Sixty-Two ☼ Phan

Fourteen

"No." He clicked open the file database.

"What if he went to the bathroom? What if he went to get some fresh air and will be back soon?"

"Quiet. I've almost got it."

"What if he's on his way back right now?" I asked, though made no move for escape. I wasn't worried.

He typed something in again, then clicked open a file. It loaded slowly, the green download bar filling up.

"I want to go back," I declared. "I'm tired."

"Stop whining like a baby and look at the pictures." He shoved me down into the computer chair just as the screen loaded, stepping to stand behind me.

For a moment I didn't know what I was looking at. It was a small group of kids, around my age, maybe of ten or fifteen, number wise. They all were smiling happily, laughing like in one of those stock-image photos. In the background, though, I noticed, was a familiar face. Mr. L.

"Is this at camp?"

"Yeah. Twenty years ago."

I wrinkled my eyebrows, actually confused. Why so far back? Twenty years ago I wasn't even alive. None of us, except maybe James and Mr. L, were. We were all still little ideas, little possibilities. A sit-down on the couch between soon-to-be parents as the mom put the thought into the dad's head, or vice versa. Hell, maybe not even that. Maybe we were just accidents. I've never asked, on my part, at least. I didn't really care, either, though, there's bigger problems in the world for me.

In fact, the only people that could have possibly been relevant at that moment were Mr. L and James. They were the only people I knew to be alive twenty years ago. As I scanned the faces, though, I found something else. A flash of recognition. Another name on the list that made me have to go back and check again. There's no way, I must have seen wrong. But even as I looked again, saw that single smiling face, I knew it was him.

"Is this . . ?" I began, but found the words dying off. I didn't need a second opinion. I already knew.

That was my father.

I could recognize that curly hair anywhere. That great big smile, rounded cheeks. He, like the others, looked happy, his arm wrapped around the person next to him. His hoodie had the sleeves rolled up, and jeans were a little big. One shoe was untied at the laces.

I felt James put a hand on my shoulder, but, as I kept eye contact with my dad through the screen, it felt like his. For the moment, I swear he was alive again. Standing right behind me.

Then I looked back and the facade was instantly broken. Not that I really believed it, more that I wanted to than anything else. James was looking at the screen, and nodded for me to again. I turned around again to see what he wanted me to find different, but nothing had changed.

"What?" I asked quietly.

"Look at the kid beside him," he said. "Doesn't he look familiar?"

I followed the picture back to my dad, and then his arm. Slung around and holding loosely onto another person. As I examined that person, though, I did notice something familiar. A kid with crazy red hair and dark eyes.

"It's you," I said, more of a statement than a question.

James didn't say anything, but I figured he didn't need to. It all seemed to make sense
in the same instant. The way he looked at me at times should have been a dead giveaway on its own, if not for the tattoo firsthand.

Oh. The tattoo.

The same one my dad had. The same one he'd had since highschool.

"Did you get it together?" I asked.

Somehow he knew what I was referring to, even if it wasn't in the picture. "Yeah. We got it our senior year."

I almost felt like crying again. The thought of my dad was so fresh still, and it felt like only last week we were eating pizza together in the car. Mom would yell about staining the seat covers. Then my dad would retort and say he paid for the covers, so he's allowed to do whatever he wants to them. My brothers would laugh. Aden would talk.

"I miss him," I whispered.

James shifted, turning away from the computer screen. "I do, too."

I started clicking through to more pictures in the file. There weren't too many, but I didn't mind. The idea of my dad going to this camp made me feel infinitely closer to him. I had so many questions. About him, his friendship with James, what all they did here together. Where all they went together.

I felt a sudden flash of bitterness. "If you two were such great friends, why have we never met? Why didn't you talk with my dad anymore?"

James moved his hand off my shoulder.

"Dan," he said, his voice the saddest I've heard it yet. "It's complicated. We did talk. But not all the time. It's hard to keep in touch once you start your own lives and go different places. He had a life. A good one."

"One that ended."

James was silent. He didn't know what to say, but I wasn't really angry. Even if I sounded like it, I was just sad. All my emotions seemed to be blurred together, mixed like the batter of a cake. Over time, I thought, none will be distinguishable. In the end it will all be one ugly red-colored pallet of sadness.

I closed the computer tab, planning to leave, when something startled me.

The bell, loud as ever, surprising the camp into a quivering mash of stirred cabins.

I checked the time with a confused frown. Still barely past five. James and I shared a look, but he was apparently just as caught off guard.

My immediate thought, of course, was that this couldn't be good.

And, well, I was right.