I’m also not ready to tell my mom that, so I apologize again and promise to do better. She pulls me into a hug, and we sit at the kitchen island, discussing things like grad school options and sociology internships while I pretend to be as excited as she is.
* * *
The cakesmy dad made are as impressive as usual: Kenzie’s is covered in delicate pink roses and chocolate filigree, while Stephen’s has a tiny model roadster on top and a curving street made out of fondant. Dad lends a touch of artistry to everything he does. He could probably make a killing just decorating cakes for people, but he refuses to focus his career on anything but his passion.
His passion is making ornamental shapes out of shrubbery.
After we’ve cut into the masterpieces and I’ve eaten enough frosting to leave me buzzing with a sugar high, Dad suggests playing a board game. The reaction from Stephen and Kenzie is instant: they both get up from the table, Stephen grumbling about work in the morning and Kenzie describing the ‘mountain of homework’ she left at Mom’s place.
“We could play cards,” I suggest, after the two of them have left and we’re silently scraping cake crumbs into the garbage.
“Go Fish?” Dad asks with a grin.
It’s childish, but Go Fish is our favourite. We finish the dishes and settle ourselves on the battered pull-out couch in the tiny living room. Dad lives in the same two-bedroom apartment he’s been renting since the divorce. When all three kids spent weekends with him, Kenzie and I would sleep right here in the living room, the old pull-out mattress sinking so much beneath us that we always woke up rolled on top of each other.
“How’s school?” Dad asks, as he shuffles the deck.
I shrug. “It’s okay. Not exactly thrilling, but it’s not horrible.”
It’s easier to be candid with him than it is with Mom.
“Not horrible.” His chuckle sounds a little sad. “Well, that’s something. More importantly, how is your art?”
“I’m drawing a lot these days. I’m working on a project for a friend.” I let out a laugh as I accept my Go Fish cards from him. “It’s a drawing of a fish, actually. It’s for a CD cover. I’m designing the whole thing.”
“Very cool, Molly Polly. I’d love to see it when it’s done. Which friend is this for?”
I glance down at the hand I’ve been dealt. I don’t have any matching cards.
“He’s, um...a new friend.”
Dad tries and fails to hide his surprise. “He is, is he?”
I just nod, and we leave it at that for now. Dad has three sets of matching cards within a few rounds, but I’m still struggling to find the final ace. When I played this as a kid, I used to getsosure I knew who had the card I was looking for. I’d ask Stephen or Kenzie or Dad if they had any threes, completely certain they’d hand over the card I needed. Most of the time, I was wrong, but that didn’t stop me from being just as certain the next time.
Now I’m more cautious when I play.
“Go fish,” Dad tells me.
I dig in the pile, and then groan when I pull out a card that once again isn’t the ace. I glance at Dad, wondering how he’ll take the question I’m about to ask him.
“Hey, Dad.” I do my best to sound casual. “When you, like, got together with Mom...who made the first move?”
He eyes me from over the tops of his cards. “Your mother, of course. You think you’d exist right now if she’d left that up to me?”
I make a face, and Dad laughs.
“You know we met that summer I was working at my uncle’s restaurant. I’d been eyeing your mother for weeks from the dish pit. She was the prettiest waitress in that place. She had customers asking for her number all the time, but for some reason, she took a liking to the boy all covered in soapy water and food scraps. I saw her eyeing me back, but I didn’t know what the hell to do about it. Luckily your mother did. She walked right up and asked me where I was taking her on our first date.”
It’s hard to imagine my parents like that: young and happy, with wild 80s haircuts, flirting over plates of greasy diner food. It’s hard to imagine them together at all.
“Did you ever feel...like you weren’t good enough for her? Like she was out of your league?”
Dad sets his cards down on the table. When he speaks, his voice is deliberate, like he wants to make sure I catch every word.
“I don’t really believe in leagues, Molly Polly. I don’t believe there are levels of people. No one has the authority to decide what makes one human being worth more than any other. Your mother was with me because she wanted to be with me. It was as simple as that.”
“Until it wasn’t,” I can’t help adding, the words coming out harsher than I meant.
