Wreck

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  I stare at him. “That’s rude. And it’s not like I want their charity, you know.”

  He sighs. “I know. And you won’t forget, of course. But they’ll want to give you money so they’ll feel better when life goes on.”

  “People aren’t assholes.”

  Ike sits back in his chair. “How long did it take you to forget when someone you knew died?”

  “I don’t know anybody who died besides Mrs. Nealy, and she was just a neighbor when I was a little kid, so that doesn’t count.”

  “It counted for her family, though. Just not for you.”

  “Shut up!” My voice is higher and sharper than I want.

  “I don’t mean to be a jerk.” Ike softens at my tone. “All I’m saying is let them give to you. Take it while you can get it, so to speak.” He pats my hand. “People also give because they have good hearts.”

  “You make it sound like they don’t.”

  “You know I’m full of crap.”

  “Yeah, and you suck.”

  I take my computer upstairs and consider not coming down for a while.

  But then I get hungry again, so I do, and my dad wants to sit out back and watch the moon come up over the lake, so we get him out on the porch to wait for it.

  And the lake is quiet.

  And Ike is quiet.

  And my dad is quiet.

  And when it gets there, the moon is quiet.

  And for just a moment,

  my brain is quiet, too.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #18

  Don’t squat with spurs on.

  JULY 25

  Back when I was six and Marcy Castile lived next to us, I was convinced her seventeen-year-old life was glamorous. She was so beautiful, with her long blond hair, her purple high-tops, and her guitar. She had friends, boys, a car, cute clothes, all the things I figured a teenager would have. My seventeen-year-old life has narrowed itself to sick dad, work, home, supper, laptop, and bed. Repeat. A talk with Sid here and there. An occasional text with Gracie, now that I’m not mad anymore. Not summer fun. Not the future, except for Dad’s slowly dwindling lack of one.

  Not what I imagined.

  About 1:00, Ike and Dad try Mama Duck’s Record Store one more time. Dad’s bored, and Ike’s running out of things to keep him amused. Why not give it one more shot, Ike says when he texted me. Maybe his brain will appreciate the activity, too.

  Yeah. No.

  Dad lasts twenty minutes. Then he gets overheated, even with the umbrella Paul rigged up for their table, and he yells at a lady when she asks about taking a Gordon Lightfoot album out of the crate. Then he tells a woman she’s ugly, and he tells another woman her baby looks like a monkey. After that, Ike shuts it down.

  Ike brings the stuff in the shop and leaves Dad on the sidewalk. He probably should have reversed that order, because Dad’s giving dirty looks to the people going by and muttering under his breath. I take records out of Ike’s arms to ferry them to the back room. Then Allison notices Dad is outside by himself, so she goes out to keep him company, but Dad yells in her face, so she skitters inside and goes to the bathroom in tears.

  I see Ike sigh as he pushes Dad down the street. I see Allison sigh when she comes out of the bathroom. I, on the other hand, want to knock every single piece of glass to the floor and smash the shelves with a baseball bat.

  So yeah. Sigh, Ike and Allison. Sigh your heads off. It’s way less destructive.

  It’s 5:30, and I’m maybe ten steps away from Trash Box when I hear a really loud “Hey!” behind me. I turn, and it’s Sid, with his violin on his shoulder, playing away.

  “What is that music?” I walk toward him, already feeling sweaty. It’s a tad steamy out here. “It’s like your heart’s on your strings.”

  “Fifth movement of Bach’s Partita No. 2 in D minor. Just listen.”

  So I do. We stand on the sidewalk, and Sid gives me a concert, tourists flowing around us. Occasionally someone stops to give me a dollar or two, but Sid doesn’t see, because his eyes are closed. Five minutes later, he’s done, and there’s sweat dripping off his hair.

  “That’s some passionate stuff.” I don’t know what else to say. “Intense.” I hand him the cash.

  He’s puzzled, but he puts it in his pocket. “It’s for college auditions. Been practicing for a year already.” His smile is tired, like he’s used up his whole day’s worth of energy on the song. “You’re not the only one trying to get your shit together.”

