The Fragile World. Paula Treick DeBoard

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      “You’re all right now, Curt?” Mr. Meyers asked, and from the couch Dad said, “You bet, Bill.”

      “Dad?” I let my backpack slide to the floor and studied him. He looked normal—not unfocused like he’d looked coming down from the cafeteria roof, and not grayish like he’d looked only this morning on our way to school. He actually looked good, healthy and smiling, as though he’d been home all afternoon doing shots of wheatgrass infused with extra vitamin C.

      He patted the couch. “Come here, Liv.”

      I sank down next to him, leaning my head automatically into his shoulder, something I hadn’t done in a long time. My head must have grown, because it wasn’t the comfortable fit I used to remember.

      “Hey...hey. Don’t cry.”

      I was about to protest that I wasn’t crying, that I was freaked out since my father had been sitting on the roof of the cafeteria, thank you very much, but I wasn’t going to cry about it. And then I realized that my shoulders were heaving, and my breath was coming out funny, and that Dad, as usual, was right.

      Outside, a car started; Mrs. Silva and Mr. Meyers had left. This made me a little worried, and then it worried me that I was worried—because being with Dad should have been the least worrisome thing in the world.

      I pulled away and looked at him. “What happened?”

      “Really, it was nothing. I just felt like I needed to take a little break.” There was something I didn’t trust about his face. It was exactly the way I’d look if someone had a gun to my back and was telling me to smile or else.

      “In the middle of the school day. On the cafeteria roof.”

      Dad pulled me close again. “Everything’s fine now, Liv. There’s something I want to tell you.”

      I groaned. Whatever followed this statement wasn’t going to be good. Cue Daniel telling me he was going to college halfway across the country, but we would talk every week. Cue Dad announcing that the guy responsible for Daniel’s death had worked out a plea bargain. Cue Mom telling me she had something to talk about, and then moving to Omaha. I braced myself as if I were preparing for a slap to the face or a punch to the gut. Maybe it was worse than I thought—maybe Dad had had a stroke or been diagnosed with brain cancer or any one of the awful diseases you could find on medical websites.

      But what he said was, “Love.”

      It took me a minute, and then I realized he was playing this game we’d made up when I was just a kid and had trouble falling asleep at night. It went like this: The first person said the word “love,” and the second person said a word that started with “e” like “elephant,” and the first person said a word that started with “t”, and so on and so on, with the last letter of one word spawning the first letter of the next. It used to make me feel happy and silly, and then somehow in the middle of thinking of the next word, I’d fall asleep. Now it seemed ridiculous. Shouldn’t we be doing something other than playing games?

      “Come on, Liv,” Dad prompted. “Love.”

      I shook my head. “Empty.”

      He gave me a hesitant smile. “Yield.”

      “I really don’t feel like playing a game, Dad.”

      “One more. Yield.”

      I sighed. “Danger.”

      “Real,” he said, touching his chest and then holding his hand out to me, as if we were practicing sign language together.

      “Dad,” I groaned. “What’s going on?”

      “Okay,” he said. “Okay, I know this is all a little weird. But I’m completely serious. What would you say to taking a little trip with your old man?”

      I blinked. Earlier I thought he was about to take a header from the cafeteria roof. Now he wanted to take me on a trip. I chose my words carefully. “First, I would say that the phrase old man has always disturbed me for reasons I don’t fully understand. Then I would say that we’re almost out of milk, and if this little trip includes a stop at a grocery store, I’m all for it.”

      Dad chuckled. “No, not to the grocery store. I mean a real trip. A voyage.”

      Well, this was new. A voyage? “Does this involve a boat?” I demanded, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. I was going to have to call Mom for sure. There were probably five hundred water-related entries in my Fear Journals. “You know I’m afraid of boats and sharks and currents and rogue waves and—”

      “No boats, I promise. Voyage is the wrong word, then. I’m talking about a road trip. You, me and the open road.” He paced to the windows, whirled around, paced back. It surprised me how young he looked, how goofy. Like his old self, I thought, and then out of nowhere: Like when Daniel was alive. But he looked a bit manic, too.

      “A road trip? Dad, are you sure you’re okay? I’m serious. Do you need me to, um, be a supportive passenger while you drive yourself to the doctor or something?”

      He laughed a bigger-than-genuine laugh that was not at all reassuring.

      I can’t take this, I thought. One member of my family was gone forever, another lived a few thousand miles away and now my last remaining family member was cracking up—on the cafeteria roof one minute, on the couch talking about a voyage the next. I had to call Mom. This was definitely more than I could handle by myself.

      “Don’t you want to know where we’re going?”

      I wasn’t sure we should be going anywhere, unless maybe it was to some kind of “hospital” for a little “rest.” But they would have to take me, too, because I wasn’t going to survive for a second on my own. “Okay,” I said, slowly, preparing to hear him suggest the wilds of Alaska or a hot spring in Arizona, the sort of place that couldn’t be found on a map. “Where are we going?”

      His grin was so big it threatened to split his face in two. “We’re going to Reno, to Salt Lake City, to Cheyenne...and, drumroll, please...to Omaha.”

      “Omaha? You mean, to Mom?” I tried to say it neutrally, to keep the emotion out of my voice. This was a surprise, and not an unwelcome one. Maybe Dad had come to the conclusion himself that he was cracking up. Maybe Mom and I could get him some professional help.

      “Aren’t you excited?”

      “Dad, talk to me. Did you just get fired?”

      “Fired? No. Of course not.”

      “So what were you and Mr. Meyers doing all afternoon?”

      “Just talking, Liv. He helped me figure something out.”

      “He helped you figure out that you need to go to Omaha,” I clarified.

      “I know, it’s sudden. But look—I have an entire plan worked out. We’ll take a few days to get things situated around here, and then we’ll hit the road.”

      I groaned. “Dad, seriously. We have another month of school.”

      “That’s СКАЧАТЬ