The Truth About That Summer

eighty-nine

Waiting, inviting me to sit beside him. Stiffly, reluctantly, I do.

As I face the cars pulling in and out of the cramped spots in front of us, feeling his eyes on my face, watching for a reaction, waiting for me to break maybe, I can't help but feel that it shouldn't be like this.

Sitting beside my father shouldn't make me uncomfortable. Hearing him say my name, feeling him looking at me, shouldn't break my heart and set my mind racing the way that it does.

But it does, and here we are.

"So." Dad says and I finally turn to face him, holding my breath as I take in his features, features that have aged years and years, more than they should have.

"So..." I repeat, cursing myself for sounding small and weak and not at all like how I was when Jax and I practiced together during our sessions.

"So," Dad repeats, "It's come to my attention that you might think your mother and I..." A quick clearing of his throat. "That I don't love you anymore."

My gasp is audible, my chest clenching tightly.

Since Casey's passed away, I've reminded myself of the ways he was similar to our mother, forgetting that he came from this man, too. That his bluntness, his straightforwardness, wasn't something he crafted himself, but something he inherited, learned, from our father.

Before Dad lost his voice, that is.

"Or that maybe you think you don't measure up to your brother in some way." He continues and I close my eyes, reminding my lungs how to breathe.

Maybe he hasn't lost his voice after all.

In and out. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow.

I stare at a deep blue minivan ahead, a mother trying to squish three kids in the back seat. I watch them shove and giggle, fighting for the window spots.

In and out Dylan, it's easy.

When I don't feel close to hyperventilating, I glance back at my father, trying hard not to imagine how similar Casey would look if he'd ever gotten the chance to grow up, and shrug my shoulders.

I ignore his second question, the nagging sensation that I will truly never live up to Casey still not settled. Perhaps not ever settled. Instead, I answer the first, one that comes much easier.

"How can you love me? Before today... I doubt you'd even be able to tell what I looked like."

"Like your brother." Dad answers immediately, finally, finally after so many years of avoiding me, looking me directly in the eyes. "So, so much like your brother. More and more as you get older."

My mouth pops open in surprise but he continues, pointing to his own eyes. "The crinkles beside your eyes when you smile - too infrequently now, I'll admit. Those are the same."

I roll my eyes, despite the tears building there.

"And that, too. You make the same face when we're bothering you."

His smile is soft, like he's remembering. Like he didn't just use present tense when only one of us still makes that face at all.

Unable to return his smile, to say anything at all, I pull at a frayed strand of denim at my knee, glaring at it intently.

Don't do this, I beg, Don't tell me how much I remind you of him. That whenever anyone sees me, they just miss him.

"Maybe I shouldn't be completely honest with you, Dylan."