Hannah Gersen - Home Field

“Who’s that in our driveway?” Bryan asked as they approached their house. There was a maroon-colored sedan parked there.

“I don’t know,” Dean said. His first thought was Laura, but it wasn’t her car.

“Maybe it’s someone from church dropping off food,” Robbie said.

“Maybe,” Dean said. But no one had left food for some time. It had stopped when the school year began.

He pulled into his driveway next to the strange car, feeling spooked and unseated, his good mood slipping away.

Dean’s driveway was adjacent to the side porch, separated by a tall, gated wooden fence, upon which a sweet vining flower grew.

“Hello?” Dean called out as he approached the gate. When he opened it, he saw the Shanks sitting on the steps of his porch. They stood up, brushing off their clothes. As always, they were dressed a notch too formally for the occasion, Mrs. Shank wearing a white oxford-cloth shirt and navy pants, and Mr. Shank in gray chinos, a collared shirt, and a pullover sweater.

“It’s Stephanie’s grandparents!” Bryan said. Always friendly, he ran to them and gave them each a hug. “Is Stephanie here?”

“No, my dear, she’s busy at school,” Mrs. Shank said. But she gave Dean a look that let him know that something was wrong.

“Robbie, why don’t you go inside and make a sandwich for yourself and your brother,” Dean said, handing him the groceries.

“Are you staying for lunch?” Bryan asked, not getting it.

“Come on, Bry,” Robbie said. “Leave them alone. They have to talk about something.”

“What?” Bryan asked as Robbie pushed him toward the door. “What is it, Daddy?”

“It’s grown-up stuff, sweetheart,” Mrs. Shank said. “It would bore you; it’s about tuition.”

“Oh, money,” Bryan said, with a put-on knowingness that Dean had never seen before. He felt a wheel of panic spinning in his chest; he felt as if he did not know his children at all.

“Dean, I’m sorry to descend on you like this,” Mrs. Shank said as soon as the boys were out of earshot. “We just felt it was the right thing to do.”

“What happened?” Dean asked. “Is Stephanie in trouble?”

“She’s fine, but she reached out to us last night — actually, in the morning — and we thought we should tell you in person.” Mrs. Shank glanced at her husband. “Maybe you should tell him. I’ll go help the boys with lunch.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Dean said. But she was already heading inside.

“Should we sit down, then?” Mr. Shank nodded to the two rocking chairs on Dean’s porch. It was maybe the sixth sentence Mr. Shank had ever spoken directly to Dean.

“Let’s take a walk,” Dean said, trying to get some control over the situation. He couldn’t be out-and-out rude to a man his father’s age.

Mr. Shank followed Dean to the backyard. They ended up standing at the edge of Dean’s property, where his overgrown lawn bordered on a weedy meadow.

“Any idea who owns this field?” Mr. Shank asked.

“It’s part of the Baker farm.”

“You should try to buy it. It doesn’t seem like they’re doing much with it. And you don’t want them to sell it to a developer. You’ll have people looking right into your backyard.”

Dean couldn’t deal with small talk. “Mr. Shank, with all due respect—”

“Call me Walter. We’ve known each other long enough.”

“Walter, what’s going on? I know you didn’t come all this way for no reason.”

“We came because we’re worried,” Mr. Shank said. “Stephanie called us early this morning after a night of partying. She was under the influence of a drug, something I’ve never heard of, but apparently it’s a kind of pharmaceutical. Something that induces intense moods. She was extremely distraught when she called us. She had checked herself into the ER because she was so scared.”

“Stephanie was in the hospital?” Dean felt sick.

“She claims she called you, but that you didn’t answer. Do you remember getting any calls last night? Did you have messages on your answering machine?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t checked yet.” Dean was uncertain of how much to leave unsaid. “I wasn’t home last night.”

“Oh, I see. That explains things.” Mr. Shank gave Dean a look that was surprisingly sympathetic. “I learned a long time ago not to judge people for their private lives. But I’ve never seen Stephanie behave this way. Granted, I don’t know her all that well. And I regret that. But I know her well enough to say that she’s not herself.”

“I can’t believe she would use drugs,” Dean said. “It doesn’t sound like her at all.”

“Grief makes people do strange things.” Mr. Shank kept his eyes on the meadow.

“That’s not an excuse. I’m sorry you had to pick her up.”

“Sometimes there are things that parents can’t do.”

“I could have gone to get her. I would have if I’d known—”

Mr. Shank turned to him. “What I mean is, Vivian and I would be happy to help out more with Stephanie.”

“You’re already helping plenty.”

“I don’t mean financially. I mean that we would like to take a more active role in her development as an adult. It’s a difficult transition for anyone. And I think she might be more likely to listen to us. It may help that we have some distance from recent events.”

Dean nodded, unable to speak. Shame and anger mixed within him, directed mostly toward himself but also toward the Shanks, whose arrogance — or maybe it was cluelessness — was getting to him. He felt as if Walter was telling him to step aside. That they would take over now, with Stephanie. That they could do a better job. Because they weren’t mixed up with the messiness of Nicole’s death. This, he saw now, was why everyone in Nicole’s family disliked the Shanks. Their strategy for getting through life was to stay as clean as possible. To always be blameless and rational.

“We thought we might visit more,” Walter said. “And if it’s all right with you, maybe she could come to our house for Thanksgiving and even for—”

“It’s up to her,” Dean said, cutting him off. “If that’s what she wants, what can I say?”

“I know it’s a hard time,” Walter said. “Sam did the same thing to us when he started college. He came back, though. Stephanie will, too.”

“Thanks,” Dean said. He still felt condescended to, but he was reminded that he was talking to a man whose son hadn’t even made it out of his twenties. Maybe he wanted another chance to be a parent.

The two men walked back to the house, where they found the boys eating sandwiches on the side porch. Mrs. Shank had made herself a cup of tea. Dean invited her and Walter to stay for lunch, but she declined. He would have been shocked if they’d accepted.

As soon as the Shanks left, Dean called Stephanie, but there was no answer, not even the roommate. He checked his answering machine. The number of messages was high, but the first three were blank. Finally, a girl’s soft voice implored Dean to call Stephanie at school. The meek roommate. After her message there was another blank message. Dean thought he heard a sigh before the click, a slight exhalation from his drugged-up daughter. If she was the one who called.

The last message was from Laura. Hey, I’m just calling to say I miss you already. And that I love you. Call me tonight, okay?

Dean’s cheeks burned. He went into the kitchen and got some paper napkins.

“Boys, wrap up your sandwiches, we’re going to see your sister. You can finish them in the car.”

“But we just got home!” Robbie said. “I have homework. I have a project due tomorrow.”

“I’ll write a note to your teacher. Come on, it’s a family emergency.”