But, of course, that’s not what happened. By design or by blood, she left and my brother did not.
I need to remember that. Above all things, I need to remember that.
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.
There’s laughter then, rusty and broken. I recognize it immediately, and I wonder when I heard it last. I rack my brain, trying to think of any moment in the days before I left that Dominic (Dom, it whispers, his name is Dom) laughed. I remember hearing it so many times, but not the last time. I can’t think of it, no matter how hard I try.
But here it is, now, and here he is, now, with his son, who laughs along with him, bright and high-pitched in a way that complements his father’s low tones. If I’d heard that without knowing who they were, I’d still think they were the same, that they came from the same blood.
I could walk away. Now. Leave them to their laughter. Leave them happy and free because that’s what it sounds like they are. I could.
I open the gate. Walk around the side of the house.
I hear the Jeep pull away from the curb and roll down the street.
I turn the corner of the house, and Ben is a few feet away, wearing board shorts and a plain white shirt. No shoes on his little feet, his toes and knees covered in flecks of grass. His arms are over his head, and he’s opening and closing his tiny fists. Opening and closing. The smile on his face is wide and toothy.
The backyard is small, and as Ben calls, “Here, here, here,” I see Dom (always Dom) bending over, picking up a foam football up off the ground. He’s dressed like his son. Board shorts. Plain white shirt, stretched tightly over the arms and the back. No shoes. For some reason, I notice the flecks of grass on his knees. On his feet. Just like Ben.
“Good throw,” he says, and I can hear the laughter in his voice. “That was a good throw.”
“Big, huh?” Ben says. “Big throw.”
“Yeah. Big throw.”
“Football!” Ben says.
Dominic stands upright and smiles, and fuck remembering how to breathe. Fuck remembering how to do anything. Fuck it all because it hurts my heart. It hurts like I’ve been stabbed in the chest, and all I can think is four years? Somehow, I let this go on for four years?
He doesn’t see me.
Ben does, though.
“Hi, Ty!” he says and jogs toward me, pumping his little legs. There’s a moment I think he’s going to fall, but he catches himself in that way that only children seem to do. I can do nothing but open my arms as he hurtles himself at me from three feet away. There’s the moment of impact when his body strikes mine, and he wraps his arms around my neck and shoves his hands into my hair and pulls gleefully, and he just babbles, he just talks and talks and talks, and I can only make out bits and pieces like “Daddy” and “football” and “Ty, Ty, Ty.” The rest is lost to the rush of his voice. That’s okay. That’s fine. I hear what I’m supposed to. There’s such a weight to him, such a presence, that all I can do is look him in the eye and nod. That seems to suit him just fine, and on and on he goes.
Eventually, he cranes his neck around to look behind him. “Daddy,” he says. “Look who I found!” He tugs on my hair.
I almost can’t look across the yard. I’m afraid of what I’ll see. It takes all I have, but I look away from the kid in my arms and raise my head toward his father.
Dominic stands watching us both. The expression on his face is unreadable. His eyes lock on mine, and I think in the voice of my brother, Breathe. Just breathe. In. Hold for three seconds. Out. Hold for three seconds. You are bigger than this. You are more than this.
“Look who you found,” Dominic says finally.
14. Where Tyson Asks Some Questions
THE HOUSE is neat inside, if a little sparse. The colors are dark and muted, almost somber. It’s small, this house, but big enough for a family just starting out. I tell myself I’m not looking for any signs of a woman’s presence (specifically Stacey’s), but I obviously am, even though in the end, it’s really none of my business what he does. It hasn’t been my business for a long time. That still doesn’t stop me from looking, though. There’s not much to say one way or another.
Ben grabs me by the hand and pulls me around the house, showing me every little thing that belongs to him. Here is his room. Here are his toys. Here is where he goes to bed at seven thirty every night, and here is where he brushes his teeth before he goes to bed. His daddy helps him but he can do it himself because he is old enough now. Do I see all the posters on the walls? I do. Those, he says, are his too. All the animal posters. Lions walking against a setting sun. Giraffes. Ducks. Beavers. Rhinos and deer. Dozens of them. I glance back at Dominic, who trails behind us only steps away. He stares at his son with a look akin to wonder on his face, as if he’s never heard him speak this much before. Even I’m a little awed by Ben, who speaks as if he’s far older than he actually is. There’s a queerly flat tone to his voice, but his vocabulary is through the roof as he shows me his favorite book, his favorite ball, his favorite shoes. Each is in its appointed place, and I watch as Ben frowns when he sees a couple of Legos lying near a toy chest against the wall. He lets go of my hand and picks them up off the floor. He opens a small container to the side of the chest and drops them inside. The line that creased his forehead smoothes out, and he grabs my hand and shows me the little table where he colors, and do I see the picture he drew? Do I see it? Do I want him to draw one for me, because he wants to. He needs to know my favorite animal first and then he can draw it for me and do a good job, too, but it’s hard for him sometimes. He’ll do it if I want.
“Sure,” I say. “That’d be great.”
He lets go of my hand and sits in his chair at the table. “What’s your favorite animal?”
“A bear,” I say. “Or maybe an otter.”
Ben frowns again, and that line forms in the middle of his forehead. His eye twitches as he stares at me. For a moment, it’s like he has forgotten who I am.