Where You Are by J.H. Trumble Page A

and drawer in its place.
    It’s just a shot in the dark, but I’m guessing Mom didn’t ask Aunt Martha Stewart here to rearrange her kitchen for maximum efficiency. She’s going to be pissed when she can’t find the manual can opener later.
    I take a glass and pour some milk. “Where’s Mom?” I ask.
    â€œOut running errands. I told her she should wake you up to do the errands, but she vetoed me on that. She acts like she can’t get out of this house fast enough most days.”
    No kidding. Can’t imagine why.
    â€œYou want something to eat? I made your dad a breakfast burrito.” She sighs. “He barely picked at it. There’s still some eggs and bacon left. I could put one together for you.”
    I mumble a no, thanks, but take a piece of bacon anyway.
    â€œI think your dad’s asleep now.” She stoops to size up a bottom cabinet, then reaches up for a large saucepan and sets it on the shelf inside. “I think he was up all night again. He doesn’t like being alone, you know.”
    He wasn’t alone. Mom was right there in the bed next to him. It’s a slight, another tiny dig on my mom—the bad mother, the bad wife. They hate her—for getting pregnant in college, for dropping out, for marrying Dad, for supplanting them in my dad’s life, for existing. She’ll never be good enough to bear the Westfall name. I know that, and so does she.
    Aunt Whitney straightens up and leans against the counter. She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head slowly. “You look so much like your dad did at your age. You should be very proud of him, Robert. He’s a very brave man.”
    I want to scream at her. How? Tell me how having cancer makes you brave or good or noble? But I don’t.
    Aunt Whitney sighs. “He would have been such a good doctor.” Her voice catches in her throat.
    She seems lost in her thoughts for a moment, then suddenly finds herself again. She examines the scarred nonstick pan she’s holding. “God, some of this cookware is just a disgrace. I don’t know why your mother doesn’t invest in some good Calphalon.” She forces the pan into a trash bag of other discards she’s been collecting in the corner.
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    Andrew
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    â€œThere’s my girl!”
    I scoop up Kiki and spin her around. She squeals in delight and pats my face like I’m one of her dolls.
    Maya smiles and kisses me on the cheek. “So, what do you two have planned for today?”
    I look at Kiki. “You want to go see Santa?”
    â€œHo-ho-ho!”
    Maya laughs. “Good luck with that. My guess is you won’t get her anywhere near the jolly old elf. But if you do, I want pictures.”
    â€œYou hear that, Kiki?” I say to her. “Mommy wants a picture of you with Santa, and we can’t disappoint Mommy, right?”
    My daughter’s cat strolls out the front door, and Kiki squirms to be put down so she can pet him. I drop her lightly to her feet. “So, you spending the day with Doug?”
    â€œHe’s playing golf right now. Maybe later.”
    â€œGolf? Wow. How . . . upper-middle-class straight.”
    â€œQuit. Not everybody can be you. And at least he wants to be with me.”
    Ouch. But that’s Maya. Letting go has never been her strong suit. And now what should have been a friendly exchange of our child has become another awkward moment between us.
    â€œHe’s a great guy, Maya. I don’t know why you two don’t make it official. Give the poor guy a break.”
    â€œAre you just trying to get out of paying child support?”
    At least she can still make a joke. I take that as a sign of continued progress. I know it’s been hard on her going from best friend to one-time lover to a married couple to this.
    Kiki has thrown herself over the aging cat, who seems to have resigned himself to the assault.
    â€œAre you taking care of