"Gone?" I blink stupidly. "What do you mean, he's gone?"

Professor MacDowell draws in a breath, filling his lungs so the front of his shirt stretches across his chest. "I mean, he has gone away, and I don't know where he is. I was hoping you could enlighten me as to the cause of his disappearance. I'm assuming it has something to do with you. Am I wrong?"

All kinds of feelings explode in my chest, like the grand finale of a fireworks display, and I feel proud of myself for the simple fact I don't melt into a puddle of tears, then and there.

I shake my head. "You'd better come in."

MacDowell follows me into the humble living room, making me suddenly ultra-conscious of the state it's in. Without Lana's alpha-girl guidance, and with my mind preoccupied by other things, I'd let the place go. The sink overflows with dirty dishes, the trash hasn't been taken out in a week, and the whole place reeks with the scent of unwashed clothes and rank, nervous sweat.

Clearing my throat self-consciously, I gesture at the couch, inviting MacDowell to sit. "Can I, um, get you something to drink?" I ask, thinking this is the sort of thing one asks one's guests.

MacDowell lowers himself onto the threadbare cushions with a sigh, the springs of the sofa protesting beneath his weight.

"No, thank you."

Unsure what else to do, I pull out a chair from the dining table and turn it to face the couch. "So, um... When did you see Hazel last?"

He shoots me a look over the rims of his spectacles. "Charlie... Let's be honest with one another, shall we? I fucked up. I fucked up a long time ago, and I've been fucking up ever since. And if I had to hazard a guess, I'd say my son has fucked up, too. Am I wrong?"

I bite the inside of my bottom lip as my eyes sting. "No. But... I think I probably fucked up, too."

"Well..." MacDowell sighs. "We wouldn't be human, otherwise. So. What is it that Hazel did?"

I look away. Despite everything, I can't bring myself to speak ill of Hazel to his father's face.

"Charlie..." MacDowell leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and speaks in a gentle, patient tone. "It's alright. Really. I'm not angry. I'm certainly not angry at you. All I want is to understand. I've failed miserably as a father, but..." He sighs again. "You know what they say—where there's life, there's hope."

As he speaks, I experience a strange shift in perception, a spontaneous moment of empathy, and see the world through his eyes.

I see him as a younger man, in love with his wife and son, but caught up in the busiest years of his career. I see his loss and grief, the still-open wound of his wife's death, and the guilt he carries like a heavy stone. I see the blame he accepts, and the knife of Hazel's unforgiving anger lodged firmly in his heart.

I shake my head. "I don't think you failed. I think Hazel never gave you a chance to succeed."

He stares at me, clearly surprised, and then his expression softens, taking ten years off his face. I realize he's never even entertained the idea that Hazel could be wrong: that maybe everything wasn't his fault. At the same time, I realize I've been doing the same thing Hazel did—placing all the blame on someone else and taking none myself.

"Guess I better start at the beginning, then," I say. I give him a weak, faltering smile, knowing that once I start, I probably won't be able to stop anyway, and tell him everything.

🐚

He's a good listener; patient and nonjudgmental, he sits quietly and lets me speak at my own pace. When I fail to hold back tears of shame and despair, he gets up, grabs a box of tissues from the bathroom, and hands them to me without saying anything. Even when I finish, he doesn't break the silence right away, but lets it settle as he absorbs what he's heard.

"Well," he says at last, "I'm very sorry to hear all that, Charlie, and sorry for whatever part I've played in it. You're an intelligent, hardworking, kindhearted young man. You have integrity. I've seen how you work with others, and how you never give anything short of your best effort. I'm sure this doesn't mean much, coming from me, but personally, I'd be proud to call you my son."

My throat is too tight to speak, so I only nod.

"In fact," he continues, "as it seems we have both been abandoned, perhaps we might help one another to fill the gaps in our lives, at least temporarily."

I stare at him, not understanding. He smiles.

"I have an empty room, at the moment, courtesy of Hazel. You're welcome to it. I'll also be more than happy to help you sort out your affairs. Justifiably or not, I feel at least partly responsible for your predicament."

Stunned, I grasp at half-formed thoughts. "I don't... I couldn't... What about Hazel?"

MacDowell removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. "Given what you've told me, I'm fairly certain I know where he is, now. We have a cabin—a shack, really—farther up the coast, near the Russian River. It was my own father's, in fact, for fishing trips. I would have sold it a long time ago, but Hazel adores the place. If I had to bet, I'd wager that's where he's gone."

Hesitantly, I say, "I'm not sure I... understand."

The professor sighs. "It's something he did as a boy. Whenever he felt guilty, when he knew he'd done wrong, he would disappear—go off and hide somewhere—until he thought he'd be forgiven. Of course, I knew where he was, then—usually out in my wife's garden shed. She told me to let him be—that he needed to work through his feelings in his own time. After her death, as a teenager, he'd do the same thing, except he'd disappear farther afield—the park, or a friend's house. I kept listening to my wife's advice even then, but in hindsight I wish I hadn't. I thought I was giving him space; he thought I didn't care. In truth... I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?" I ask, curious despite myself.

