“Want some?”

   “Uh...no thanks.”

   He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

   “When’s the last time you had your blood pressure checked? Or your cholesterol?” He shrugged again. “And how the hell do you not weigh five hundred pounds?”

   He took a huge gulp from a glass of milk--whole, not skim--and smiled. “Would you still love me if I weighed five hundred pounds?”

   “Nope.”

   He laughed. “You’re an evil woman.”

   “That seems to be the general consensus.”

   He wiped his mouth on a paper towel. “What time are you meeting your dad?”

   “I’m supposed to be there at twelve-thirty.” I checked my watch, then fiddled around in my purse and pulled out a tube of lipstick.

   “You’ve already got some on.”

   I walked over to him and kissed him firmly on the cheek. It left pink lips behind. “Whaddya know. You’re right.”

   He smiled and touched his cheek, but didn’t wipe it off. “What’s up with your dad?”

   “Beats me.”

   “What do you think it is?”

   Bad news. It had to be. My father had never invited me out to lunch just the two of us. Never. Probably he was sick. Cancer, or something worse, but what was worse than cancer? I didn’t want to think about it or worry about it until I had to and if I didn’t say it out loud then it wouldn’t be true. He’d be just fine, and the reason he’d invited me to lunch would be that he missed his daughter. It’s perfectly natural to miss your daughter. Especially when she lives so far away and you only see her once every few months. That’s when you miss her.

   “I think he misses his daughter. Isn’t it perfectly natural that he’d miss his daughter when she lives so far away? And when he only sees her once every few months?”

   “Yep. Perfectly natural.”

   I gave him another kiss--lighter, on the lips this time--and said, “I’d better go.”

   He nodded and kissed me back. He tasted awful, but it was still a good kiss. “I love you.”

   “Love you, too.”

   Dad was waiting for me inside the restaurant. He looked fine, better than fine, actually. He looked like he’d been sleeping well for a change. Our waitress--a pretty woman who looked to be in her late forties--must have picked up on the father-daughter vibe, because she flirted brazenly with him while she handed us our menus and rattled off the specials. I had never thought to wonder whether my father was attractive to other women. Hell, I’d never even wondered if my mother thought he was attractive. I studied his features while he studied his menu and decided that he was. He was very distinguished with his silver hair, had a rather worn, outdoorsy look about him and, away from my mother, actually seemed relaxed and confident. It’s what Dave would look like eventually.

   He set his menu down, and I looked at mine so he wouldn’t know I’d been staring at him. Then he cleared his throat and dropped the bomb:

   “Tess, there’s no easy way to say this. Your mother and I are getting divorced.”

   “Divorced?”

   I had nearly shouted the word and several lunchers stopped their conversations to look our way, probably in the hopes of witnessing a pleasant family drama. I scanned the crowd, mortified that I had put my shy father at the center of such a scene, and singled out a pucker-faced elderly woman. Her hair was a reddish mahogany color, so inexpertly dyed that it looked almost purple. It was butt-ugly and irritated me even more than her blatant curiosity. I shot her a dirty look--one that the rest of the crowd correctly interpreted as being directed at them as a whole--then turned my attention back to my father.

   “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

   “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have broken the news to you in public.” He lined up his silverware so that the bottoms were all touching and even. The redness in his face eased a little and he continued. “I’ve already told Dave.”

   It occurred to me that he would have had no problem breaking the news to my brother in a crowded restaurant. Dave probably would have blinked a couple times, nodded, then asked Dad to please pass the salt.

   “Um...when? When did all this happen?”

   “It’s been coming for awhile, but I left last week. It was my decision,” he said, taking, as usual, all the blame, “so your mother is keeping the house. I’m renting an apartment in town until…well, until everything is settled.”

   He reached beside him, into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a small piece of white lined paper. He looked it over before sliding it across the table towards me. I stared at his new address and phone number for quite awhile, long enough for the numbers and letters to blur and mingle together. Then I slipped it into my purse.

   “Why the hell should she get the house? It’s your home, too.”

   He shook his head. “It’s not a home, Tess. It hasn’t been for a very long time.”

   I nodded, although--to me--it had never been a home.

