A small peace is a good peace.
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #16
You’ve got to decide what you don’t want so you can focus on what you do want.
JULY 10
It’s 1 p.m. on a Thursday, and miracle of all miracles, I’m not working. Neither is Sid. It took a long time to find this afternoon. And I mostly want to stay home under my bed—I am just not capable of being a regular human right now—but I can’t break my word. Plus, Dad and Ike know Sid’s taking me somewhere, and their shit is endless already. If I skipped out, they’d never let me hear the end of it.
Sid picks me up in his mom’s RAV4 instead of his beat-up Saturn, and we head north on Highway 61. Sid’s got his aux cord, and the theme song to E.T. is blasting from the speakers.
“Gonna tell me where we’re going?” The small talk has been awkward thus far. Might as well get to the point.
Sid looks startled. “Um, well . . . I kind of wanted it to be a surprise.” He keeps glancing at me as the trees whiz by. “It’s not all right to have a surprise?”
“It’s fine.” It comes out surlier than I mean it to.
“I know you’re tense, which is totally understandable, but I was hoping we could forget . . .” He glances again at my face. “Maybe that’s not possible.”
I slam my eyes shut before anything leaks out of them. He’s being kind again. “I’m sorry. I know I’m terrible company.”
Sid reaches over and grabs my hand. “You’re not terrible.” And that’s all we say for a while.
He doesn’t let go of my hand. I don’t object.
We pass through Two Harbors, which takes a while because of tourists and stoplights. After Two Harbors, the highway is two lanes. We breeze by Castle Danger and Split Rock lighthouse.
“Not the lighthouse?” I’m surprised. That was my guess.
“Too many people.” He smiles. “We’re heading for nature.”
We pass by Beaver Bay, then Silver Bay, then pull off at a tiny little parking lot, next to a cliff. The sign says PALISADE HEAD, with an arrow pointing up.
I look around, and memories start firing in my brain. “I’ve been here. With my mom, even. And maybe once since she left, with Dad.”
Sid knows my mom was a photographer. “I’m sure she came here for sunrise photos more than once.”
We climb the path, Sid carrying a basket—an honest-to-god picnic basket, which I don’t know if I’ve ever seen in real life before—and then we’re on top of a huge rock face. Just us and the basket.
It’s gorgeous. Look north, and it’s beautiful pines and shoreline views. Look east, and it’s all lake. Look south, and it’s more beautiful pines and shoreline views. Look west, and there are hills with more trees. We’re up so high, we can probably see thirty miles in each direction.
“I remember her yelling at me not to get too close to the edge. And then Dad would go close, and she’d yell at him, and they’d laugh.” I had no idea these memories were in there. “And it was just getting light. I was so tired. I laid down on the rock and fell asleep while they watched the sun come up.”
Sid smiles. “Pretty early for a little kid to get up.”
“Or a grown-up.”
Sid kneels, opens his picnic basket, and spreads out a small blanket. Then he pulls out grapes, cheese sticks, a bag of mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and two bottles of sparkling water. He looks apologetic. “I guessed.”
“This is perfect.” And it really is.
“Would you like to sit?” He gestures to one side of the blanket.
I sit. “You’re really nice to do this for me. I . . .” I look away. “I’m not exactly a regular teenager right now.” Suddenly I want to throw myself into his arms and cry until my head explodes.
He touches my hand again. “Just be who you are. Sad and scared and whatever. But look at me, okay?”
I do. And he looks as sad as I feel.
“I’m here for you. All right?”
“All right.” I can barely get the words out.
“Have a Reese’s.” He hands me one, so nobody has to feel anymore.
We’re quiet for a bit, just staring out at the lake. An eagle buzzes by, close enough that I see he has a fish in each talon.
“Do you know how weird it is to grow up with a Great Lake in your backyard? Literally in your backyard? Or front yard, or any part of your yard, for that matter?” Sid breaks the silence.
“It’s weird.” I eat another Reese’s.
