by Jo Knowles
As the music blasts between us, I wonder if my dad ever cried about leaving me. If he ever wonders how I’m doing, beyond the yearly updates my mom sends him on my birthday. I wonder if he ever thinks of me beyond that one day a year my mom forces him to remember.
I’m pretty sure I know the answer.
“WHERE’VE YOU BEEN?”
He’s waiting by the door in the dark of the living room. His breath tells me he’s had his usual six-pack. The TV light casts a glow over his face as a scene changes on the screen. He looks like the guy from The Shining, but I’m smart enough not to tell him that.
I try to step back a little. Whatever I say is going to piss him off, so I don’t answer. It’s only a matter of time before he starts the lecture. I can hear it already. You keep it up and you’ll end up a sorry-ass loser like me. Is that what you want?
No, Dad.
My head is spinning and I can hardly stand up, and I really just want to go to bed and pass out. But here it comes . . .
“You think I don’t notice when you take beer from the fridge?”
The damn dog is standing next to him, breathing at me. “Hey, Rosie girl,” I say, hoping that if I’m nice to her he won’t notice I’m ignoring his question.
“You going to answer me or what?”
Guess not.
“Sorry, Dad.” Shit. What was the first question? I’m totally buzzed, and maybe that will be a good thing if he’s going to start telling me what a screwup I’m turning into.
“Uh, I was with Caleb. Hanging out.”
“Yuh. Hanging out with a twelve-pack.”
“Well, yeah. I borrowed a few. I’ll pay you back.”
“You think that’s what I care about right now?” He rubs his hand on his chin that way he does when he’s thinking. His rough hand drags across his stubble, making a quiet scraping noise.
“Come over here.” He flicks the floor lamp on next to the couch and sits down. Jesus, he looks like shit. He’s still wearing his work shirt, all grease-stained, with his company name embroidered on the pocket: HAL’S DETAIL. Dave always jokes about what his “detail” has to do with anything. Ever since the third grade, Dave has been able to make any word sound dirty.
My dad thumps the space on the couch next to him with his big hand. For the first time since I can remember, I sit beside him. I try not to smell all the smells coming off him. The stale alcohol, the grease, the hamburger he ate for dinner.
“I’ve been talking to Mikey.”
“Yeah?” I’m a little relieved. His conversations with Mike focus on washed-up ’90s bands, football, beer, and who had the cooler car in high school.
“Yeah,” he says, all serious.
“What?”
“He told me you got yourself into some trouble with a girl.”
Oh, shit.
I lean way back into the couch and take a deep breath.
He shifts next to me and shakes his head.
“So it’s true.” He leans closer to me and looks at me like I’m the biggest idiot in the world. “Damn it, Josh! I thought you knew better. Didn’t I tell you to always wear a condom no matter what?”
“I did, Dad. I swear! But I think it fell off while I was — you know. I don’t know how it happened. I was trying to be careful!”
He looks me in the eye for a minute. I stare back so he sees I’m telling the truth. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. I blink my own eyes and wonder if they look the same.
How the hell did he end up such a pitiful mess? Doesn’t my mom notice what’s happening? I mean, she’s a nurse, for Christ’s sake. Doesn’t she care that her family is a fucking wreck?
I press my head against the back of the couch and try to hold down the need to puke.
“Look, bud. This is serious shit.”
Like I don’t know that.
He shifts on the couch again. The man suddenly can’t get comfortable on the thing he spends half his life on.
“Just be glad the girl’s taking care of things without involving you. At least that’s what Mike heard. Is it true?”
I nod.
“Good. Take it from me: a kid’s the last thing you need in your life at your age.” He reaches for his beer on the coffee table. He takes a long drink before he puts the can down again.
As I listen to him swallow, I think about what he just said.
“What do you mean, take it from you?” I ask.
“Huh? Oh, nothing.”
“No, not nothing. You said it like it happened to you.”
He picks up his can again and drinks in long, slow gulps.
“What did you mean, Dad? Did this happen to you, too?”
He lowers his beer and rests it on his belly so he can look inside it. Like there’s some answer in there that will save him from my question. “Not exactly like this.”
But I’ve already figured it out.
I’m the answer.
I’m the reason my mom married my father.
I knew my parents were really young when they got married, but I thought it was because they were in love. Not because they had to. Not because of me.
“That makes sense,” I say. “That’s just perfect. The only reason you and Mom got married is because of me. I was a fuckup from the day I was born.”
“Watch your language,” he says. “And don’t you believe that for a second.”
He puts his beer back down and rubs his hands on his thighs. “Your mother loved me. Don’t ask me why, but the crazy girl actually wanted to marry me. You were just a good excuse.”
Loved. Past tense. But he smiles at the memory.
“Back then I was working in a regular band, a real band, and your mom’d come to all our sets. Never missed a show. But —” He trails off.
“What?”
“Eh. Life happens. I needed a steadier job to support you two.” He tips his head back and closes his eyes.
“So you gave up your dream because of me?”
