+. weird, world.
June is a fraught time in the Beechum household.
Robbie worries a vision will strike -- that he'll be pulled away like a metal filing drawn by a magnet. There's no excuse he can give, no boss he can call and plead for leniency. When the universe presents its bills, it's his job to pay them. That's the beginning and end of the discussion.
And Charlie? She understands how important certain milestones and dates are for Robbie. The significance he places on Being Present. Everyone worries about perpetuating the mistakes of their parents, in one fashion or another, but for Robbie that fear borders on phobia. His determination to do everything his father didn't, to break the cycle of absentee neglect and abandonment, can be, at times, manic.
Robbie has never done things by halves, after all.
So when June rolls around each year, Charlie shifts into Full Protector Mode (as Ben begins to call it). She jealously guards that third weekend on the calendar. Nothing can be scheduled -- no appointments, no parties, no outside events of any kind. All major shopping excursions are rearranged, the refrigerator well stocked in advance, all chores gotten out of the way by Thursday. They will not move more than a mile from home the Friday and Saturday leading up to that Sunday. That is sacred ground and no other feet shall trample it.
And on Sunday morning, as soon as the girls are awake, the world shrinks to a pinpoint. Narrows to the tiniest bubble, big enough only for Rob and the twins. Charlie retreats to the garage to tinker, or the basement to work out, and leaves them to it.
Father's Day is a holy day for Billie, Dani, and Robbie Beechum.
"Wake up, Daddy, it's time for presents! And pancakes!" Billie announces, throwing open the bedroom door.
Robbie glances at the clock -- 7 AM, they let him sleep in a whole hour later than last year -- and smiles as Billie throws herself onto the bed, almost crushing the brightly wrapped package in her hands. "Careful, doodlebug -- watch where you're putting that elbow."
"Mum says a well-placed elbow can solve a lot of problems," Dani says calmly, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "I made you this," she announces, holding out a card. "Billie wanted to put her name on it, too, but I told her to make her own."
"So I did, see?" Billie thrusts out her own, far more crumpled envelope. "It's from me and Boomhauer."
"...And that's my cue to take the dog for a walk," Charlie says through a jaw-cracking yawn, yanking on her ratty robe and shoving her feet into her slippers. "You three have a nice day."
"Bye, Mum," Billie and Dani chorus while Robbie blows her a kiss.
One daughter watches calmly while the other bounces against his knee as he slides a thumb under the envelope flaps and pulls out his Father's Day cards. Dani's is a watercolor drawing of seemingly abstract shapes, all blues and purples and pale pinks, but he recognizes them easily enough: it's what she feels when they're together, when Billie is off with Charlie or playing with Boomhauer and they get to be quiet and calm and alone. It's what she feels when they watch "their and Uncle Danny's shows" -- Doctor Who and Star Trek -- and read books and look at photos on the couch. These colors, these shapes, are the best visible translations to love that Dani has been able to draw, and when he looks at them he can feel his heart tug and the link her Empathy has woven between them.
"It's beautiful, lovey," Robbie says quietly, looping an arm around her and kissing her cheek. Pleased happiness comes off her in waves, like heat from the sun.
Billie's card features a stick figure drawing of him -- there could be no mistaking those eyebrows -- holding up a sword and fighting off some sort of monster that is mostly black scribble, red eyes, and triangle teeth. My Daddy is a knight that slays beasties and saves people, captions the drawing, written in emphatic red ink. He's better than Superman and Iron Man put together, because he's my Daddy and doesn't need a cape or fancy armor to help someone. He isn't afraid of anything AND he makes pancakes. Best Daddy ever.
In the corner is a splotchy black pawprint. "That's Boom's," Billie points out helpfully.
"And this explains why your Mum was screaming at you for getting paint all over the couch a couple days ago?" Robbie says, laughing, ruffling her sleep-tangled hair. "Thank you, Bills, I appreciate the flattery."
"Pancakes now?" Billie urges, ever her mother's daughter.
"I thought you said there were presents," Robbie stalls.
"Oh, yeah, here." The crinkled package is wrapped in neon yellow paper with a metallic sheen, taped haphazardly and liberally bound with rainbow ribbons. "It's from both of us."
"Billie wrapped it herself," Dani says as he puzzles out how best to free whatever's inside. "She insisted."
He finally resorts to ripping the paper like a caveman with a chicken, sliding off the ribbons and leaving a small pile of brightly colored detritus in his lap as he examines what appears to be a small blue leather book. It's a photo album, professionally printed on fine, thin paper -- it's small enough to slip into the average pocket. The pictures are of Dani and Billie, covering the full seven years of their lives, each representing a significant moment or memory or day. The last photo is of the whole family -- Ben, Liv, Scout, Amari, Akiko, Diego, and Gloria included -- taken only a month ago at their last get together.
"It's a talisman," Dani says as he swallows back tears. "A good luck charm and something to bring you home when you're on a Mission. Baba had October say some magic words over it, and Aunt Akiko and I held it and meditated and thought good thoughts for a long time, and Mum had everyone in the family carry it for a little bit, so all of us have rubbed off on it. Mum said it's an anchor you can carry with you."
He knows all of this from just holding the book. But he and Akiko have also taught Dani that verbalizing things is important, and hearing her describe everything he feels emanating from the tiny photo album has a grounding effect. He pulls away from his Gift before he withdraws too far from the present moment, from his girls in front of him, and reaches out for a double hug.
"Thank you so, so much," he murmurs into their hair as their arms squeeze around him. "It's absolutely perfect."
"Can we have pancakes now?" Billie demands, voice muffled against his neck.
Traditions are important. It's not Father's Day without Robbie's special pancakes, the ones made with the Star Wars griddle shapes. Dani always has R2-D2 while Billie demands Yoda. One slathers hers with honey, while the other has a veritable lake of maple syrup, and Daddy sprinkles his with cinnamon and powdered sugar.
