The door knocked. I wiped my eyes on the comforter and held my breath. It was Patrick. I could tell by the way he opened the door, like he thought I was going to kill him for coming in when I didn’t say anything.
“Liz?” he said. I was still holding my breath.
“Liz can I talk to you—I’m sorry.” He was walking around the bed, afraid of stepping on my clothes, like they didn’t already need washing. He sat down on the bed beside me. I let out my breath real slowly to clear it out.
“I wanted to apologize for what I said at the table,” he said. “I’ve just been stressed out a lot, with Dad gone, and school, and … well, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” I didn’t say anything. My voice was still creaky. But I sort of leaned over on him. He loves you. He’s just not very good at it, I told myself. I took another slow breath.
“Patrick, how come Dad never writes or calls or anything?” I said, when I had control again. Patrick took a deep breath too. He put his too-long arm around me.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t even know where he is.”
“Deadbeat Dad,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Like it’s some kind of title or something. Uncle Sam, Peter Rabbit, and Deadbeat Dad.” I tried to laugh, but it didn’t work.
“Patrick,” I said. “Do you think I’m a suck-up?”
“No,” he said. He said it real quiet.
We sat there for about ten minutes, then Patrick squeezed me and said, “I’m sorry” again. I shook my head. He stepped around the bed again. He said “G’night, Liz,” as he shut the door. I nodded without turning around.
I took off the comforter then, and went to Davvie’s room. His lights were already off. I stuck my head in.
“Goodnight Davvie,” I said quietly.
“Goodnight Elizabeth,” he said quietly back.
neumatikos 