“No, Joshy,” he says, sitting up. He puts his large oven mitt of a hand on my thigh and squeezes in a firm way. It feels so weird to have him touch me. Like this. Like he’s hanging on to me. “No. You never believe that, you hear me? Sometimes you have to set priorities. You and your mom were more important to me than being some B-list rocker. Let’s face it. I was never gonna be the next Eric Clapton.”
“But you’ll never know now. And it’s all my fault!”
“Don’t be stupid. What, it’s your fault you were born? Last time I checked, I don’t think you had much choice in the matter.”
I press my lips together and force myself not to lose it in front of my old man. He can say whatever he wants, but I’ll always be the reason his dreams didn’t come true. Maybe the reason he and my mom are so miserable.
“Josh,” he says, squeezing my leg even tighter. “You listen to me. Don’t go down that road. I can tell you’re sitting there blaming yourself for something you had no control over. Look at me. I wouldn’t change how things happened. You understand?”
I can’t look at him. “OK, Dad,” I say.
“I’ll break the news to your mom,” he says quietly. “Better she hears it from me than one of her gossipy friends at work.”
I nod. Figures the one thing that gets them to say two words to each other is my colossal screwup.
“Now go sleep it off, son. That’s not gonna feel good in the morning.”
He takes his hand away and leans back into the couch. As big as he is, the couch seems to swallow him. My thigh feels cold where his hand was, and I wish he’d grab hold again.
When I get to my room, I shut the door and lean against it, staring into the dark. The room spins around me. I make it to my bed and try to hold on until the spins wear off. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I watch my desk seem to rise up in front of me over and over again. I shut my eyes, but then I feel like I’m going to fall off the bed.
Shit.
Shit!
; This is it.
This is my life.
I should have known. All one big fucking mistake.
I picture my mom helping me ride my bike when I was little. That way she smiled at me. Was that a fake? Was she pretending so she could hide the truth about how miserable she was, trapped in this crappy marriage all because of me? Or did she really love my dad once, like he said?
There’s a photo album with my baby pictures in it. Pictures of me with my mom holding me. Playing with me. She was always smiling. Not those fake smile-for-the-camera smiles, but smiling at me. I never wondered before who took those pictures, but it must have been my dad. He must have seen her being happy through that little window in the camera.
I can’t remember many pictures of my dad. Just a few from parties with him in the background, a beer can in his hand, of course. And the one of him playing his guitar for me in the living room. I was standing in a playpen with pajamas on, listening. I used to stare at the photo all the time and try to remember what the music sounded like, but I never managed to. It was probably the last time he ever played for me.
I close my eyes again and fight the spinning. But even with my eyes closed, I feel the room turning and twisting in the dark.
I wake up to someone knocking on my door. The clock next to my bed says 1:24 a.m.
“Josh?” The door creaks open quietly. My mom peeks her head in. The light from the hall shines in my eyes.
“Hey,” I say. As I wake up, I feel a headache settle into my brain and pound on my skull. My eyes feel like they’re going to explode out of my head.
“Sorry to wake you, honey. I had a long night and — I wanted to check in with you. We keep missing each other, seems like.”
She steps into my dark room.
I pull myself up on my elbow. Her face is splotchy, the way it gets when she cries.
“Dad told you, didn’t he?”
She nods.
I let my head fall back onto my pillow.
“Oh, Josh.”
I wish I knew what to say.
“Honey.” She puts her hand on my arm. I’m sure I smell like stale beer. Like my dad. I try to hold in my breath and breathe into my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I —” But what else is there?
“I know, honey,” she says. She leans forward and kisses my forehead. She hasn’t done that in so long. She’s still wearing her nurse’s uniform. She smells like old people and disinfectant. I can’t even remember the last time we had more than a one-minute conversation with me running late for school or her rushing off to work or the soup kitchen or anywhere else but here. This is one hell of a way to reunite.
“Get some sleep,” she says. “We can talk more in the morning. Or — whenever you want. I’m here.”
She pauses before she leaves, standing in the bright doorway. Her face looks so tired and worn-out. “You’ll get through this, Josh.”
“I know,” I lie.
She steps back into the hall and closes my door. I listen to the floor creak under her feet as she makes her way down the hall. I wait to hear their bedroom door close before I roll over and cry like a baby.
I’M IN THE GIRLS’ BATHROOM hiding out from Kayla and Jessie again. We’re officially at war. After they did the SLUT thing to Ellie, I tried to BITCH them back. Unfortunately I only got up to the T on Kayla’s locker before they caught me. They’ve been harassing me ever since. I could report them, but then I’d have to ’fess up about my part in this whole thing, and I really don’t think being forced into mediation with those two would change anything.
Of course, sitting here crouched with my feet on the toilet seat isn’t exactly my idea of fun, either. The truth is, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking during these hideout sessions. Mostly about Ellie. Like why she refuses to report the locker thing. Sometimes I think she believes she deserves to be labeled a slut. Sometimes, I think Ellie believes that getting pregnant is her punishment. And that just drives me crazy.
The other night when I was sitting next to her at Liz’s, she jumped a little and put her hand on her belly. The baby must have been kicking or whatever they do. It must be weird to feel something living inside you.
