Page 10 of Everything We Left Behind

“We sold our home.”

“Don’t start, Julian,” James warns. “Now, clean up.”

Julian groans and picks up the straw. He launches it into the trash.

“Nice aim,” James compliments. The kid’s a natural athlete. He’s seen him dribble a soccer ball in the sand with his friends and shoot consecutive three-pointers on their driveway back in Puerto Escondido.

Julian slides James a look and pulls his backpack over his shoulder. He rises from his chair and starts walking to the door.

“Forgetting something?”

Julian’s shoulders slump and he turns around, dragging his feet. James gestures at the window.

“Fine. Whatever.” Julian drops the backpack into the chair he vacated.

“You too, Marc.” He points to the floor.

Marc looks at the floor. His mouth forms a small circle, surprised at the mess. He slides off the seat and picks up the pieces, popping a couple into his mouth.

“Don’t eat them.”

His son looks up at him. A chip hangs from his lower lip. He wipes it off. “Lo siento,Pa—.I mean, sorry.”

James drags a hand down his face. He kneels beside Marc. “No, it’s my fault. I didn’t mean to snap. Here, let me help.” He cups his palms and motions for Marc to give him the chip fragments. “People have walked all over this carpet. What if they’d stepped in dog doo-doo?”

Marc scrunches his face. “Doo-doo?” He giggles at the funny word, then cocks his head. “What’s doo-doo?”

“Dog shi—” James catches himself with the shake of his head. “Um ...caca?”

Marc’s mouth stretches wide over his teeth.

“Gross, huh?”

Marc nods vigorously and wipes his tongue on the back of his hand. James laughs. “I think you’ll be fine.”

He tosses broken chips into the trash, then picks up the colored pencils scattered across the table. Marc’s open notepad catches his attention. The sketch of a wolf head is rudimentary, but well beyond the talent of an average six-year-old.

“You did this?” James points at the sketch.

Marc drags the pad toward him and flips the cover closed, sliding it into the open mouth of his backpack.

“It’s very good.” James gives him the pencil case. Marc averts his gaze as though embarrassed by the compliment. He adds the pencil case to his backpack and zips the pack closed.

James sighs, wondering how he’ll ever get through to the kid. Aside from the lack of memory, he’s still the same guy. He’s still their dad. Someday, hopefully, Marc will see that. Julian, too.

James joins Julian at the window. He plucks a few spitballs. Their hands brush.

Julian shifts away. “I’ve got it.”

“Fine,” James replies in the same short tone. Six months living under the same roof together in Puerto Escondido and they were starting to sound alike. Maybe they always did. He lets Julian finish the rest.

His son dumps the soggy wads into the trash, brushing his hands together, then wipes them dry on the back of his jeans. Snatching up his backpack, he leaves the conference room. Marc walks in a wide circle around James and jogs after his brother.

James blows out a breath and grabs Marc’s pack, tossing it over his shoulder. One fun-filled day of parenthood in the States down. A gazillion more to go.

James stands with the boys in the empty hallway of his childhood home. Aside from a few pieces of furniture—his mother’s Henredon & Schoener couch in the living room and the antique Italian walnut table in the dining room—the house is empty.

Julian drops his backpack on the floor and kicks it against the wall. “This sucks. Where are we supposed to sleep?”

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