  “I haven’t heard you today.”

  He points with his bow. “I was down by the Dairy Queen.” It’s way farther than his normal corner. “I was just walking back to Rocky Mountain to pick up my violin case when I saw you walking home.”

  “Get your case. I’ll wait.” I sit down on a bench.

  “Deal.” He practically jogs back to the store. If he falls and hurts himself, or his violin, I will never forgive myself.

  Then he’s back, and we walk home. Easy. Quiet. Peaceful. When we get to my house, he gives me a hug and walks on.

  When I turn toward my house, I see my dad in the window. He waves in his Muppet-like way, and from his face, it looks like his brain hurricane has passed.

  By the time I open the door, he’s on the couch, and he grins at me. “He’s a good boyfriend, to walk you home.”

  “He’s absolutely one hundred percent not my boyfriend.”

  “It’s not for lack of trying on his part.” There’s a Dad grin.

  “He knows my mind is on you right now.”

  He frowns. “And that really, really sucks.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” And 92.8 percent of me means it. The other 7.2 percent of me is just tired.

  Ike yells from the kitchen. “Time to eat.”

  “Time for a dad joke.” He’s getting up and I’m getting him situated with his walker.

  “Okay.”

  Dad points himself in mostly the right direction. “Why can’t you trust stairs?”

  “No idea.” I’m behind him, just in case something happens.

  “Because they’re always up to something!”

  “Good one, Steve.” Ike’s hands reach for Dad as he crosses the threshold.

  Supper is tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, cut into the tiniest squares ever for my dad. More and more we feed him, which Ike does with some pretty serious precision, and Ike’s so casual and cool about it, it seems almost normal. Dad will only let him do it close to the end of the meal, when he’s barely gotten anything into his mouth and he’s still hungry.

  I can’t make myself watch.

  After supper, I clean up while Ike takes Dad up to bed. The pop-up shop fiasco tired him out.

  There’s a notebook on the table. It’s poems again, but it’s imitations. One page is a poem from a famous person, xeroxed and taped in the notebook, and the next page is a poem my dad wrote, in the same style. All the poems are about my mom. Before she was my mom.

  There’s one poem about a dude’s cat, Jeoffrey—from the eighteenth century. Sort of like an ancient version of a cat video. Long lists of what the cat does, “firstly” and “secondly” and whatever. Mr. Smart’s poem is pretty okay, but my dad’s lines surprise me.

  For fifthly, she never stops,

  eyes roving the world,

  in search of the perfection it supplies.

  For sixthly and on, to admire Meredith

  is to worship those eyes, the angel-spun hair,

  the June flower smell at the hollow of her throat.

  For she thinks in pictures

  she places on empty pages.

  For she is more beautiful

  than the sun rising over the lake,

  scattering jewels everywhere

  for her to find.

  For she walks with purpose.

  For she sweeps me along.

  I don’t want to know that he loved her. I don’t want to think his heart was broken, too.

  And I don’t want to know what happened,
because I don’t want to think I could have had a different life, one where she stayed.

  He and I did just fine by ourselves.

  Someone else—even her—would have messed it up.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #19

  Water in all forms is your body’s best friend, so always drink enough, don’t forget to wash behind your ears, and cry when you need to.

  AUGUST 7

  There’s an email from Chip.

  Hi, Tobin:

  Mama Duck will be in Lake Superior in front of the Beach House on Park Point at 8:30 p.m. on August 15. Will you feed our crew? There may be six or seven of us. That’s all we ask.

  I write back instantly: OF COURSE. Thank you so much!!!

  What I want to say is WHAT TOOK YOU SO GODDAMN LONG?, but that would be incredibly rude.

  Now we’re gonna have a party.

  Dad’s in the living room, grasping a big marker with a pile of printer paper in front of him.

  “What’s he doing?” I pour a glass of water while Ike grabs Dad a Coke. It’s already looking like a rough day, even at 9 a.m.

  “Writing your book.” He frowns. “It’s not going well at the moment.”

