And I wondered what my aunt would have done if that same potion were real and right in front of her. If it could have saved her life, would she have chosen to live forever?
Hours later, days later, there was a knock on my door,and my dad pushed it gently open. “Can I come in?” he asked.
I was halfway through the book and had read right through dinner. That was how good they were. Every time was like the first time.
“Yeah, Dad, of course.”
He pushed the door open wider and wandered in with half a glass of wine (truly wandered; he looked a little lost). He sat on my bed and sighed.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I’m okay,” he said. “We had a little warning. I guess that was nice. But not too much warning, or else we would have had to think about it for too long. You know?”
“I know.”
“Are you okay? You’ve been up here for a while.”
“Just reading.”
“Ah, Alvin.” He picked up the first book,Alvin Hatter and the House in the Middle of the Woods. It had been published when my aunt was twenty-four. She was flat broke, living in my father’s garage, two years out of college and still refusing to look for a job (much to his chagrin). “I don’t need to eat,” she’d famously told him once, “I need to write.”
“These books, huh, kid?” He paused, had a sip of wine, sighed again. “I’m so happy you kids got a chance to know her so well. Your aunts and uncles in Peru... Well, I know your mother wishes they were closer. Family is important, kid.”
Uh-oh.
My father was in the red wine danger zone.
Someone hadn’t been paying attention, and I could guarantee this was his third glass, exactly the amount needed for him to turn inward and deep and philosophical.
But I guess he deserved it.
And it wouldn’t last long.
The end of the third glass would see him sound asleep within fifteen minutes.
It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it was like clockwork.
“I know family’s important, Dad.”
“That’s why I’m so happy you and Abe have each other,” he continued. “Helen and I were so close growing up. I’m glad you two are the same way.”
“Me too.”
“Your aunt was a trip.” Another sip, this one so miniscule that the liquid barely touched his lips. He stared out my window (which was covered by a curtain, so I guess he stared at my curtain).
“What do you mean?”
“There was always... just something. Something about her.”
“What kind of something? Like she’s super famous?”
He laughed, crossed his legs. “No, silly. Not like that. I mean there was something I couldn’t put my finger on. Like she was keeping something from me. You know?”
“Abe has a locked trunk of comics he’s never let me look through,” I said. “Like that?”
“Maybe like that. Maybe different. Weird things, you know? Once I caught her with this little bottle. Just this little glass—”
“Sal?” my mom interrupted, poking her head into the room. She was wearing scrubs; she had to leave soon for an overnight at the hospital. She analyzed the current situation: Dad glossy-eyed, holding an almost-empty wineglass, me looking slightly terrified. She moved into the doorway and held three fingers up so my father couldn’t see. I nodded, confirming it.