“There might be a million people who can say that.” He spreads his arms wide, taking in the lake. “How many houses can you actually fit on the shoreline of five Great Lakes?”
“No idea.” I unwrap another Reese’s.
Sid frowns. “Maybe half a million?”
“That’s tiny. There are three hundred million people in America, I think.” I eat one more Reese’s.
“Do you remember that storm we had last October? The one with the hurricane winds and the twenty-foot waves? The early one?” It’s not normally that bad until November. “The guy who lives next to me got his lost canoe back. It washed up in the storm, after it had been gone for more than a year.”
I scan Sid’s face to see if he’s kidding. “No way.”
He nods. “He figured someone had stolen it. The day of the storm, he went out to check his beach, and it was back. Like she coughed it up again.” He chuckles. “He told me he’s hoping for a fishing boat next.”
“Is he sure it’s his canoe?” This is way too strange.
“His name is in it.” Sid shakes his head. “She takes, but she gives.”
“Weirdest story ever, but it also kinda doesn’t surprise me.”
“Agreed.” Sid gazes out, toward the horizon. “She’s like another person in my life. A presence. Is that dumb?” The blush rises in Sid’s cheeks, very faintly.
“Nope. She’s just . . . always there.” I don’t know how else to say it.
“And I can’t quit her. Even though she scares the shit out of me.” Sid unwraps a Reese’s.
“Same.”
We sit there, looking at the lake and its trees, boats, birds, bugs, fish, and waves. Mostly we’re silent.
“How’s your portfolio?” Sid hands me another Reese’s. I haven’t had one for at least twenty minutes.
“Mmm . . . coming along? Sorta? It’s okay. Not done yet. But it will be.”
More silence.
“How’s Gracie?”
“Dunno. We had a fight.” I reach out for one more Reese’s and unwrap it.
“She told me.”
“She did?”
Sid nods. “She’s really, really sorry, and she misses you a ton. Maybe you miss her, too?”
“Maybe. It’s just . . . hard to be a friend right now. Or a girl, for that matter. Everything is . . . overwhelming.”
Sid squeezes my hand. I squeeze back. But he doesn’t say a word.
Smart man.
More silence. More nature.
At one point, I fall asleep with my head on his shoulder.
Then the sun angle tells us it’s time to go back to real life, so we pack up. Supper is calling. The ghost of my dad is already tugging on my leg, pulling me under the waves of sadness that threaten to plow me over as I walk down the path to the car.
When we’re on the highway again, I pick up his hand.
“Thanks for this.”
“You’re welcome.” He stares straight ahead. “My pleasure.”
“Thank you for not trying to kiss me.”
“I’m not that stupid.” A smile flickers on and off his lips, and I laugh.
We hold hands until we get back to Duluth. Then real life takes over again.
But even when I go to bed, I feel his warmth.
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #17
NEVER EVER NEVER EVER NEVER EVER SMOKE. Ever.
JULY 16
I get an email from Mama Duck’s boss:
Tobin:
We’re still discussing whether or no
t we can fit you into our schedule. You said your dad was going to turn 50? Don’t Make-a-Wish wishes only go up to 18? :)
Chip
Not funny.
I write back: Call it a bucket-list item. Shouldn’t everyone’s wishes come true when they’re dying? Please allow me to rely on your kindness and generosity to bring joy to his heart. Mama Duck is all he wants for his birthday. Maybe if I try to sound more like an adult he’ll pay more attention.
An almost-dead man would like to see your ginormous-ass duck before he kills himself. I almost add it at the end of the email.
WHY IS THIS SO HARD?
It’s Wednesday, and Sid and I meet up for lunch at Little Angie’s, a Mexican restaurant in Canal Park. Allison doesn’t usually give me this much time off for lunch, but I told her I was meeting Sid to talk about Dad’s party. She thinks he’s going to play his violin for Dad, but he’s just going to help serve food—no planning required.
It’s a nice day. We deserve to have lunch outside.
Sid is fidgeting with his fork and spoon, looking around like he’s waiting for something while I eat salsa and chips. “Gonna tell me what’s up? Someone after you? Did you steal a violin?”