  “I had no idea he was still working on it.”

  Ike holds up a piece of paper with Dad’s latest piece of advice. “Forty-five. Never name your band Blasphemous Sex Toy Inferno.”

  The letters are big and look like they were written by a four-year-old who happens to know how to spell blasphemous. “That one I can do.”

  I walk toward the living room, but Ike stops me with his hand. “He doesn’t want you around right now.”

  “Dad?” I knock on the doorframe.

  “Listen to what Ike said.” He’s on the couch, hunched over the coffee table, paper and markers spread out in front of him.

  “Can I help?”

  “Go away, Tobin.” I can hear the sob in his voice.

  “Getting some ice for your Coke, Steve.” Ike keeps his voice light and cheerful, but then he turns to me with a sad smile. “Maybe he’ll have his next one figured out when you get home.”

  “I trust.” And I walk out the back door, away from my father, crying over the fact that his hands aren’t working well enough to write another sentence of The Saddest Book in the World.

  I check on my heart. It’s about the size of a stony, black marshmallow.

  I walk to work along the shore, in the water, and my feet freeze into foot-shaped ice cubes. When I get on the sidewalk to go over the bridge—sorry, people whose yard I walked through to get there—I put my shoes back on, and it feels like my feet are cinder blocks.

  Nine hours later, supper is a quiet affair. When Ike gets up to get another glass of milk, my dad finally turns and looks at me instead of staring into his soup. I will never get used to eating soup in the summer, but he can swallow it.

  “Tobin, what does a thesaurus eat for breakfast?”

  I can hear the breath in his words. I can hear how hard it is to talk.

  “No idea, Dad.”

  “A synonym roll.”

  Ike and I laugh. Dad smiles, a tired and frustrated smile, but a Steve smile.

  I smile back, trying to be encouraging. “That’s really good. Where’d you get it?”

  “Where does anybody get jokes? Online, of course.”

  “I’ll help you write down some more tomorrow.” Ike pats his shoulder as he stands to put the supper dishes in the sink.

  “Sure.”

  There’s a solid wheeze in that word that wasn’t here a week ago. Maybe it wasn’t even here this morning. Maybe it’s just because he’s tired.

  “Tobin, will you get me back to the couch? I’ve only got one more season of ER to go.” He stands, and I get his walker, and we get him settled with his laptop.

  I give him a kiss on the top of his head. He reaches up and holds my hand. We stay like that for a minute, me hugging his shoulders with my head on top of his. Him just hanging on.

  I am so wobbly from sadness I can barely walk into the kitchen, but I get myself straightened out before either Dad or Ike notice what’s happened. Ike’s got his back to me, doing dishes, and Dad’s absorbed in another episode.

  “Did he get any more writing done today?” My voice is low.

  “Three more besides the one about blasphemous sex toys.” Ike’s splashing in the suds, covering the sound of our conversation. “It’s hard to think when you’re not able to expel all the carbon monoxide in your body.” Splash splash. “He’s going to need a ventilator soon. By the end of the month at the latest. So glad the party’s coming up.” Splash splash.

  “Mama Duck is a go, by the way. Just found out this morning: 8:30 on the night of the party.”

  “Holy shit, you did it!” He hugs me with his sudsy arms, and I hug him back.

  “What did you do, Tobin?” Dad has no way to project his voice, so we almost miss it.

  “I got you the perfect cake for the party.” Which is true, though Allison did it, not me.

  “Thank you.” Faintly from the living room.

  “Of course.”

  Ike punches me on the arm and goes back to washing dishes. “Your dad will flip.”

  “Everybody will flip.”

  “You rock, Tobin.”

  “I get shit done.” And I go upstairs to get more shit done, namely sort some photos. September 15 is soon. I make one more by posing Professor X and Rey just like my dad and I were in the living room. Her head on his, him holding her hand. You can see their faces, which are both surprised and sad. Like they’re not quite sure how they got here.

  In an hour, Ike has Dad in his room, because Dad’s so tired. I hear his wheeze in the hall.

