I shut my laptop and flop down on the couch, grabbing the remote. I'll have hell to play when my father finds out, but I'm too tired and sore to worry about that right now. I just need some TV and a little nap, and then maybe I'll be able to face that whole dismal scene.
I don’t even want to think about how I’ll look like a failure in Keeley’s eyes. Now, that I care more than anything what she thinks of me. A sudden awkwardness flows over me—a void that only she can fill—and I don’t know if she’ll even want to after this.
I turn the television on and flip through the channels, my heart sinking with each show I flip past.
The first one is a broadcast of Evil Dead. I shake my head in disbelief as I watch the scene where the possessed killer tree attacks the blonde.
Stabbing the remote, I find something else. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
No. No.
Another stab.
The Sea of Trees with Matthew McConaughey.
God hates me.
I turn the TV off, throw the remote into the corner, and shove a cushion over my face to muffle my groans of dismay.
Chapter Seventeen
Keeley
After a few tries, Shane answers his phone, his voice sullen. “Yeah?”
As soon as I saw the videos of Shane online—and the horrible comments and memes that accompanied them—I told Pinky I needed to take an hour off. Then I took an Uber to Shane's apartment and tried to buzz him on the intercom.
I stab again and again, refusing to give up on him. On us. On doing good deeds in this seriously fucked up world. Social media allows people to stay connected, but it also presents a fake, polished image of everything and everyone. I’m not sure how I feel about it. At this point, the bad might just outweigh the good.
And I blame Mark Zuckerberg.
Hiss. Crackle. “Shane, it's Keeley. Let me come up.”
A long pause. Long enough to sink my hope to my sneakers. “Why?”
“I saw what happened on YouTube.”
Another pause.
A sigh.
A squeezing of my heart in my chest as I feel his pain right along with him.
“And?”
“Come on,” I say. “I know how upset you must be. I can hear it in your voice. I just want to see you, okay? Just for a few minutes. Then, if you'd rather be alone, I'll leave, I promise. Just… let me share this with you. We’re in this together. No matter what happens, that’s not going to change.”
A pause.
My pulse stutters.
A sigh.
The front door buzzes, letting me in.
When I reach his door, it's open and he stands in the entryway. Something dull and distant lingers in his eyes that I don't like—it reminds me of how he looked when we first met. His body language is closed off too, his back and shoulders rigid and unwelcoming. My fingers itch to soothe him—take all his pain away and turn it into passion and hope and all that’s still good in this world.
“Fine, so here you are,” he says.
“I just, um...” Now that I see him, the surliness that I thought I’d chased away envelops him like a dark cloak. I knew he'd be feeling bad about this, but I didn't expect him to take it so personally, to wall himself off from the world again after all the progress we've made.
“Yeah, what?” He makes an impatient gesture with his hands. “I’m an ignorant asshat with no redeeming qualities. I can’t do anything right, let alone good things for other people. My mom would be ashamed of me just like my dad already is. You can say it, Keeley.”
I hang back despite the fact that I want to go to him and steal away every single ache penetrating his body. But I don’t close the gap. “What those people did to you online was terrible. And for what it's worth, I understood what you were trying to do, and I thought it was very sweet. With climate change so important now, planting trees is imperative.”
“Oh? Did you know I was trying to do it to pay tribute to one of the few memories I have of my mother? Did you know she used to take me to that park when I was a kid, and now I'm known as the guy who destroyed that park? Who only did it to vandalize city property and possibly poison small children? And squirrels? Really? You were aware of all that? Because if so, wow, that's an impressive bit of mentalism.”
His words hit me like a spear to the heart. Pain radiates off him in waves. Even though I try to understand, I had a loving family and I can’t even imagine the size of the emotional hole he’s trying to fill. And no one else can fill it. He’s got to make peace with himself and this healing must come from within. “No, Shane. I didn't know that part. I'm sorry. But I do know you were trying to make the world a better place, and you were trying to do it on your own, without using Nicebomber. I know you didn't deserve to be treated the way all those people on the internet treated you.”
“What goddamn difference does it make, Keeley? What I 'meant' to do, what I 'deserve'... that's all just a bunch of abstract crap. What I did and how people saw it, that's what's real. Intentions are fucking meaningless. If you're the only one who sees what I'm doing as a good thing, and everyone else just sees me as a failure and an asshole, why should I bother with this whole kindness thing at all? Why shouldn't I just go back to being the way I was? It was a lot simpler and easier, and when people hated me, at least I knew why. Because of that idiotic Fiancé stunt that wasn’t even my damn idea! You know what, Keeley? The devil you know is far easier than the devil you don’t.”
Tears sting my eyes. How can he say these things and shove me away when he knows how much I care about him? “I thought my opinion mattered to you. I thought after everything we'd been through together, you'd really changed. I thought you'd started to understand why it's better to learn and grow than be selfish and cold. Didn’t this mean anything to you?”
Don’t I mean anything to you?
