Naomi knew her mom sometimes hid things from her. Like anything about her father, for example.
Naomi never met her father. In fact, she knew almost nothing about him—who he was, where he was, what happened to him so that he did not live in the small two-story house that Naomi and her mom occupied on the edge of town. All Naomi knew was her father’s name, Joseph, and that he had disappeared when she was a baby.
Later that evening, as she sat on the steps of their covered porch reading her favorite teen magazine, Pasty Beat, and enjoying the warm, waning Texas sun, Naomi got the courage to ask again about her father. She turned to her mother, who was sitting on the hanging swing.
“Mom,” Naomi said, folding the glossy magazine in one hand, “Where do you think dad is?”
Her mom, as always, shook her head and answered, “I don’t know.”
Naomi saw a pained look on her mom’s face that meant she knew where he was, or at least she had an idea. Naomi felt bad that she had brought up such a hard subject again, but after this morning, she thought maybe her mom was ready to tell her more. Now it didn’t seem that way anymore.
But her mom said, “I’ll tell you more, but not right now.”
“Why?” Naomi asked.
“Please, not yet, Naomi,” said her mom.
The porch swing creaked as her mom rose. The screen door clapped shut, and Naomi’s mom was gone. Naomi heard her mom’s footsteps going up the stairs. Her mom spent the next few hours in her bedroom, leaving Naomi to cook her own dinner of gooey white paste on the hot stove.