“Osmo Vänskä.” His eyes dart around, and he tilts his whole body to the side to see behind me
“A Swedish mobster?” I eat another chip.
“You dork. He’s the music director of the Minnesota Orchestra, and he’s Finnish.”
Now I start looking around. “He’s here?”
“He was standing in the crowd this morning, listening to me play Beethoven. I took a John Williams detour.” He makes eye contact but starts looking around as quickly as he stopped. “He put a ten in the bucket, so I want to thank him.”
Then our food arrives, so we’re chowing down on enchiladas, but Sid’s eyes never stop roving. “Is your dad’s party all done? I guess we should have talked about that at Palisade Head.” He stops scanning for three seconds to look at me again. “Not much time now.”
“Mostly done. I just need his birthday present to come through.” I’m facing north, and I watch tourists scurry everywhere, like tall ants.
Then water gushes into my lap.
“Dammit! I’m sorry!” Sid’s grabbing at napkins, trying to mop up what he just knocked over.
I sponge off my chair and my crotch with my napkin. “It dries.” A server brings over more napkins.
While Sid’s bent over the table, stabbing at the water underneath the salt and pepper shakers, a man walks up behind him. He’s older, with a serious face, receding hairline, and glasses. The stranger smiles as he watches Sid work on the table.
“Sid?”
He looks up and I cut my eyes to the guy, so Sid will turn around. Sid drops the wet napkins as he jumps to his feet.
“Hello, young man.” The guy’s voice is gruff but not unfriendly. His accent is definitely not Minnesotan.
“He-hello. Um. Hello, sir.” Sid can barely talk.
“What are you planning for college? Or do you know yet?”
“I . . . um . . . don’t know.” He’s barely audible.
“I hope you’ll consider school in the Twin Cities. I’d like to keep an eye on you.” He smiles at Sid and then at me. “Though you might be busy here in Duluth.”
“No! She’s going to college in Colorado, anyway.”
I blush.
“That will allow you some time to focus on your violin, then.” Another smile.
“Yes. Yessir.” Sid’s a little louder now but not much.
The man digs into his wallet and hands Sid his card. “Let me know when you’ll be down to visit, and I’ll show you around Orchestra Hall.” Sid drops it, because his hands are working as well as Dad’s at this moment.
“Thankyousir.” All one word. He can’t take his eyes off the man.
“Enjoy your lunch.” He gives us a small salute and walks off.
I hand the card to Sid.
He flumps in his chair and stares at me. “Osmo Vänskä.”
“I caught that.”
“Holy shit.” He rolls his eyes. “He’s going to show me around Orchestra Hall.”
“Guess you’d better get your butt to college in the Cities.”
“Guess I’d better.” He takes in a deep breath then exhales. “All right. That made my summer, right there.” Then his eyes get wide. “And I forgot to thank him for the money!”
“It should make your summer, and I’m sure he can spare a ten.”
“Probably.” Then his face transforms to a combination of horror and embarrassment. “I’m sorry!”
“For what?”
“Because . . .” He looks anywhere but at me. “It’s rude of me to be happy when things are so . . .”
Please not this.
I sigh. “Sad? Depressing? A complete mess?”
“Yeah.” He looks at the sky, at the people seated next to us, anywhere but at me.
“Knock it off. You have every right to be happy.” A small furry jealousy monster leaps around in my gut.
He finally looks at me. “I don’t want to insult you.”
“By demonstrating that life goes on? That’s the truth.” I look back. “I’m happy for you.” I punch the jealousy monster in the head and smile, really big and with teeth, so Sid knows I’m for real. “Being happy for you saves me from being sad.”
“Sad sucks.”
“Yeah, it does. But mostly it just is.” I look at my phone. “I’ve got five minutes to get back to Trash Box.” A server is walking by, and I wave. “Can I have my check?” She nods. The last bite of my enchilada is cold, and the cheese is solid again, greasy and slimy.
Sadness tastes about like that when you swallow it.
