Chapter 8.

8.

Seven months later, Abigail made her stage debut in her elementary school musical, Beauty and the Beast . She played a spoon (or rather, she played a castle servant who was magically transformed into a spoon). She had just one song and ten minutes of stage time, but she’d been rehearsing for weeks like she had the lead role. At seven o’clock on opening night, the curtain went up and I found myself backstage with a couple of other dads who volunteered to push around the heavy sets. I was surprised to find myself feeling nervous. I really wanted the show to be perfect. After a long week of rehearsals, I’d memorized the lyrics to every song, and I found myself whistling the melodies anytime I was stuck at a red light: Be our guest, be our guest, our command is your request…

Vicky and Tammy watched from the third row, with an extra seat reserved for Abigail’s birth mother—but to no one’s great surprise, the poor woman didn’t show up. I know that sounds terrible, but I’d stopped blaming her a long time ago. Vicky’s been teaching us all about the destructive powers of addiction, and I’ve learned how hard it is for anyone to make a full recovery. It’s not clear if Abigail and her mother will ever have much of a future together. But after everything Tammy and I sacrificed for the kid, there was no way we could let her go back into the system, so my sister filed for adoption last year and signed all the paperwork on New Year’s Eve.

I wanted to cosign the documents but Pennsylvania won’t allow a brother and sister to share custody, so legally I had to settle for being Uncle Frank. But I still made a point of seeing Abigail every day. I put myself in charge of all her after-school and weekend childcare, so my sister can get a break now and then. And when Abigail’s drama teacher needed volunteers with strong backs to help wheel the sets, I was the first person to raise my hand.

Opening night was a huge success. At the end of the show, the whole cast got a standing ovation, and everyone called for the stage crew to come out and take a bow. I was busy dragging a giant papier-maché log into the wings, where none of the other kids would trip over it, so I missed the curtain call. But later I found Abigail backstage and together we went outside to the school parking lot, where the teachers and parents had organized a reception.

It was the first warm night of the year, and all the kids were reveling in the spring temperatures, running around the blacktop without jackets or gloves, fueled by sugar from all the homemade cookies and cupcakes and brownies. There was a very long line for hand-dipped ice-cream cones but Abigail and I resolved to wait in it, and she passed the time by sharing new jokes she’d learned at math club. Don’t start a conversation with pi because it will just go on forever. The best way to keep warm in a freezer is to find a corner, because they’re always ninety degrees. And you should never call someone average because it’s actually mean. I couldn’t even understand this last one, so Abigail had to stop and explain it to me.

As soon as she had her ice cream, she made the mistake of running away—and a large scoop of chocolate chip rolled off her cone and hit the asphalt with a sickening splat. I reached for her empty cone and said, “Take mine. Trade with me.”

Abigail refused. She said it wouldn’t be fair.

“Come on, I want to switch,” I told her. “The cone’s my favorite part, anyway.”

It took a little more cajoling but I got her to swap, and then she carried my ice cream very carefully across the parking lot to join her friends.

Vicky saw what had happened and came walking over. “The cone’s your favorite part? Seriously?”

I shrugged and showed her that Abigail’s cone wasn’t completely empty—there was still a fair amount of chocolate chip ice cream packed into the bottom. “This is plenty for me,” I told her. “It’s just the right amount.”

We had a nice time talking to all the other parents and watching the kids celebrate. After Abigail finished her ice cream, she and the other spoons and forks treated the crowd to an encore performance of “Be Our Guest.” They linked their arms and kicked their legs like Rockettes and shrieked the lyrics without a shred of self-consciousness.

Just before the reception ended, I was approached by the school’s principal—the only man who’d come to the show dressed in a suit and tie. I knew a lot of the parents disliked him—some of these people were always finding flaws with the teachers and the curriculum and the facilities and even the quality of the hot lunches—but I thought he did a nice job.

“I want to thank you for volunteering tonight,” he said. “You’re Abigail’s father, right?”

I’ve learned it’s important to be clear with school administrators, in case there’s ever some kind of medical emergency. “Actually, I’m her uncle.”

“Aren’t you Frank Szatowski?”

“Yes, but Tammy Szatowski is my sister. We’re not married.” Tammy was across the playground in conversation with a gaggle of moms, and I pointed her out. “She adopted Abigail last year.”

He seemed embarrassed and apologized for the misunderstanding. I could tell he was used to dealing with parents who were a lot more sensitive, and I assured him it was fine. “Abigail loves your school. All her teachers have been fantastic.”

I wasn’t sure the principal heard my compliment. He still seemed hung up on his mistake. “Can I show you something?” he asked. “If you can spare a minute?”

Vicky and I followed him across the parking lot, inside the building, and up a flight of stairs to a darkened hallway full of classrooms. We stopped at a bulletin board that was covered with photographs and short essays about famous people. There was “#1 Songwriter Beyoncé” and “#1 Quarterback Jalen Hurts” and “#1 Magician Shin Lim.” The principal explained that the fifth graders were writing biographies of their heroes and sheroes—men and women who inspire us to do great things. Then he directed my attention to a photo of myself posing in a canoe and an essay titled “#1 Dad Frank Szatowski.”

“This is why I got confused,” he explained.

I didn’t have my reading glasses, so I had to squint to make out the text: Here are some fun facts about my father: He was a soldier in the United States Army. He fought in the Gulf War. He worked for UPS and drove over ONE MILLION MILES to deliver the stuff you need. He is good at canoeing, making grilled cheese, and getting the bugs out of my room. And he is good at taking care of me.

“If Abigail’s confused about the relationship, we can schedule a sit-down with our head of counseling. She’s very good at leading delicate conversations. Would you like her to give you a call?”

I didn’t answer because I was afraid my voice might break. I tried to gesture that there was a tiny piece of cone stuck in my throat, and fortunately Vicky came to my rescue.

“Frank’s okay with this,” she said. “He can talk to Abigail himself and let her know it’s all right.”

The principal looked relieved—another crisis averted—and said he needed to return to the reception. But he encouraged us to stick around and read the entire essay. “It’s one of the better ones. She got an A-plus.”