’m so glad I asked.”

“I’m not telling you to make you feel bad.”

“Then why?”

“ ’Cause I thought you might like to know, seeing as until a few mysterious weeks ago she was the love of your life.”

“Okay. Tell me.”

“Her parents are being real assholes. They keep taking her aside and telling her the terrible things the other did. Lying, cheating, money—you name it.”

“Wow.”

“And you know how chill she can be, but she’s just, like, these are things she’d have been better off not knowing, you know?”

“I know.”

“And she doesn’t have anyone to tell about it.”

“She’s telling you.”

“Only ’cause you left her high and dry.”

“Don’t say that. She’s got plenty of friends.”

“She wants to talk to you.”

“Well, she could call me.”

I can practically hear Stevie shaking his head. “No, I don’t think she could. When she called to tell you that her parents were splitting, you weren’t exactly warm and fuzzy.”

“Dude, it was the night before finals. I was studying. And anyway, how do you know that?”

“How the fuck do you think I know it? She needs to talk to someone; she’s worried about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh yeah, you’re stellar,” Stevie laughs. “Dude, you should never sleep with a girl so soon after learning that your dad got some girl pregnant. And certainly not on the very day you learned that you’re going to come face to face with said progeny.”

I run my hands through my hair, swinging my legs over the side of the bed so that my feet are firmly planted on the floor.

“Jesus Christ, is there anything that girl hasn’t told you?”

“Don’t be mad at her.”

I shake my head. “I’m not.”

“You made some stupid-assed decisions in the last few weeks.”

I press my feet into the cheap carpet, hard.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Well, I do. See what happens when you fly blind? You’ve gotta run the major plays by me first.”

I smile. I’m thankful Stevie has made a joke. “Yeah, I’m sure that would have helped enormously.”

“No doubt.”

“I’m glad you’re looking out for her,” I say.

“Dude, I’m only a seat filler. She needs you.”

I press my eyes closed so tight that my head starts to ache. “Yeah, well, let’s just—we’ll see.”

“That we will, my friend. That we will.”