“Why? Because I told you some sad stories about my mom and dad, and poached a monologue from a shitty old movie to entertain a bunch of dumb kids? Did it ever occur to you that maybe I was just trying to get laid? Huh? That it was all an act to get in your pants? The first time I saw you outside the coffee shop, I wondered what you look like naked. Bet you didn’t know that.”
A ball of ice forms in my stomach and rolls around, coating my entire soul with freezing cold. He sounds like a man spiraling out of control. “I know you don't mean that. You're just saying it to hurt me and drive me away because you're disappointed and in pain. Pushing me away is the safe option, but it’s not the right one.”
“Again with the psychic routine,” he says, putting a hand between us like a physical barrier. “Because you know everything about me, right? All my thoughts and feelings, you feel like you can just read them like a goddamn romantic comedy? Well, you go ahead and think whatever you want, as long as you go think it somewhere else. All I know is, I'm done being some goody-two-shoes dickhead and having people publicly motherfuck me for it. So go back to Pinky and your life of selfless hardship and martyrdom. I'm not your charity case anymore.”
I can feel the tears rolling down my cheeks now, but I refuse to acknowledge them. Instead, I look him directly in the eyes, trying to keep my voice steady. A handbook outside of the back of a label on a bottle of Tito’s won’t fix this hot mess.
“You know, being nice isn't about me, or your father, or the people on the internet,” I tell him. “It's not about recognition. It's not about getting people to like you. It's about doing the right thing just because it's the right thing... even if nobody's around to see it, even if they do see it and mock you for it. Maybe someday you'll understand that. I certainly hope you do. Because until then, you'll always be a little boy in a man's body, still pitying yourself for your mother's death and acting out toward your father because of it. And you know what, Shane? I think that's the saddest damn thing I've ever seen. You could be so much better. With me. But you’re choosing to throw me and what we’re building away like trash. And now you’re alone. I hope that makes you happy.”
<
br /> I turn and walk away, flinching as he slams the door behind me.
Chapter Eighteen
Shane
Dad: I need to see you ASAP
Shane: K
After the unwelcome visit from Keeley—just when I honestly believed I couldn't feel any lower than I already do—his text makes it worse. My stomach pitches and roils until I choke.
Great. Now he's actually summoning me, like he's some kind of disappointed king and me, his disloyal subject.
Off with my fucking head.
As I head over to the office, I rehearse the scene that certainly waits for me when I get there. It's not difficult, since it's mostly one-sided. Him pacing the office furiously, yelling at me, calling me a failure, gesticulating with his cigar and invoking my mother's heartbreak as if she were alive to see it. And don’t forget the best part ever, dear old dad telling me he's done with me, that he's supported me financially for far too long and I'm on my own from now on.
Dismissed.
Forgotten.
Cleaning toilets or slinging pressed meat patties.
The only variation that I get to control in this scenario will be my response... if I even answer at all. Frankly, I can't think of a single thing to say to him. Maybe he's right, and I'm a selfish asshole who will never change. Maybe it's his fault for making me into one. Who cares? There's nothing left to talk about. The end result will still be the same, so why fight back? Better to just take my medicine and slink off quietly.
And after that? I don't know. I have no idea who would hire an ex-reality show boogeyman with no professional skills and experience. McDonald's? Even they might reject me, since I've never had a real job before. What if I blow up the fryer?
When I step off the elevator, I feel like a condemned man walking his last mile.
“He's waiting for you, Shane,” the receptionist says as I reach his office. “Go right in.”
I'm surprised he's not going to make me wait—one last power play to shame me before he gives me the boot. I nod and walk in.
He stands in front of his desk, waiting for me. I sniff the still blue and cloudy air, but for once, he's not actually smoking a cigar. His expression pinches into his typical mask of calm indifference.
Oh, please don't start off with some “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you” routine, Dad. Because I just can't handle that level of bullshit right now. I'll probably start screaming, crying, puking, or some combination of the three.
“Shane,” he begins hoarsely, “there's something I want you to see.” He reaches behind him and produces a remote control, aiming it at the large screen mounted on his wall that usually blinks with market projections.
I have a sinking feeling that I'm about to watch one of the hundred or so humiliating iterations of the tree-planting video, and it's just too much. I hold up a hand. “Dad, don't. I just can’t right now.”
He shakes his head, hitting the play button. “No, you need to watch this.”
The screen comes to life, and at first, I think my suspicions are confirmed. I see Oz Park, a tree and a shovel, and a blurry figure giving the cops hell while a group of people stand around and watch.
But when I squint at the poor video quality, I notice that the tree-planter is a woman, and the picture is a lot grainer and shakier than the viral video. A timestamp at the lower right corner of the screen indicates a date almost six months before I was born.
I look closer. Is that...? No, it can’t be. Impossible.
Dad nods, smiling. “Yep. That's your mother. Doing the same damn thing you did, with you inside her womb, about two years after we got married.”
I tilt my head, confused. “So... wait, she didn't know it’s illegal to plant on city property without a permit?”
He laughs. I can't remember the last time his laugh sounded so real and hearty. “Oh, she knew! And she knew the police would come and stop her long before that tree made its way into the ground. She just didn't give a damn. She plagued me for weeks to come with her and film the whole thing, and then I paid off a few local news networks to slap it onto the tail ends of their evening broadcasts as a human-interest story. Said no child of hers would be on this earth without huge, glorious trees.”
