Chapters (95)
- Front Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- Video #1
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Video #2
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Video #3
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Eighty-One
- Eighty-Two
- Eighty-Three
- The Final Video
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Back Cover
“I usually have cereal.”
“Oh, I thought…not oatmeal. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, Dad.”
“Do you want me to…” He points at the refrigerator. “I can make the cereal.”
“I can make cereal,” I say.
“Okay. I mean, if you’re sure. I just wanted to…”
Dad teaches history at the community college. He’s always reading something or grading papers. His words frequently trail off in the middle of sentences. People who’ve taken his class tell me it’s so inspiring how much he loves history, that when he lectures about some important topic like D-Day or the Civil Rights Movement, he goes on and on until one of the students reminds him the period is over.
When I ask if they’ve ever gone to his office hours, they say, “I’ve never done that. He’s not really the kind of professor you go talk to.”
I always want to tell them, He’s not that kind of dad, either.
Which is why the oatmeal is so weird. Dad last made breakfast…never. At most, he points to the coffee he brewed or the loaf of bread for toast before he rushes out the door for his way-too-early office hours.
He hands me the wooden spoon like it’s a fragile ancient artifact. “Here you go. If you put some cinnamon in there…the burning taste or whatever.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Since he’s made the effort, I grab a bowl, slide the pan off the burner, and scrape out some oatmeal. Dad just stands there by the table, holding his coffee mug like he has all the time in the world. Like a guy trying to show no sense of urgency. And utterly failing.
This is about me going back to school. I can feel it.
“I’m okay, Dad. I can handle it.”
“I know, I know. I don’t doubt that.” He takes a loud sip of his coffee. “It was on the news this morning that the latest search didn’t come up with anything. They’re not…not sure when they’ll do a big search again.”
“Are they giving up?” I ask.
“Not that,” he says. “It’s just…to get that many volunteers out.”
“People have short attention spans.”
Dad nods. He has as much faith in humanity as I do.
His overstuffed messenger bag and his laptop sit by the door. He taps his foot against the tile, shifts his weight.
Dad is almost fifty but still thin, not like most dads. He rides his bike on the weekends, rarely overeats. Once a month he sits in the backyard looking at the stars and smoking a cigar that smells worse than the burnt oatmeal. He must think about Mom on those nights, but I never ask.