“He’s not a food fascist,” I say, feeling an immediate need to defend Eric. “He just…cares about nutrition.” “He’s Hitler. If he could round up every loaf of bread and put it in a camp, he would.”

“He tears apart faces and puts them back together whole, like I would a piece of music. I could play it a hundred ways, imbue it with a different emotion every time and try to find the truth of it. He does that with faces, except he’s not putting the truth in, he’s drawing it out. He’s looking for the truth of me. I wonder if he’ll find it, and if he does, maybe he can show me where it is again.”

“Every time he opens his mouth I have absolutely no idea what he’s gonna say. He’s the most honest person I’ve ever met. He’s a quick study and rarely needs to make the same mistake twice. He really tries to learn, and does, and he makes me laugh, and the world’s generally a lighter place when he’s in my sight.”

“He remembered that right after that, he had stolen a loaf of bread from a delicatessen counter and had taken it home and devoured it, feeling that the world owed a loaf of bread to him, and more.”

“My heart sinks. I guess I should be glad he doesn’t care, but I’m not. He’s supposed to care. Mom cares so much, it’s smothering; but that doesn’t mean he’s allowed to do this, to check out. And suddenly I need him to care. I need him to give me something so I know he’s still here, still Dad.”

“And then, when he’s been underwater so long I feel certain he’s drowned, his head pops up right next to me and I start. “Don’t do that,” I say. “What? Come up or stay under?” he says. “Either. Neither. Whatever”