My mother moves cutlery around like she’s playing chess. Sometimes, she throws it out. Anything that can’t be plastic or ceramic is aluminum. Anything that isn’t aluminum, she hides.
He opened the cupboard, sorting through the pile of knives and stainless steel flatware, and took the paring knife back to the counter.
I watched his back as he sliced the apple. His shoulders were tight. He smelled like aftershave and this tense, sharp smell he gets when he’s stressed out.
“I was thinking,” he said without turning around. “Missy Brandt mentioned that it might be nice to have someone come in and help with the preschool class once in a while. Is that something you’d be interested in?”
I had a feeling that Missy hadn’t mentioned it, that this was something he’d come up with on his own, and of course she’d said yes because what else can someone say when the minister asks you to babysit his sideshow of a son?
When I didn’t answer, he glanced over his shoulder. “Is something wrong? I thought it might be a good solution. This way, you have an official place in the congregation.”
I dug my fingernails into my palms and tried to get my voice under control. “It’s just so . . . messed up.”
“Well, it might take you a few weeks to get used to being around little kids, but I think you’ll do fine if you just give it a chance.” He sighed, shaking his head. “That’s the trouble with you and your mother. Both of you, you take a situation and start inventing obstacles right away. You never just give things a chance to get better.”
So, we were back to the sticky politics of choosing sides. On one side, me and my mom—pessimistic realists, always. On the other side, my dad and Emma, glowing with all the ways the world could be good, and I couldn’t just agree with them because I didn’t really believe it. But I wanted to.
I picked at the tablecloth, then stopped because it was making me look uncertain, and that wasn’t how I felt. I meant what I had to say to him. I just didn’t want to say it. “Dad, this doesn’t have anything to do with giving things a chance. This is just how it is and it’s not going to magically get better. I’m not ever going to be able to just live my life like everyone else.”
My dad turned toward the window so I couldn’t see his face. “Don’t say that again. None of this is because of you.”
I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, feeling a deep, pulsing ache in the middle of my chest, like someone was hitting me. “It
