Watch Me Disappear

mom’s work schedule, it occurred to me that as often as he speaks about his mother, he doesn’t ever mention his father. I had just assumed Paul was from a two-parent family. That’s pretty much what I assume about everyone until I learn otherwise. But that night I realized I must be wrong—unless his father also works in the evening. I didn’t know how to ask him. I am afraid it’s a touchy subject (if it weren’t, he would have told me already, right?), so I haven’t probed further.
    But I’ve also realized how Paul lets me dominate our conversations. He asks a lot of questions and lets me ramble on, but I seldom ask him questions. I never have to; there is never a lull in conversation because I am always talking. I hate to admit that I hardly know him at all, and I feel totally self-centered for my willingness to talk about myself without ever thinking of asking Paul questions. In that regard, I could really take a lesson from Missy.
    One morning on the drive to school I ask Maura about Paul’s home life and she fills me in: His dad left his mom and him when he was a baby. She’s raised him alone, and now they live in an apartment at Apple Valley Terrace.
    This is also news to me. Another wrong assumption on my part. I assumed Paul lived in a house, like me, but Paul lives in an apartment. Apple Valley Terrace is a complex near Forest Park. It isn’t far from my grandmother’s and Missy’s houses. Like most of the apartment complexes in town, the tenants are a mixed bag. It’s a private complex, not a housing project, but a lot of the units are low-income. My grandmother often complains about the “shady people” who hang around the parking lot there.
    My family hasn’t lived in an apartment since I was a baby. I associate apartments with single people, elderly people on fixed incomes, and people who are really poor. I’m beginning to see what a terrible tendency I have to assume that everyone is just like me. I can’t imagine what it’s like growing up your whole life without a backyard, always hearing neighbors through the walls and ceiling, always knowing that there are strangers living their own lives under the same roof. It’s crazy how different Paul’s experiences are from my own, and I want to learn more.
    I’ve been trying to make a point of listening more, of asking Paul questions, but he is deft at steering the conversation away from himself.
    “How come I never come to your house to study?” I ask one night.
    “Because you don’t drive,” Paul says.
    “I’m getting my license next month.”
    “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
    Paul is a very touchy-feely sort of guy. I’ve gotten used to him throwing an arm around me, walking up behind me and rubbing my shoulders, sitting sideways on the couch and letting his legs drape across mine. I know there’s nothing romantic in it—it is just his way—but I love it.
    Amazingly, even with Paul showing up at my house a few times a week, Maura is unbothered. At first I thought maybe she deserved a little more credit than I’d been giving her, but then I realized the truth: Maura isn’t home most evenings to notice Paul’s car pulling into my driveway. She is out with friends just about every night of the week.
    Even with the weather getting cooler and the days shorter, I feel so happy. No “Seasonal Affective Disorder” for me. I never minded going to school, but now I look forward to it. I have Missy and Paul, and maybe two friends doesn’t sound like much, but it’s more than I hoped for, more than I found at my last school.
     
    *          *          *
     
    When my brother calls Saturday to make plans for my parents to pick him up at the airport in Hartford, he shocks us all with the news that he is bringing his girlfriend home with him for Thanksgiving. It is the first any of us have heard about a girlfriend, and yet it must be serious if she’s flying to our house with him for a holiday. My mother is beside herself with joy. I am intrigued although not exactly excited. I have been looking forward to having Jeff all to myself for a while. I planned to show him around town and hang out like we used to. That seems unlikely now.
    I drive with my mother to the airport. We wait near the baggage claim, and of course the flight is late. We sit on a bench, my mother impatiently tapping her foot and staring at the flight announcement board while I attempt to concentrate on Hamlet , which is due after