Then comes the Rock, Paper, Scissors to decide who gets to choose the first activity. Today neither whines or complains if the other gets first dibs, because there's plenty of time for them both to pick -- and they both know that whatever they pick, within reason, Daddy will say yes to. Dani wins and they start the day in the living room with a stack of Doctor Who DVDs, and when they pause for lunch they have spaghetti, with jammy dodgers for dessert, the ones Daddy has specially ordered from London.
After lunch it's Billie's turn, and they all don swimsuits and head for the waterpark. The heat is blistering but they all enjoy zipping down the slides and playing Marco Polo (Dani is always the fastest, though she swears she isn't using her Empathy unfairly). When everyone feels too dry and prickly from the chlorine and sun, they get ice cream cones before heading home for cool baths and plenty of aloe lotion.
Dinner is always shepherd's pie -- it's Robbie's favorite, and the girls insist upon it. Charlie has it out on the table cooling down by the time they trek back into the kitchen, and after they eat their salads (extra cucumbers in Billie's, no tomatoes in Dani's, onions and hard-boiled egg in Robbie's) it's perfect.
In the last couple of hours before bed, as the evening cools and the sky dips down into velvet shades, they settle down with glasses of lemonade and just talk. The girls gush about their summer projects and activities (Dani's painting class, Billie's constant quest for her next Girl Scout badge), and how glad they are school's done. Robbie tells them of the nicer parts of his last Mission, the people he met and the places he visited. Dani asks what they'll do when they go to the Upper Peninsula next month with Baba and Unca Ben and Aunt Liv and Scout and Amari ("Don't worry, love -- it won't be like real camping because we'll be staying in nice cabins with air conditioning.") and Billie wheedles and pleads (for the seventh time) for another dog.
"How can Boomhauer be lonely when he has you and Dani?" Robbie counters.
"People aren't the same as dogs," Billie explains. "And Boom wants a dog friend. A lady dog friend."
"Ohhhh," Robbie says knowingly. "Maybe what Boom needs is a trip to the vet."
"Daddy!"
"...Well, I'll talk it over with Mum. But that's not a yes!"
"Daddy, have you seen the whole world?" Dani asks after a lull and a lemonade refill.
"Not quite. But I've seen a lot of it."
"Jungles and mountains and castles and big cities?"
"Yup."
"And you still want to live here?"
"Yup."
Dani straightens and fixes him with her huge, solemn eyes. "Why? Nothing exciting ever happens here, and the people can be really mean to Auntie Jane and everyone else on the reservation, and we have to drive for hours and hours to get to a lot of things."
Robbie pauses to marshal his thoughts. "Those are all good points, Dani, and there are a lot of frustrating things about living here. But this is where your Mum needs to be right now, for her business--"
"And you need to be with Mum," Billie chimes in helpfully.
"Yes, absolutely," Robbie agrees. "Because home is where your family is, and you two and Mum are the most important people to me."
"What about Baba and Aunt Akiko and Nan?" Dani counters.
"They're all important, too -- everybody in our family is important -- but you guys are my priority. Priorities come before anything else, before even what you might want to do. Before I think about anyone else, I think about you and your Mum. You're the ones I want to see and talk to more than anybody else in the world."
"Because you love us," Billie says without hesitation, smiling in a way that put her dimples on display. "That's what love is: wanting to be around that person or thing every day. Right, Daddy?"
"That's a pretty good definition, yeah."
"That's why Dani says she loves Doctor Who -- because she could watch it every day -- and that's why I love putting things together, because I could do it every day and never ever get bored."
"Will you read us a story now?" Dani asks.
"Sure -- which one will it be tonight?"
"Can I pick, Bills?"
"Okay, but I get to pick the popcorn flavor."
"Deal."
Robbie fills a large bowl with caramel corn while Dani peruses the bookcases. He settles on the couch with the bowl on his lap and Billie to his right when she returns with a worn red book and a careless smile.
"Here, Daddy, this one," she says, handing it over as she settles to his left and dips her hand into the popcorn.
The House At Pooh Corner, by A.A. Milne.
Robbie hesitates. Swallows the unbidden lump that had risen in his throat. And turns to the first page.
"How was your day?" Charlie asks in bed that night, cheek against his chest.
"Good. Smashing, really."
"Hmm, that's nice."
"...You don't need to disappear every year, you know. You can join us."
"No, this is your day," she says firmly. "Just for you and the girls. It should be a special thing for all of you."
The night deepens around them, the air conditioning clicking on with a rattling whirr in the vents. Down the street a door slams and a dog begins to bark.
"...I haven't missed one. Not one. Not yet."
"No, you haven't," Charlie says, voice soft and understanding. She doesn't voice the next thought: that even if he misses next year, due to events entirely beyond his control, the girls will understand. They know now that their Daddy only leaves because he has to, not because he wants to, and that he'll come rushing home as quickly as he can. They know how much he loves them, how excited he always is to see them.
They know the truth.
And she also thinks: there's a part of you that can't help but keep a tally. There's a part of you that's still a ten-year-old boy who's trapped in the moment of watching his father walking away -- walking away and never looking back -- and that boy remembers every passing year between that moment and the day a gun was fired. That boy always looked at Father's Day with confusion, and sadness, and quite a bit of anger. And every year since the girls were born, you see that day as a challenge you can't afford not to live up to. For the past seven years, Father's Day has become a day to celebrate rather than dread, and every year that passes the hole in your heart get a little bit smaller.
"Dani had me read Winnie the Pooh tonight," he whispers, on the verge of sleep.
"And?"
"...I'd forgotten how much I used to love that book..."