“Yeah,” he replies, sounding nostalgic. “Maybe we’d better cut this short today. I’ve got some work to do outside and I don’t want to keep you from that boyfriend of yours. What’s his name again?”
“Luke,” I say, knowing that he’ll start remembering Luke’s name soon.
“That’s right,” Dad replies. I have a feeling that the story about Jonas made him sad, and that he doesn’t much feel like talking anymore. And that’s okay.
I understand, because more than he could know, I understand him. It’s all there, in this delightfully warped brain of mine. It’s all there before he says it. It’s all there before he does it.
I adore my father, and that adoration is based mostly on the relationship I know we’ll have eventually. Because of that, cutting one call short doesn’t bother me.
“Okay, Dad, we can pick this up next time,” I say.
“Sounds good. Same day next week?”
The corners of my mouth turn up; we’re on our way to better.
“Yes, Dad,” I say. “Same day next week.”
There is silence for a few seconds, and then:
“I love you, Pumpkin.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
In the middle of the night, the memory rips me from a dead sleep. I switch on the lamp and wait for my eyes to adjust, then throw off the covers and run.
“Mom,” I whisper loudly. She doesn’t stir.
“Mom?” I say in a quiet speaking voice. Nothing.
I move closer and put my hands on her shoulders. I shake her lightly. When that doesn’t work, I shake her harder and raise my voice. “Mom!”
She gasps, shoots upright, and blinks wildly.
“What’s wrong?” she shouts. Her gaze moves from me to the door to the far wall to the window and back again.
“Sorry,” I say, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Nothing’s wrong.”
She checks the digital clock on her nightstand. “Then why are you waking me up at two in the morning?” she asks.
I hold up the photo of Jonas.
“This isn’t exactly what he looks like,” I say as my eyes well up with tears.
She’s confused for a blink, and then it’s clear.
“How do you know?” she whispers, asking to be sure.
“I know because we’ll meet him, Mom,” I say, and as I do, I let myself remember him coming to our house at Christmas. I remember my parents joking about keeping the ornaments away from him, and his warm and wonderful laughter.
“He’s all right?” my mom asks, in an even lower tone, as if she’s afraid to speak it.
I nod my head. “Yes,” I say.
“How do you know?” Mom asks again. I move toward her and wrap my arms around her. I speak into her shoulder as we hug.
“I know because I remember.”