38.

“I think he knows the word poo,” Dad said, dropping the high chair, still in the box, near the sink. I’d spent the day letting the morning’s scene with Will play out in my head a thousand times. I would talk him out of it when he got home, I kept telling myself. When Dad buzzed that evening, I panicked for a moment, thinking that Will had called an agency and that they were coming to get Ian. I’d forgotten that Dad was coming to drop off the high chair so that Ian could start eating “real food.” I’d told him that it was still a couple of months too early to start with the food, but he’d insisted on bringing it over anyway, “just in case.”

“I swear I heard him say ‘poo’ when we were in the hospital with his leg that night,” Dad said, leaning the large box against the coffee table. “Did I tell you that?”

“He’s not even three months old,” I said.

“Well, he’s advanced,” he said, ripping through the packing tape with his keys. I rolled my eyes. “Seriously,” Dad countered. “The way his eyes dart around when someone enters a room or when that Noah’s Ark thing snaps shut. He’s very alert. Unusually so.”

“Okay, well, take it easy,” I said. I was in a black fog, but I couldn’t help smiling. “He’s got his whole life to buckle under the pressure.”

“Of course.” He smiled, leaning over Ian, who was on his back on a blanket. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get this over here. Better late than never, eh? How is he?”

“He’s good,” I said, folding up the bed in a hurry. “His leg looks much better.”

Dad looked at me, pushed my hair off my forehead. “You all right? You seem …”

“I’m okay.”

“You don’t sound okay.”

“Will’s still upset about the accident.” I stared at Ian on the floor, unable to look anywhere else.

“It was a very rough thing to go through,” he said. “But he’ll come around.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Look, you’re giving this everything you’ve got,” he said. “Not everyone is as capable as you are, at your age, you know. If he doesn’t realize that …”

I escaped to the sink to rinse out glasses and lost it. Horrible, embarrassing, convulsing crying.

“Thea?” Dad walked toward me like he was walking toward a sick animal.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“Really. What’s the matter? What’s wrong? What’s he doing?”

“Nothing.” I was afraid to tell him that Will thought we should give Ian up because I was afraid he’d agree.

“Honestly, this situation …,” he muttered, his voice trailing off. He started to lean against the pillar with his hand. Instead he bounced himself off the pillar and then smacked it. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “It’s not your fault.” He leaned his hands up against the counter, just like Will had done that morning, and we both faced the sink.

“I’m fine, Dad,” I choked. “It’s okay.”

“This isn’t working here.” A quick, embarrassed smile crossed his face as he raised his arms to encapsulate “here.” “You look so unhappy. Not just today. How long have you been feeling like this?”

“Since Ian’s accident, maybe before.”

“Look, just come stay with me for a while, Thea, okay? Take some time apart and figure out what’s what.”

It made sense, I realized, to be the first one to go. To get out first, like Mom did, before he could take Ian away from me. So I said okay, setting the last dripping glass on the rack.