Forty-Eight

It was Food Truck Tuesday from eleven to one today at a nearby factory, which means Mom and Dad are home for a couple of hours to restock before heading out for the dinner hour. They’re sitting at the kitchen table when we get home, having coffee and looking over some early sketches—plans for the new restaurant. It’s still weird to see my dad acting like this. Like a normal human.

Trey and Rowan decide to stick by me, so I guess this is kind of an intervention. I can’t even think right now. Part of me knows this is a bad idea, but I’m exhausted and sick and furious that my Sawyer is gone and my dad has done all these things to me, and I’m feeling reckless.

We walk into the kitchen.

Mom and Dad look up. “Oh, hi,” Mom says. “I thought you were our tomatoes being delivered.” She smiles. “How was school?”

I stare at my dad. He looks nice today. His hair is smoothed back and his face looks healthy. Happy. My determination wavers.

But then I remember Sawyer, and how he wouldn’t be dead right now if it weren’t for my dad.

“I want to talk to you,” I say.

My dad’s face slackens. He looks at Mom. “She’s pregnant,” he says. He looks back at me. “You’re pregnant?”

I have never hated him more than at this moment. “No!” I say, and I feel like I have no control over anything that is happening in my head right now. “Don’t ask me that ever again!” My mouth screws up all weird and I fight hard not to cry.

“Oh, honey.” Mom reaches out and touches my arm. She gives my dad a disapproving look, and he just sits there, probably trying to figure out why I’m falling apart. “He was kidding. Right, Antonio?”

My dad nods. “I’m sorry. That’s not funny.”

I don’t even know who he is anymore. Since when does my dad joke? Since our house and restaurant burned to the ground, apparently. I can feel Trey and Rowan behind me, giving me strength.

I suck in a breath, trying to calm down. And then I say, “Can we talk about you and your, um, your . . . health problems? I want to know more about your depression and the hoarding and all that.”

My dad leans back in his chair as if the questions threaten his personal space.

“Like,” I continue, “I remember when it started—the hoarding—and I want to know why. I want you to tell me why it started. And if it’s weird or crazy sounding, don’t worry, just please tell me.”

Mom frowns and lowers her gaze, turning slightly to look at my dad.

And he’s got this strained, horrible look on his face, like I’m betraying him just by asking.

I refuse to look away.

Finally he nods toward Trey and Rowan and says in a low voice, “You told them?”

I stare. “What?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

He raises his voice a little, sounding stern now. “Did you tell them?”

I’m confused. Does he already know he passed the vision curse to me? “You mean,” I say, my voice faltering, “about the visions?”

He leans forward, an intense, questioning look on his face. “The what?” He looks at Mom and back at me. “The what?” he repeats.

My lips part, then close again. “Wait. What are you talking about?”

“You’re the one who has something to talk about,” he says. “I want to know if you told them. If they know what you told me. That day you quit the restaurant.”

And it hits me like a ton of bricks. He thinks I told Trey and Rowan about his affair. I press my hand to my eyes. And my hand slides away and I look at him again, at the hurt in his eyes. “No, Dad,” I say softly. “That’s not my story to tell.”

I can feel the awkwardness penetrating the back of my brain as Trey and Rowan shift on their feet. When the doorbell rings, Trey hastily pulls Rowan with him to answer it.

Mom stands up. “That’s probably our farmer with the tomatoes,” she says like she’s relieved to be squeezing past me and following Trey and Rowan.

When they’re gone, I shake my head. “I can’t believe this is what we’re talking about, Dad. Is that really it? Your affair? That’s what set off the hoarding and the depression? The years of us never knowing if we were going to come home to find that you killed yourself?”

He looks at me, pain washing over his face, making him look old again. “Depression is a disease,” he says. “But the affair, the recipe that Fortuno stole—those things ruined my life.”

I feel fury rising up so fast I can’t stop it. “No, Dad. You own those things. That stuff didn’t have to ruin your life. You just let it.”

He takes it. And then he nods. “Maybe.”

I let out a breath. “Okay.”

He hesitates, and lowers his eyes. His big fingers lace together on the table and he taps his thumbs a few times. “So,” he says, “you’re seeing visions? What’s that about?”

I stare at him. But before I can say anything, I hear the floor creak behind me, and my dad’s gaze flits to a spot over my shoulder. Dad’s eyes narrow the slightest bit, and then he frowns and says in rough voice, “What happened to you?”

I whirl around.

Standing in the kitchen doorway is a boy.

A boy with deep green eyes the color of the sea, and thick black lashes.

A boy with matted-down hair, wearing strange clothes, and wrapped in a blanket.