For years, my parents feared I'd never come. After twelve months of failed attempts, Mom was finally diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, a disease that made it difficult to ovulate and, twenty-three years later, is harboring the cancer that's draining her life. When she lost all hope of giving birth, she quit her job as a realtor and enrolled in a class for foster parents.

Six months later, Olivia came into their lives. They fostered her from the day she was released from the hospital and adopted her the day the courts allowed. Seventeen days after signing the papers, Mom discovered she was pregnant with me.

Her love of children (and a knack for stirring spaghetti while burping a baby) yielded a crop of little brothers and sisters for Livy and me; “temporary gifts,” Mom would call them, and when they lived with us, they were family. Bobby and Jake were temporary gifts too, the “on-again-off-again” type whose mother wobbled the line between “stable” and “unfit.” The twins were weasely little rug-rats with no vital affect on my story, but provide a colorful backdrop none-the-less.

The parlor had green carpet and a tin ceiling and served as the central hub for every room on the main level. The kitchen could be accessed from two open archways separated by a piano that never got played. Livy's bedroom was on the left. Dad helped her nail a chalkboard to her door so she could “express her individuality”; today it read “KIMMY IS THE COOLEST!!!” and, hidden in the bottom corner, “livy loves ryan!” I could hear her boom-box through the wall, the soft baseline gave the castle a steady pulse. Studying... my butt!

My room was next in line. A glow-in-the-dark galaxy of stars clung to the door with poster putty. I cracked it--just an inch--and peeked inside. Bobby was in his undies, hugging his knees and sucking his thumb as if my beanbag was a womb.

“Whadja do?” I asked.

“J-Jake stole my orange c-c-c-crayon and I dinin't even do noffin!”

I grinned and sealed the little jailbird back in my room. I slunk past the library hallway to my parent's room and pressed gently on the door. Jake was in the fetal position too, wrapped in my father's robe and sucking his thumb. “Hey, Jake the Snake,” I whispered, “whadja do?”

He sniffled. “I stole Bobby's crayon and he punched me in da nose!”

I snickered and quietly closed the door.

Next were the two stairwells. An antique iron gate blocked the downward steps on the right. They led to the foyer, garage, playroom and the unfinished guest room. I barreled up the other set with leaps and bounds, zoomed passed the thin windows where I sometimes pretended to be a medieval archer, then emerged into a vast and glorious ballroom with twenty-foot ceilings and awful floral-print carpet. I tugged the lapel of my invisible velvet robe, straightened my jewel-studded crown, bowed to my minions, then strode with lumbering poise to the base of the spiral staircase. “Dad!” I called. “Dinner in ten!”

Silence. Then, the click of a pen... the thump of a hardcover book... the shallow cry of a wooden chair... five intentional steps above my head and my father appeared at the balcony rail. He wore square glasses--always--and held himself with a scholarly demeanor. Despite his ruffled hair and loosened tie, David Parker was as mild and structured as his blueprints. “I'll be right down,” he said.

Believe me when I tell you that--like most boys--I lost all reverence for my father by the time I could drive a stick-shift. But now that I'm older, I find myself reverting to that childhood sense of bridled awe: my dad can do anything. He's in his sixties now and still a master architect. He's a carpenter, an artist and a connoisseur of wine, beer, books and film. He's an avid fishermen, a poet, and an amateur photographer. On his forty-ninth birthday, he went bungie-jumping from a helicopter... probably thought about work the whole way down.

After Mom bought him a book about Michigan wildlife the Christmas before this story, Dad added “birdwatcher” to his list of interests. The new hobby brought tubs of seed to the garage and more feeders on our property than discarded toys. On weekends he rolled up his blueprints, unlocked the shed, immersed himself in a train wreck of chicken-wire, rope and wood, and tinkered for hours on a more effective means of keeping squirrels off his feeders.

A month ago, The Grand Harbor Tribune reported a Bald Eagle sighting over the lake and speculated that a whole family of the patriotic birds may have nested in the woods on the outskirts of town. Since the article, Dad spent his spare moments locked in the tower with patient binoculars around his neck and a determined checklist of birds on his lap.