He slides his glasses back on and blinks at me with raised brows. "Strong emotions," he says, matter-of-factly. "I was afraid of pain. Afraid that, if Hazel and I ever spoke our true feelings, ever spoke of my wife's—of Keira's—death, our relationship would be wounded beyond repair. Instead, I took the coward's route—avoiding trouble, skirting the truth—and in the process keeping both of us from the healing we both deserved."

"It wasn't all your fault," I say, frowning. "Hazel—"

"Is angry, I know," MacDowell interjects. "He's a right to be. He was ten when his mother died—a boy. I was a man, and his father. I had the power to steer the course, then. I could have set us both on a better path. But I didn't, and now..." He sighs. "I can only hope it's not too late to do things right, for a change, starting with you, if you'll allow it."

I consider, but it's not like I have a lot of options at the moment.

"Just for a few days," I say at last. "Until I get my feet under me."

"Of course," he allows generously. "I'll help you pack."

🐚

MacDowell plays along with my pretense that I'll be out of his hair in no time, while also making it perfectly clear he expects me to stay as long as I need or wish.

Thankfully, he doesn't put me in Hazel's room, but makes up the spare. There's a nice, queen-sized bed, a dresser, a TV, and a bathroom all to myself. He tells me to make myself at home, and gives me plenty of space to do so, spending most of his time in his office, though he keeps the door open when he's not in a meeting or on the phone.

We dance around each other, at first, each more polite than he needs to be and more self-conscious than ever. I'm constantly aware of the fact he's my boyfriend's—probably ex-boyfriend's—father, my professor, and thirty years older than me. He seems likewise conscious of these dynamics, but does his best to minimize them. He purposely avoids mentioning Hazel, but I can tell he's worried as the radio silence stretches on.

It's a weird arrangement, to say the least; but as those few days become a week, I gradually come out of crisis mode, trust that I'm in a safe environment, and relax.

In the meantime, Professor MacDowell—Robert—is true to his word, and does his best to undo the damage my father has wrought. He takes me up to campus, to the financial aid department, shoulders his way into a meeting with someone important, and works out an emergency aid plan: a fee deferral and work exchange. I still have to fill out a shit-ton of forms, but I'm pretty much guaranteed a student-worker position.

Next, he takes me to the bank, and lends me the necessary deposits to open a checking, savings, and credit account. I tried to dissuade him from this, saying I wasn't comfortable borrowing his money, but the more he learns about my father, the angrier he becomes.

"Ridiculous!" he declares that evening, when I tell him why I didn't have a bank account or a credit card already. "Absolutely criminal! You could have been building credit from the moment you turned eighteen. Those points matter down the road."

"My dad said—"

"Forget what he said," MacDowell snaps, then softens his tone when I flinch. "Charlie, it has nothing to do with 'responsible spending,' or whatever bullshit he told you. It's about control—pure and simple. He wanted you in exactly the position you are now—with no one to rely on and nothing to fall back on, except for him. I take it that, if not for his unfortunate bigotry, he had his own plans for your future. Am I right?"

I look away, admiring the potted rhododendrons through the dining room windows, which I'd coaxed back from the brink of death. "Yeah. He wanted me to work for an oil company. Find them new places to punch holes in the sea floor."

MacDowell scoffs. "We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children. Have you heard that before?"

I shake my head.

"A popular maxim in the early days of environmentalism," he says, waving his hand. "Anyway, clearly not among your father's guiding principles. He seems more of the mind that a father's children are his property, to do with as he sees fit—a fortunately outdated view, for the most part."

"I don't know what he wanted," I admit, twirling my fork in my spaghetti. Despite the professor's insistence that I needn't trouble myself, I'd taken on the cooking and cleaning, fearing to be more of a burden than I am.

"Some parents see their children as an extension of themselves," MacDowell says, spearing some salad on his fork. "To the extent that the children reflect favorably on them—as if the child's accomplishments are due partly, if not solely, to the parent's influence. I've seen it all too often. 'My son got into Harvard,' or 'My daughter is a decorated officer of the Navy.' It's not about the child; it's about the parent's ego. Your father cares a great deal about money, doesn't he?"

I take a sip of water from my tall, clear glass, and nod.

"That's the crux of it, I imagine. He wants to be able to say, 'Look at my son—at how well off he is, despite the fact he's an egghead. He's got a nice house, with a pool, and vacations in Cancun.'" He scoffs. "Really, what he's saying is 'Look at me, and the great investment I made.'"

I shift uncomfortably. Neither of us has mentioned Hazel in days.

Somehow, MacDowell reads my thoughts.

"I know," he says, tipping his glass of wine at me. "I know that Hazel says the same of me—that I've pushed him to follow in my footsteps. It's true; I have. But the thing is, Charlie..." He trails off as his voice grows tight, and he sets his glass down carefully. "The thing is, I love him. I love my son, and I love my work. I wanted him to love my work, too, so I could have the two things I love with me, always." He shakes his head. "And Hazel is right—it's selfish. Purely selfish."

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. I concentrate on my pasta, pretending not to see the dampness in his eyes.

"Anyway..." He draws a deep breath and picks up his fork again. "I suppose the only difference is that I love him, and will always love him, no matter what path he takes, or where it leads him, simply because he is my son."

"Then why did you never tell me that?"

We look up, startled. Hazels stands in the entryway, having silently let himself in with his key. He holds a pair of duffle bags in his hands, tears make tracks on his cheeks, and a look of pure, angry guilt twists his face.