I stare at the woman who gave me life and for just a heartbeat, mourn her loss. I’d been along for the ride during the infamous tree incident. Is that why the idea had popped into my brain? Because planting trees—saving the environment—is infused into my DNA? What I really want to do is shake my fist at the heavens and demand that God tell me why he took away the parent who loved me and left me with… him. “Jesus. People must have thought she was insane.”
“Oh, absolutely. I couldn't take a meeting for six months after that without people telling me that my wife was a total kook. But we both laughed it off. We didn't care. It was the message that was important. That life is about trying with all your might to make the world a better place, no matter who tries to ridicule you for it. In the end, the city planted that tree in exactly the same place she wanted it. If you go there now, the damn thing is twenty feet tall. Why do you think she used to take you to that same park when you were little? She meant to tell you about the whole thing someday when you were old enough, but she never got the chance.”
Dad blinks, and I see the moisture making his eyes glassy. And real. For the first time in my life, a man stands before me… a father. My father. I'm dumbfounded. Especially when he steps forward—and puts his arms around me, hugging me tightly.
“Son, when I saw that video of you online... well, I just want you to know that I've never been prouder of you in my life. And if she were alive, she'd feel the same.”
My eyes sting and burn, and I realize I can’t stop the tingle of wetness behind my own eyes. I raise my arms, hugging him back. And upon doing so, something snaps inside me. It releases. And all the remaining anger and pain seeps out.
“I know you think this Nicebombing thing is a crock,” he continues. “And the truth is, it probably is, compared to the amazing things your mother used to do. But it's the best thing I could come up with because I'm not in her league and I never will be. You could be, though. I truly believe that, and for the first time since she died, I feel like she's not really gone. Your mother lives on in you, Shane.”
“Thank you, Dad.” My voice trembles as I take in the moment I thought would never, ever come.
“No, thank you, Shane. I promise that from now on, I'll do everything I can to help you honor her memory.”
We stand there holding each other for a very long time.
Chapter Nineteen
Keeley
I can't work twenty-four hours a day, even if I want to. Even if I try to. Staring at the pages of my Kindle app without actually reading the words, I struggle not to think about Shane. Wishing—maybe for the first time since I started working as a full-time nurse and caretaker—that my shift could go on for all eternity. Most importantly, I can’t let Pinky know about what’s happened. He deserves to have his remaining time be filled with joy and peace.
Ever since my last encounter with Shane, I've clung to my work like a drowning person desperately holding onto a piece of driftwood to stay afloat. With all of Pinky's health issues, there's usually more than enough to keep my mind occupied. And admittedly, when I run out of things to do these days, I tend to make up new tasks for myself—run tests more than once to put my racing mind at ease, invent errands for supplies I don't need but just might in case of a non-existent emergency, even ask Pinky to recount old showbiz stories I've already heard a hundred times to make sure his mind is still sharp as the blade of a filet knife.
And Pinky's mind is sharp. He hasn't seen or heard about Shane in days, and he still notices how focused I am on the day-to-day requirements of taking care of him. He practically begs me to take an hour off here or there, but I refuse. He doesn’t say anything about it directly, but the look in his eyes tells me he understands.
And I love the man even m
ore for his unspoken support of my shattered heart. It wasn’t his words, but the way they shot through my heart that destroyed me. It would be so easy to stay attached to him, to linger beneath the warmth of his newly found good intentions. But no… not after what he did to me when the going got tough.
My cell phone buzzes, startling me away from the blurry words. I can't decide which idea scares me more, that the call is from Shane, or that it isn't. Then I check the caller ID and sigh. An unfamiliar number.
Could it be Shane, calling from a new number just so I'll pick up? Is he calling to apologize? To beg for my forgiveness?
As my heart rate accelerates, I chastise myself for being an idiot. For even caring. He's just another selfish guy, that's all. We had a thing—I thought it was special. He thought I was just another conquest, another cheap piece of ass, and it ended. Happens every day.
Just not to you, Keeley.
I answer. “Hello?”
A dry, matronly woman's voice asks, “Is this Keeley McAdams?”
“It is, yes. How may I help you?”
“Actually, I'm calling about how I can help you,” she replies. “My name is Deidre Foley, and I'm the Senior VP of Outreach and Funding for Memory Muse. I assume you've heard of us?”
My eyebrows shoot up. I can't believe it. “Of course! Every elder care nurse in the country has probably heard of Memory Muse. You raise funds and support organizations that help fight dementia. Millions of dollars a year, right?”
“Hundreds of millions, actually,” she corrects me gently. “And we're very proud of the work we do. But I'll get right to the point of my call. Even though we're able to do a lot of good by setting up fundraising events and donating to charities, we've been looking into more fixed, permanent solutions. Specifically, we'd like to start sponsoring a series of home health companies to cater to patients who, for whatever reason, are unable to otherwise afford the care they need. Would you be interested in partnering with our organization on something like that?”
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