  “Maybe your breathing will be better tomorrow.” I kiss his cheek while it registers just how dumb a thing that was to say.

  His hand grabs my arm, with what little strength he has left. “You know that won’t happen.”

  “You have a party to go to first, so I command your diaphragm to last that long.” I try and give him a good grin.

  I see the panic in his eyes. “I hope it listens to you.”

  “I hope so, too. Good night, Dad.”

  “Tobin?” His hand grips me with all the strength he has left.

  “Yes?”

  “When it comes time. If I can’t, for some reason. Will you?”

  I see the heat of his need. His eyes are so fierce, and so scared.

  “Ike won’t.” He tries to take a deep breath, but it doesn’t work. “Will you free me?”

  If eyes could light fires, I’d be in flames. His cheeks are bright red.

  I stare at him staring me down, as his question echoes in my ears.

  Free is the word that gets me.

  “Yes.” I kiss him again on the hot flesh of his face.

  His shoulders slump forward, and his forehead unfurrows, all at the same time.

  “Thank you.” The relief in his voice makes it stronger. “Just . . . thank you. I love you, Tobin.”

  “I love you, too.” I kiss him one more time. “Get some sleep.”

  “More writing to do tomorrow.” In less than sixty seconds, he’s snoring.

  I stare at him in the faded light coming in the window. He’s so small now. Like a beat-up, sick teenager, not anybody’s dad.

  My dad was strong, with broad shoulders and a big smile. Lots of muscles. Blond and handsome and smart, with a resting heart rate of thirty-five, and the lung capacity of ten men. He could run fifty miles in a day and not even think about it. He saved people’s lives and taught people things. He loved his family and his rig partner and this town and the lake and his ancestors and movement and joy and being alive. He was fierce.

  The person in that bed is not the same.

  He’s not fierce.

  He deserves to be free.

  There was no other answer.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #20

  Something wonderful is always about to happen—no matter how shit
ty life seems.

  AUGUST 15

  The party is supposed to last from five until ten, but I get to the Beach House at one to decorate. My mind will not shut up about details. Do I have enough food? Plates and napkins? Will people come? Will the cake get smashed during delivery? It’s like someone parked a tornado on my head.

  Will Dad lose it?

  It echoes in my ears. It’s drawn around every single thing I put in my car to take. HEMIGHTLOSEIT framing the plastic silverware, on all sides. HEMIGHTLOSEIT written on the front of each roll of streamers—when I roll them out, the words will be feet long, over and over again. I say a quick prayer to Mother Mary and Baby Jesus. Ike is rubbing off on me.

  When Sid arrives, I’m surprised to see his mom and dad. “What are you doing here?”

  “Helping is the least we can do.” His mom, Maggie, grabs the bag of plastic plates out of my hand and hands them to Sid, who’s already grabbed two sleeves of cups and the bright-red streamers, Dad’s favorite color. If it’s his last birthday on Earth, he’s going out in a blaze of fire. “What else is in your car? They can take this up.”

  We send Sid and his dad, Larry, up to the Beach House with everything from my arms, and we grab the coolers of fruit and veggies Ike and I have been chopping all morning. Lucky Duck Catering—no relation to Mama Duck, I don’t think—will bring the chips, meat, beans, buns, and lemonade. Ike’s getting a keg and some other alcohol.

  “How many people are coming, do you know?” Maggie’s huffing her way up the hill.

  “I don’t know. We ordered food for a hundred.”

  “Veggies are heavy.” She puts the cooler down, not very gently, once we get to the top, and shoves it the rest of the way into the Beach House. I carry my cooler toward the fridge and ice machine near the built-in bar. We fill the fridge with fruit and veggie goodness.

  Sid and Larry have made it back and forth to the car two more times. The two-liters of pop, which I was hoping I could put in the fridge, go in the coolers, and luckily there’s some ice in the ice machine to put on top of them.

  I feel like I’ve forgotten something. I slow the tornado in my brain to run through my lists, but it won’t come to me until Sid and Larry decide to work on streamers. Turns out that something is tape.