Whenever Ava or I have a birthday, my mom and dad get out our photo album and show us pictures of my mom when she was pregnant. My dad took a picture of her every month so we could see how we grew inside her. The two of them always get misty-eyed and embarrassingly affectionate when they gush over the photos. I wish Ellie could enjoy pregnancy like that. It must be awful to have this little person living in you that you’ll never know. That you spend all day trying to pretend isn’t even there. That you try to hide.
When the late bell rings, I listen hard for footsteps before I step down from the toilet seat. As soon as I’m sure it’s all clear, I sprint out of the bathroom and down the hall to homeroom. As I rush past Ellie’s locker, I punch the word with my fist.
“Hey! What did that locker ever do to you?” I almost trip at the sound of Caleb’s voice behind me.
I rub my hand. “It’s my new thing. It makes me feel better.”
“Really?” He walks over to Ellie’s locker and gives it a good punch, then shakes his fist like he broke his hand.
“Um. I don’t feel better.” When he looks at me, my stomach melts.
I guess I didn’t realize how long it’s been since I actually laughed, because my mouth feels strange when I do, as if it forgot how. It’s been forever since I’ve really talked to Caleb, and it feels good to be with him again, just us.
“We’re gonna be so late,” I say.
He grins mischievously. “Wanna ditch?”
“You mean leave? Now?”
“Yeah. Let’s do it.” His eyes sparkle.
“OK,” I say.
“Where to?”
I scan the hallway and don’t see anyone. “Let’s just get out of here and then decide.”
We hurry down the hall and outside into the parking lot. A few late students are rushing into the building, but no teachers.
Caleb unlocks the car door on my side to let me in. It’s the first time anyone has done that for me.
“So, where do you wanna go?” he asks when he climbs in.
An image of the two of us fooling around in my room comes to mind.
Hmmmm.
No.
Erase image.
Ever since that day Ellie came out of the clinic, the whole idea of getting close to someone and then having sex scares the hell out of me. I guess Ellie finally did it. She cured me of my sex drive.
Maybe.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s kind of nice out. Somewhere outside?”
“I know the perfect place,” he says.
I lean back in my seat and enjoy what seems like my very first date. We drive away from the school and down the main road that leads out of town. Within a few minutes, I know exactly where we’re going.
When we get to the park, we head straight for the seesaw.
We spend the whole morning hanging out on the playground. It’s pretty cold, but not so bad for March. After we try out every piece of playground equipment at least three times, we decide to take a rest. We go over to the merry-go-round and lie down with our legs bent over the side so we can make ourselves turn with our feet. The metal is warm from the sun. I close my eyes as we glide in circles.
“Do you ever wish you were a little kid again?” Caleb asks.
I turn my head and squint to see him. His eyes are closed, and the sun on his face gives it a warm glow. Liz really nailed it when she painted him as a cherub.
“Sometimes,” I say, thinking about what things were like before everything changed with Ellie. “Maybe more lately.”
“Me, too. Only I imagine having a different childhood.”
“You? But Liz is amazing! It must have been cool to grow up with her. I bet she let you break all the rules.”
“Seriously?” He opens his eyes to look at me. “Don’t you ever get tired of
her ‘I’m such a hip mom’ act?”
“I don’t think it’s an act. I think she’s great. I mean, look how much she’s helped Ellie. Your mom is smart. And fun. I think you’re lucky!”
He closes his eyes again and doesn’t say anything for a while, but the silence isn’t the awkward kind.
“You know that painting in the living room?” he asks. “The one of the man?”
“With the eyes?”
“Yeah. He’s . . . um . . . my dad. He left when I was, like, one.”
“Wow.”
“He and my mom were best friends, and my mom wanted a baby so she asked him and . . .” He sighs. “My mom kind of figured he’d stick around, you know? But he met someone and they moved to the West Coast and had their own kids. I guess I didn’t really count.”
“Wow,” I say again. “You mean, he doesn’t keep in touch?”
“Not really. He visited a few times when I was little, but after a while he stopped. It’s not a big deal, I guess. It’s not like he wanted to have a family with my mom. She promised him all she wanted from him was, you know, his sperm.”
“But you think she wanted more?”
We turn in silence for a while as he thinks. “Yeah. I think she expected more.”
“Do you wish he stayed?”
“I used to. I used to go to the park and see other little kids with their mom and dad and wish I had a dad like they did. Liz never taught me how to play baseball or any ‘guy’ stuff. She said it was all gender bias. When I turned five, she gave me a dollhouse for my birthday when I’d asked for a Transformer. I used to get so mad at her. It’s funny, looking back on it now.”
“You really liked that dollhouse, I bet.”
“I’m not the only one.”
“Ooh, tell me Josh and Dave liked it, too!”
He laughs and lifts his face to the sun. “I’ll never tell.”
“I knew it!” I say, laughing too.
He reaches for my hand. “Thanks,” he says. When we touch, my stomach drops as if I’m on the swings.
“For what?”
“Making me laugh. It’s been a while.” His fingers lace through mine and squeeze. His hand isn’t warm or cold; it’s the same temperature as mine. I squeeze back and keep holding on. I feel scared and safe.