   I wasn’t sure what to do next, what to say, so I watched his fingers drumming silently on the table. The waitress returned to rescue him, asked if we were ready to order, but I hadn’t really looked at the menu. My appetite was gone anyway and all I really needed was half a dozen strong, stiff drinks. It wouldn’t be particularly kind to make my dad eat his meal in front of his fasting, inebriated daughter so I opted for the soup of the day--without bothering to find out what that was--and a diet soda. Dad smiled nervously as the waitress wiggled away. It would be up to me to get the conversation going again but I couldn’t do it. He surprised me by taking over.

   “There is something I want you to know, Tess.”

   He paused to take a sip of water and I had the feeling I knew what the ‘something’ was. Another woman. It had to be. He’d found someone normal and loving who wasn’t a manipulative psycho bitch from hell. But he seemed so nervous, probably expected me to get upset, to scream accusations, to play the part of the stunned, betrayed daughter. He didn’t know I’d been praying for him to leave my mother since I was seven years old, when a girl in my class moved away to Nebraska with her mom while her dad stayed behind in Brookfield. It was the first time I’d ever heard of parents who lived apart and it opened up a whole new world of possibility for me. A world of freedom and beauty and blue skies. It was a world I escaped into each night as I drifted off to sleep, in which Dad would leave my mother, move away to lovely, exotic Nebraska…and take me and Dave with him.

   His bracing sip took longer than I expected. He finished his entire glass of water then said, “I want you to know that there was a time when I did love your mother. And that I did try to make our marriage work.”

   I clenched my toes inside my boots, held back the laughter that was threatening to explode. I had to take my own minute long sip of water to do it. It was the speech he would have given seven-year-old Tess. And even she would have had a hard time keeping a straight face.

   I set down my empty glass and looked him in the eye; made him hold my gaze. “No you didn’t. You didn’t love her and you didn’t try to make it work. Neither of you did. So what the hell took you so long to leave?”

   He gave me a weak smile. He was cornered, no escape. And so he told me about a summer of abandon, of meeting the most beautiful woman in the world. A woman who was smart and focused and ambitious. And foolish. Both of them were. It only takes once, and nine months later her ambitions for Money and Greatness were washed away by Real Life. What little feeling had once existed there at all was gone long before then and they were stuck. First with each other and then with a family that neither of them had planned on. At least he could take solace in that family. But not his wife. She longed for more.

   “I don’t know why she chose to take it all out on you, Tess. I wish I did. But I knew if I left then it would be even worse. I couldn’t do that to you. And after you and Dave moved out, after you had lives of your own...I guess I just stayed out of habit.”

   I knew it wasn’t just habit. He hadn’t wanted to rock the boat. He’d always been that way. Left for work early, stayed gone all day long, came home from work and ate supper with us. Asked Dave and me about our day. Need any help with your homework? At least it was something, certainly more than we ever got from Her. Then he went off into his den, to his stamps and coins and baseball cards. He’d stay there all night long. Slept on the sofa bed. Hide away from the wicked witch. If you close the door then she doesn’t exist. When he finally opened it up again and peeked outside…almost thirty-eight years had gone by. He’d spent most of his life hiding behind four little walls.

   I knew all about it.

   “Are you leaving her for someone else?”

   He seemed surprised at the question. “No. There’s no one else.”

   “Dad, it’s okay. I’m not upset, you know. I’m glad you found someone. You deserve to be happy. You really do.”

   “Tess, no. There’s no one.”

   He was telling the truth. It was the saddest thing I’d ever heard. So I said the only thing I could say:

   “Oh.”

   And then I looked at him more closely. John David Bellows. Half of me was this man, but what we really know about each other? I flipped back through my book of Dad Memories and tried to come up with something that might mean that he knew me. Even a little. And I found it.

   My fifth birthday. It was a day of rainbows, because that was the day my dad had given me my first big box of crayons. Seventy-two of them. Just the number seemed too big to believe. I remember taking a moment to imagine what Seventy-Two Crayons might actually look like. And when I opened up the box…that was when my life changed. Forever. Because I didn’t realize until that moment--that really was The Moment--that there were so many colors in the world.

