On the weekend I was telling my teenager about a high-school friend whose home was a nightmare. Single mom, completely unprepared, possibly substance abuse issues. At one point she either kicked him out of the house or he couldn’t stand it and left. When my dad learned that he had nowhere to sleep, my parents made room in our house and he stayed with us until circumstances improved. We had a spare bedroom, my sister had gone off to university, and he moved in with a duffel bag. I’m not sure how long it actually was – couldn’t have been more than a few weeks. A month at the outside.
On the outside, this kid was larger than life. He was a gifted athlete – his first love was basketball, but he was also great at volleyball, tennis and baseball. He spoke fluent French, and never below top volume. He was boisterous, brash and funny as hell. He ran at top speed from the second he got up in the morning.
But once he had a taste of what a relaxed, calm house with a well-stocked fridge was like, he was like a scared kitten. It seemed like he was waiting for the bad news. He almost never spoke, and would ask permission to use the bathroom, or to get a glass of water. He washed dishes with the determination of a dad fussing over a classic car. It wasn’t just politeness — you would almost get the sense that he felt that it would be taken away at any second. Shortly after his stay with us, he moved to a different town and I lost touch with him.
Years later I ran into a mutual friend, having not seen the houseguest in probably 15 years. She told me that he talked about my family (particularly my dad, who was an unforgettably silly, kind and warm guy) every day. Every day. It was then, when I was in my early 30s, that I realized how important a safe space is, and how much small acts of kindness can resonate across a lifetime.
I haven’t heard anything about him in a long time, nor has our mutual friend. I hope he’s doing okay.
When my dad died in early 2020 (just barely pre-pandemic, small blessing) I had a lot of people (most I knew, some I didn’t) reach out to me to tell me little stories about him, most of which I’d never heard before — stories of him doing simple but meaningful things for others — giving them a ride in a snowstorm, or bringing them a cold beverage while they worked outside, or telling them a silly dad-joke at exactly the moment that they needed it most. I miss my dad, but I’m proud to be his kid.
Anyway, this book is good and you should read it. It won’t take you long. It was handed to me by the owner of one of my favourite bookshops, and it’s a story I won’t forget. It’s not a long story about a young girl who is basically loaned out for a summer, and she learns another family’s routines, expectations, hospitality and story. The story is quiet and lovely. Keegan is a beautiful writer. Good writing takes you places, and Keegan’s book brought back a lot of rich and sweet memories of my dad.