“That man gets obsessed,” Mom told me. “I love your father like Bush loved this country, but if those gosh-darned eagles don't show up soon... I'm hiring a plumber to fix the disposal!”

*  *  *

Family dinner.

The dining-room/living-room combo was a recent addition to the castle and still carried the grainy smell of new carpet. There were seven of us including Kimmy, but Mom was still back and forth from the table to the kitchen, unable to sit until the rest of us were fed.

My leg bounced beneath the table. At some strategic moment I had to bring up the camcorder, and I still didn't know if I should tell the truth or lie. I dipped my garlic bread in my milk, sprinkled extra cheese on my noodles, and politely devoured my spaghetti and meatballs.

“There goes the Super Nintendo,” Livy said and Kimmy choked on her food to stifle the laugh.

“Watch it, Princess,” Dad said and eyed her from the head of the table.

“I'm just sayin', if he wants his silly game, he could just eat like I do.”

“It's called genetics!” I said, then grabbed a meatball and raised my arm like a catapult. I hesitated.

Multi-colored beads hung at the tips of Livy's tight braids and rattled when she cocked her head with “you've-got-to-be-kidding” annoyance. “Go ahead, Jamesie. Throw it. I've never seen you waste a handful of meat before!”

“Olivia Parker!” Mom said from the kitchen. “Be nice to your brother or Kimmy goes home! James, if you throw that meatball, you're on toilet duty for a month!”

Dad glared at me over the rim of his bifocals to reaffirm Mom's threat, then took a sip of his fancy beer and grinned.

I lowered my arsenal. “Livy’s just crabby 'cause of Ryan Brosh.”

Livy coiled like a pissed off cobra. Her spine tightened, her shoulders constricted into ridged knobs, and she shot me a look so deadly I could taste the venom.

Her silent attack worked. I slunk to my seat and stuck out my tongue.

She opened her mouth in retaliation and showed me the creamy red mush of half-chewed pasta.

The twins giggled and shoveled marinara sauce on their tongues, then opened their mouths too.

Kimmy snickered.

Dad cut the tension by clearing his throat. “James, your mother tells me you might have a screening for your summer project?”

My heart sank like peas in milk. “I told her not to call them. The movie won't be any good anyways.”

“If it won't be good, why did I agree to be the executive producer?”

I rubbed the blunt end of my fork against the bandaid on my cheek. Think, James! The camera was yours, right? Why should they care what you do with your own stuff?

That line of reasoning was foolish; my parents let me buy the camcorder to prove my responsibility. Plus, I only paid half... they matched my savings dollar for dollar.

“The art show is a big deal at The Lakeshore Celebration,” Dad continued. “Mom said she talked them into accepting film submissions this year. We expect a lot from you.”

Mom Of The Year finally arrived with Fantasia's bottle. “First prize is a hundred-dollar savings bond for the kid's show,” she said. “They're going to set up a TV and VCR in a conference room, and James can invite whoever he wants.”

I searched my plate for something to calm my galloping heart, but the food was gone. Every last drop of sauce had been mopped with bread. Dangit, darnit, crap and bungholes! I thought. Should I lie or tell the truth?

“How was your location scout?” Dad asked. “Did you find a good path for the war scene?”

I shoulda let Danny keep the dang picture! Forget Roslyn! Why was she taking naked pictures of herself anyways?

“James?” Dad said and narrowed his brow.

What could I do? I couldn't stay mute forever! My old man could read faces like Sherlock Holmes and smell fear like a raptor! He was a fierce gambler back in his day; never bet more than he could lose and only played to win. When I was old enough to hear such stories, Mom recalled an overseas business trip in which Dad out-bluffed a trio of Taiwanese business associates for eight-hundred US dollars with a pair of nines. “They won most of it back,” he added when the story neared exaggeration, “But you shoulda seen their faces!”

“James?” Mom asked. “You alright?”

All eyes were on me.

“My camera!” I blurted in an Oscar-worthy performance. “I think I left it in the woods!”