Page 74 of This I Know
Finally a comfortable distance from the Kramer house, I pull over and put the car in park. I shift in my seat so that I’m facing her. “Want me to make it up to you?”
She looks at me carefully. Cars whiz past us. “Is that … a dirty question?”
A dirty mind. I like it. I manage a laugh. “No, sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
Luckily, she laughs with me. The laughter eases her nerves, because she moves freely now, not as tense, and she turns in her seat, too.
Then I say, “Close your eyes.”
“Okay. You can open your eyes.”
Her eyelids flutter, and she takes a moment to survey where we’re now parked in the darkness. She catches sight of the glowing sign in front of us and she gasps. Then she puts her hand over her mouth and laughs.
“Dairy Queen,” she says. “You actually brought me to Dairy Queen.”
“I did.” By now, my heart feels better. My hands are no longer shaky from the coursing adrenaline, and I can see something other than the color red in front of my eyes. I was furious; because really,how dare he. How dare that guy steal something as precious as our first date – the only one we’ll ever have – out from under us with his unspoken accusations.
How dare hetry,at least. Because I wasn’t going to let him. And we’re here now to change that.
But through all the anger he caused, I’m back to reality, back to the beautiful present with beautiful her, and I’m not going to let it go to waste. I can forget about everything stupid that just happened.
I push my door open and walk around to open hers. She steps out, still staring at the glaring, bright fast-food sign in awe. It appears Dairy Queen was the right choice.
She breathes another laugh. “I can’t believe it.”
“It’s juvenile, I know.”
She turns around. She re-opens her door and grabs the purse she forgot, then digs inside and pulls out her wallet, leaving the rest behind.
“You’re never too juvenile for ice cream,” she says.
I almost tell her to put her wallet back, because there’s no way I’m going to let her get away with something like that on our repeat first date, but I hold off and let her carry it with us. A little suspense does everybody good.
I’ve never been here before. I’m not sure I could tell her that without sounding like a fool, because, really … who hasn’t been to Dairy Queen? But I think it was just one of the byproducts of my less-than-normal childhood. An always-working mother and an obviously troubled father isn’t exactly a recipe for a family who does normal stuff like go out for ice cream on sunny weekends.
Avery walks up to the counter with no lingering trace of the injured girl she once was. I can hear the steady, regular sound of her bright white sneakers hitting the pavement, and I’m proud of her. There isn’t a hint of misstep in the drumming of her movements. I wonder if that truly means, like she said at dinner, that she’s completely healed. I hope so. My heart would sing; it would mean my monster of a father had lost. Avery won.
This place is empty. We order a few cones and take a seat at one of the several umbrella-covered tables outside. We both ordered vanilla. That’s good. I’m glad to see we have the same taste in ice cream. That’s important.
“Do you miss him?” she asks. She’s gotten further along in her cone than me.
“Do I miss who?” Of course I know who she’s talking about. She’s talking about the main topic of discussion that’s now apparently carrying over into our little private date. Or maybe it’s just now trailing off. Let’s hope it’s the latter. Either way, let’s let this go, please. I don’t want him to intrude in my life any more than he already has.
“Your dad. You said he’s gone from your life, right?”
I take a break from my ice cream to nod. “Almost completely gone. But no. I don’t miss him.” I take a lick, then I pause for another break to risk a glance at where she’s sitting across the small metal table. It’s dark, but the weather is nice, and the cheap, fluorescent lamps of the Dairy Queen give off a dusky glow that frames her with perfection. I feel like I’m seeing her for the first time tonight. Her hair is tied up in a careless bun, with stray bits falling perfectly down the side of her face and glowing in the light. There was a time, when she was laying in the hospital, recovering, when I thought she couldn’t possibly look more beautiful than she did in that moment. Apparently I was wrong.
But, I think, remembering the topic at hand, it’s time to turn the tables. I’ve been under enough scrutiny for one night. “What about your dad?” I ask.
“My dad died when I was eight.” She doesn’t take her eyes off her ice cream, doesn’t show a hint of pain or trembling. Whatever’s behind that story, she’s gotten over it.
I wish we were sitting closer together. I’d reach my hand across to her leg in a gesture of comfort. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay. It’s not even something I think about anymore. I mean, I miss him, and you never forget someone who’s gone, but there’s nothing else to do but keep moving forward.”
I want to ask her,Does that only apply to someone who’s died?Instead, I say,“I agree with you there.” Because I don’t think it does, and I definitely do.
“I miss him, though.” Her eyes start to well up and she blinks.