   And it was the moment I realized that sometimes you cry even when you’re happy. That there is a Happiness that is so big and round and full that there aren’t any real words to put to the feeling. Instead there are tears. I looked into the box with eyes that were full of happy tears and the crayons swirled together through the mist, all of those colors--Periwinkle and Mulberry and Copper, and especially the eight neon colors that had Ultra in their names. They glowed at me, winked at me. Just like Christmas lights.

   Beauty and Light. That’s what Daddy had given me. And after the happy tears have faded what else is there to do to let your daddy know what a wonderful, precious thing he has given to you? There were no words inside of me. None. And I had known, even then, that his vocabulary was just as small as mine. So I looked up at him and nodded my appreciation. And he nodded right back.

   But right now, almost thirty years later, I knew he needed more than just a nod. I reached across the table, squeezed his hand and said, “Dad, I just want you to be happy. I know it’s been a long time since you’ve had that. So just…please go out there and be happy.”

   His eyes moistened slightly, but he blinked the tears before they could escape. Then he squeezed my hand right back.

   After we ate I watched him drive away, then sat in my car for a long time; so long that my teeth started chattering. Even though it was only the last weekend in October and not really all that cold. I started the engine, turned the heater up on high, and just sat there. Still. Waiting. Summoning up every ounce, every drop of courage in my body. Then I dug out my phone from my purse, adjusted the rearview mirror so I could see my face, and dialed my mother’s number.

   She seemed brisk and bright. She even said that she was thrilled about my father moving out and I believed her. She continued on about it for several minutes before she confirmed what I’d suspected when Dad told me he was letting her keep the house. She’d already sold it.

   “Really? Sold it?”

   “That’s right.”

   My heart was racing, pounded so hard and so fast so suddenly that I was afraid I was going to pass out. I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowed, and took a deep breath. “That was quick. It’s only been a few days. Does your realtor walk on water, too? Turn water into wine?”

   There was a long pause. “I sold it myself.”

   Of course she did. “Mike bought it. Right?”

   “Well?” she snapped. “What if he did?”

   “How much?” Another long pause. “How much did he give you for it?”

   She told me. I opened my eyes and looked again at my reflection. I was frightened. Pale.

   And it worked. I was still pale, but cold and unforgiving. Just like my mother, which was just what I needed to be.

   “So, Mrs. Rockefeller, what are you going to do with that much money?”

   “I’m moving away.”

   “Where to?” I knew Nebraska probably wasn’t on her itinerary.

   “Europe.” I could actually feel the word dripping from her mouth.

   “Your dream’s coming true, then?”

   “I think I’ve waited long enough. Don’t you?”

   “Haven’t we all.” I’d had it with the bullshit and cut to the chase. “You’re giving Daddy half of that money.”

   She actually snickered. “I’ll give him half of what the house is actually worth. That’s fair enough.”

   “I don’t think we have time to go into what is fair about any of this. But you’re giving him half of what Mike gave you. Because if you don’t then I’m going to tell Dad exactly how much Mike gave you. And then I’m going to tell him why.”

   The mirror told me I wasn’t bluffing and I believed it.

   “That’s not going to happen, young lady.”

   “Don’t bet on it. Because...” I actually caught myself smiling. “You know, I realized something recently. I don’t give a shit who knows. Not anymore. The only person in the world who would get hurt at this point is you.” I gave a mirthless chuckle. “Mike’s retired from business, retired from politics--if you can call being selectman in a hick town ‘politics’--he’s got more money than God, and his wife is dead. So the only thing he’s got to lose anymore is his precious reputation. And in this day and age it’s really not going to be a big shock. Especially not after all this time. I’m surprised you actually got him to cough up the money for the house.”

   “Well…what about you? Everyone will know what you--”

   “They all hate me anyway, so what’s one more strike? But you on the other hand--”

   “You won’t tell your father. You won’t tell anyone. I know you.”

   “You don’t know a fucking thing about me.”

   “Theresa--”

   Her tone was almost, but not quite, pleading. It was the first time I’d ever heard that. I liked the way it sounded.

