And if she remembered the accident, then she might remember Mom’s drinking. And if she remembered the accident and Mom’s drinking, then she might remember the times we walked to school because Mom was in no state to drive us. The stories we practiced on the way so our teachers wouldn’t suspect anything. The times we called Dad and told him Mom was sick and could he please go to McDonald’s and get dinner. He knew she wasn’t sick but he never let on. I figure he must have known we knew that too, but none of us wanted to burst the others’ flimsy little bubble.
And if Lola put all these things together, she might figure out that we were all guilty of baiting the hook. Trying to guide her to the memories that were good, and steer her away from the ones that weren’t. But the bigger picture was worth protecting. Mom was sober, and Ray would have burst into a million pieces back then if he knew Lola could remember the way it all happened.
It was hard for Dad, though. I think, despite it all, he wanted things to be real. He wanted not to measure what he said or start a sentence that he couldn’t finish. He wanted everything back the way it had been, but he knew that was impossible.
“This is a ridiculous game, Cecilia,” he had said to Mom once when he didn’t know anyone was listening. “I feel like we’re in a soap opera and this week the part of the mother is being played by a total stranger, and next week someone will come out of a coma and tell us we’ve all been brainwashed by the Evil Overlord, and then next month the whole darn thing will be canceled.”
“This is a new beginning, Nate,” she’d whispered. “I get a chance to start over. I’m taking it.”
Mom had stormed off, leaving Dad to sigh in resignation.
“I guess there’s nothing to do but go from here,” Dad had said.
Ray and I had been listening from the top of the stairs. We thought Lola was asleep in her room. Later that night, I went to check on her, but she wasn’t there. I found her on the front porch, sitting on the top step.
“Are Mom and Dad talking about me?” she had asked.
“Of course not,” I said.
But my hands began to shake with the fear of what she might be understanding.
“I won’t tell,” Lola said.
“Tell what?”
I remember she just looked at me and cocked her head, but didn’t say anything.
“Go back to bed,” I said. “It’s cold out here.”
“I move into my new place in a couple of weeks,” Ray says, bringing me back. “I need you to come with me and see where it is.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
We don’t talk much in the car. Actually, we don’t talk at all. There had been a time when Ray and I stood at a fork in the road, one way was family dinners and long chats on the phone, cards at Christmas and photos of the kids on each other’s fridge. The other way was where we are now.
He drives us to the park and shuts off the engine.
“Ray,” I say, looking around, “this is a park. Are you pitching a tent?”
“Man, you got touchy while I was away. Never mind, you were like that before.”
“Away,” I repeat. “You make it sound like you were on vacation.”
“I really don’t want to fight with you right now,” he says. “And I’m sorry, by the way. I know you and Jack lost that baby and were trying to have another one.”
He looks over at me like he’s just figuring something out. Something harsh and hurtful that weighs a ton.
Ray points out the window. I see Nicole, and then there’s the boy from the photo. He looks so much like Ray did at that age, though there’s something different in the face, maybe the set of the mouth. Looking at Ray’s face, I can see how badly he wants the little boy. All of Ray’s fight and fury has flown away. I understand now why Ray told me. We’re the same. We both want something we think we can’t have. Something we think we don’t deserve. I imagine there’s a lot of fast talking in Heaven being done on Ray’s account. I picture Dad up there, going to bat for Ray.
Come on, Big Guy, let him have this one. The kid really needs one good thing. Just one good thing and I bet he’ll turn it all around. From one dad to the next, give him another shot.
“This is quite a coincidence,” I say, but I know it isn’t. “That we stop at this park and there they are.”
Ray rolls his eyes at me.
“Tell me why we’re here,” I say.
Over the dash and through the windshield, we watch people enjoy the lengthening days of warmth. Spring showers have given birth to grass and green and flower.
“Every Wednesday they come to the park,” Ray says. “There’s some women she hangs around with. I don’t recognize any of them. Which means they’re probably decent, respectable people.”
“Are you going to say hello?”
“No,” he says like I’ve asked the craziest question imaginable. “I don’t know how to do that yet.”
“So we’re just going to stalk them from the car?”
“For now,” Ray says.
“Fair enough.” I know there’s no arguing the point right now.
We watch Michael play. Maybe Ray and I have found a shortcut to that other path—the one with the family dinners and the Christmas cards. It’s like we hacked through the briars in just the right place, and with a little stooping down and peering through the weeds, we can see the other path.
Look, one of us says, you can see it from here. If we can get over this thorny spot, I think we can make it.
The other one of us agrees. I think you’re right. Looks like you’re cooking dinner over there. And Michael is playing in the