But I’m still happy for him.
Sid shovels an enormous amount of lunch into his face. The server brings our checks. Sid grabs mine and puts money into both check folders. “You can at least let me do this.”
“Fine. Whatever.” But I blow him a kiss, which makes him laugh. And blush, just a tiny bit.
Then we head off to our afternoons.
When I sit at the counter, I can see out the window, and I watch the corner by Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. The crowd is big. At lunch, Sid told me he was planning to spend the afternoon playing stuff from the very first Superman movie, which was made in 1978. He figures nobody will know what it is, so if he makes mistakes, it won’t be horrible.
Even though my life sucks, it’s good that his doesn’t.
Gracie texts. Please can we talk? Please? #reallyreallysorry
My head is too full to be a friend right now.
I am so sorry. I want to help. #reallysorry
I know. Both things. It’s OK. #forgiven #toohardtoexplain
Love you, Tobin. Thank you. #againsosorry
We’ll chat soon.
Nobody can get it unless you’ve been here. But thank god Gracie doesn’t know how it feels.
She’s trying. We all are. Nobody knows how to do this.
The afternoon is full of magazines. At least thirty touristy ladies come into Trash Box and look at old ladies’ house and garden mags from the fifties and sixties. No idea why. I sell at least one magazine to each woman.
Is the past fascinating because it was a simpler time? Because it’s already happened? Because it’s not the present?
Allison tells me she’ll lock up. Fine with me. The tourists in Canal Park are three deep, looking for a spot to eat or checking out the shops. In July, people get here early and leave late.
My walk home is sweaty for the first time, which feels wrong. We spend so much of our year shivering around here, we don’t really know how to be warm.
Ike’s making Hamburger Helper for supper, which is about all my dad wants to eat these days. I’m not sure nutrition matters now. He points his spatula at me. “Good day at Trash Box?”
“What’s up with the apron?”
Ike gives me a look. “Just getting my chef on. Like the ru
ffles?” He keeps the spatula aimed at me. “I’ve got something to show you after supper.”
Dad’s sleeping in the living room, and I hear a snore and a snuffle. “Should I wake him up?”
Ike nods. “Everything else is ready.”
Supper is nice. We laugh about the women at Trash Box today, buying magazines from a life that doesn’t exist anymore.
“Okay, Tobin, help me up.” Dad looks around for his walker, which is in the living room. “I’m going to go watch some more ER and dream about when I could drive my own rig. Back when I did something important in the world instead of sitting in my goddamn living room watching a shit-ass computer.” He grins a little bit, but his eyes are tearing up. “It sucks to be useless.”
I help him to his feet, being as gentle as I can be. “You’re still good for a laugh or two.”
“Speaking of that, Tobin and Ike, have you ever noticed it’s hard to tell a joke to a kleptomaniac? They take things literally.” The old Steve is still in there.
Ike pats his shoulder. “That’s one’s actually good. Where’d you get it?”
“Your dad. Right before he ran off with my wallet.” He sticks his tongue out at Ike.
“You should see him take money out of my mom’s purse.”
I steer Dad to the couch. “Rich isn’t going to like this character assassination.” And they both laugh at me.
“Go get your computer, Tobin. You need to see this.” Ike puts the last plate in the cupboard after the dishes are finished.
I retrieve it and sit down. Dad’s chuckling in the living room, and I hear him say, “Man, if you use that syringe, you’ll get blood all over yourself.”
“Head over to GoFundMe and type in your dad’s name.” Ike sits down across the table from me.
I am shocked.
Someone named “Love Warrior” has set up a GoFundMe page for him, and it’s raised $13,000 and change. In two weeks.
I look at Ike. “Does he know about this?”
He nods. “He does. The money’s going to be put into a trust fund for you to have after you’re eighteen.”
“Or we could use it to pay for the party.” So far, we’ve racked up a good $1,200 in bills for it.
“A hat at the door, and it’s covered. People love to give money to folks worse off than they are, so take advantage now. People forget soon enough.”
Wreck Page 15