   “--don’t be ridiculous. You know your father. He won’t take any money at all from the house, not even the actual value, let alone--”

   “That’s because he thinks you’ve been fucking Mike all these years. Didn’t you know that? He thinks you’ve been whoring yourself out to him all this time and he thinks that’s how you got all those raises you’re so fucking proud of. He thinks it’s how you paid for Dave’s college tuition. Isn’t that funny?”

   It was just the funniest thing ever. Funny, funny, so fucking funny.

   “I’m calling him in a few days, so you’d better fork over the money. Tell him whatever you need to so he’ll take it. You’re pretty good at that. Just…make him take it. Because he’s earned it. He’s put up with you all these years, hasn’t he? And he’s worked his fucking ass off at a job he hates even more than he hates you. Hell, probably more than you hate me. You really think he likes doing other people’s taxes? Are you a fucking idiot? Or do you not even care?”

   There was nothing but dead space in my ear, dead space and the sound of her workout video cheering her on in the background.

   You’re goddamn right I can.

   Finally she said, “And just how much money are you hoping for?”

   “I don’t want a fucking penny of it. Mom.”

   I could almost hear her nerves snap. “You don’t have the right to call me that, Theresa. Not after this. Not--”

   I didn’t even blink. “And you never had the right to hear it from me, you cold, ugly, money-hungry bitch.”

   I hung up without waiting for a response and tossed my phone onto the seat. I sat without shaking, still staring at my reflection. Waiting. Waiting for my face to relax. To change back. Waiting to look like me again. Even if I had looked like a frightened girl before I picked up the phone. It would be better than the cold, unfeeling, ruthless woman staring back at me now. I glanced away for a moment, watched the purple haired lady walk out of the restaurant. She was wearing a tacky, faux-fur coat. She sauntered into the parking lot, got into a black Lincoln Towncar and pulled regally away. I looked at my reflection once again.

   I still wasn’t there.

   I felt the tears burning, pulling, stinging. Not just my eyes but my brain, my ears, my throat, felt a sharp, hollow knot in my gut and my heart. But I knew. There are some things you just can’t cry about. Some things you just can’t let out.

   At all.

    Because once you do it’s like an eruption. Once it starts it doesn’t stop, won’t stop, not ever. So I held it back, held it in, pulled it back down deep, deeper than I’d ever had to, shoved it away into another crater. And it was so far inside and crammed down so tightly that I knew I’d packed away the last bit of anger, of fear, of shame...of anything my body would carry. And the tears went away, somewhere, to the place they always fled to. Hidden inside some secret pocket, and it was deeper still. So deep I knew they’d never find their way out.

   But no pit is truly bottomless and I knew I was only safe for a little while. It would find a different means of escape. There would be an eruption, the kind I could deal with, and so I started my car quickly and left the restaurant behind. Because it was only thoughtful to have the kind of breakdown I was due for in private. Away from paying customers and their children, far away from hard working waitresses and waiters who were struggling to live off their tips.

   I pulled into the convenience store across the street, turned off the car, and took several deep, deep cleansing breaths, just like Kim had taught me. It bought me enough time to walk into the store with a smile, nod to the clerk--a young guy who only looked seventeen or so but was probably older--and make my way calmly into the bathroom. I locked the door and waited. Waited. Avoided looking at my reflection, avoided looking into the toilet, wondered when it had been cleaned last. The bathroom stank, which gave me the answer, but I didn’t have much of a choice.

   I pulled down viciously on the dispenser, grabbed two thick wads of brown paper towel, wrapped them around my hands. Closed my eyes. Kneeled carefully over the toilet and vomited quietly. Vomited forever.

   I stood up as soon as it was safe, without opening my eyes, shut the lid, and flushed. I didn’t want to see my former lunch or the condition of the bowl that had just been so close to my face. I chucked the towels, scrubbed my hands and my face, swished a couple handfuls of gross city water around my mouth, and spit. Waited again. Waited to make sure it was all over.

   I looked at my hair in the mirror. Fluffed it out. Smoothed it back down. Powder compact. Mascara. Pink lipstick. Just so.

   I bought a pack of mint gum for myself and a bag of mini chocolate candy bars for Brian, then waved a friendly goodbye to the clerk and drove back home. Just like nothing had happened. Because nothing really had.