Things I Want to Say

by Cyndi Myers

  Casey thought he must have fallen asleep. The next thing he knew, Del was standing over him, nudging him with the toe of his boot. “Wake up, boy. Time to head back to the house.” He held up the string of fish. “We’ll get Mary Elisabeth to cook us up a mess of catfish.”

  Casey shoved into a sitting position, then fell back, the world spinning crazily. He groaned. Dell’s face loomed closer, distorted, like the view in a shiny hubcap. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

  “Nah, I’m not drunk.” He sat up more slowly this time, steadying himself with one hand on the ground. “I jus’ need to wake up.”

  “Well, come on. Mary Elisabeth will be home from work soon. She and your mom will be wondering where we disappeared to.”

  Somehow he managed to stand and carry the now-empty cooler up the slope to the truck. Once there, he slumped in the seat and closed his eyes. “You okay?” Del asked. “You’re looking kind of green. I don’t want you throwing up in my truck.”

  “I’m fine.” He turned his face to the window, the cool glass against his cheek.

  When Del started the car, Casey aimed the air-conditioning vent toward him. The cold air revived him some, and he sat up straighter. “Thanks for inviting me to come with you today,” he said. “I had a great time.”

  “No problem. You’re not bad company. You want to stay for supper?”

  He was tempted, if only to see Mary Elisabeth, but decided against it. “I’d better get home. Help with Grandpa.”

  “It’s your funeral.”

  14

  No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.

  —William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

  Del dropped Casey off in front of Grandpa’s house, then drove over to his trailer next door. Casey climbed the steps to the front door, holding on to the railing for support. Maybe he shouldn’t have had those last few beers. Or had more to eat than part of a sub sandwich for breakfast.

  He was hoping he could slip into his bedroom without being seen, but Mom met him at the door. “How was your fishing trip?” she asked. “Did you catch anything?”

  “A few. Mary Elisabeth’s going to cook them.” But the words came out jumbled, more like “Few. Mar-liz’beth’s gonna cook ’em.”

  Mom’s eyes widened. “Casey Neil MacBride, are you drunk?”

  “Nah. Only had a few.” He tried to push past her, but her hand around his forearm was like a blood pressure cuff pumped up to full pressure. When did Mom get so strong?

  “What did you have to drink?” she asked.

  “Jus’ beer.” He blinked, trying to steady his vision. When he looked straight ahead, her hairline swam into view. Hey, he was taller than her now. Sweet.

  “Del gave you beer?” Her voice rose to a squeak. She still had a hold of him, fingers digging into his skin. He wanted to ask her to let go, but all of a sudden he was feeling a little queasy. He didn’t want to risk opening his mouth.

  “How many did you have?” she asked.

  He shrugged. They’d been talking and drinking and fishing. He hadn’t counted. All he knew was the cooler was full when they started and empty when they headed home.

  “So many you can’t remember.” She released his arm with a shake. “Go to your room. I don’t want to see you again until morning. And I hope you have a hell of a hangover.”

  He knew he should apologize to her for coming home in this condition, but all he could manage was a groan. His stomach rolled and churned, like a restless sleeper. He lunged past her, down the hall and toward the bathroom.

  He almost made it. Instead, he ended up on his knees, puking up his guts just outside the bathroom door.

  His mother loomed over him again. “You clean that up, then go to bed.”

  He looked up at her through bleary eyes. From this angle she looked about six feet tall. “What are you gonna do?”

  “I’m going next door to give your uncle a piece of my mind.”

  He nodded, and used the wall to climb back to a standing position. The stench of vomited beer almost made him heave again. He edged around it and found a couple of old towels in the back of the linen closet. Being stuck here cleaning puke wasn’t the very worst thing he could imagine doing right now.

  The worst thing was being Uncle Del when his mom lit into him.

  Karen had to grant her brother one thing: the man wasn’t dumb. He must have known how furious she’d be with him, so he hadn’t stayed around his place long after dropping off his nephew. He’d probably gone to Mary Elisabeth’s or to one of his no-account friends who’d be sure to take him in. She stood on the steps of his trailer and stared at the empty carport where his truck usually sat. Cold chills overtook her as she realized not only had he gotten her underage son drunk, he’d driven him home while Del himself was almost certainly feeling no pain.

  She sat down on the top step and hugged her arms around her knees. In a minute she’d go back and check on Casey, make sure he wasn’t still vomiting or blacked out or anything.

  “Thief! Thief! Thief!” The sharp cry of a Blue Jay drew her attention and she looked up to see one eyeing her from the top of the crepe myrtle bush beside the steps. It turned its head and fixed one black-rimmed eye on her and fluffed its feathers. “Thief! Thief! Thief!” it repeated.

  “Do you know the thief who stole my little boy and replaced him with…with that drunken man throwing up in my hall?” she muttered. Casey was taller than her now, and the arm she’d grabbed was wiry with muscle. That as much as seeing his eyes glazed and hearing his slurred speech had frightened her. Somewhere in the last few weeks or months he’d trans formed. He wasn’t her child anymore. He was his own, in dependent person, one with secrets and dreams and dirty deeds she’d never know about. She’d known this would happen. She’d already been through it with Matt, but she had imagined she could hold on to Casey, her dreamer, a little longer.

  One afternoon with Del and he’d gotten away from her.

  She stood and headed back toward the house. Tomorrow, she’d deal with Del. Right now, she needed to find the aspirin, and check on her wayward boy.

  The next morning, Karen was over at Del’s as soon as she saw his truck pull into the driveway. She intercepted him as he inserted the key in his front door. “We need to talk,” she said.

  He gave her a sour look. “Not now, sis. I’m busy.”

  “You’re not too busy to talk to me.” She followed him into the house and stood between him and the bedroom door, in case he got any ideas about re treating there and locking her out.

  “You’re mad about Casey.” He tossed his truck keys onto the kitchen counter, wincing when they clattered against the tile top. He looked about as rough as he must have felt—his hair needed combing and whiskers stuck out a quarter inch all over his chin.

  “You took a sixteen-year-old and got him drunk!”

  “Hey, I didn’t pour the beer down his throat. And what’s wrong with him having a couple of beers? It didn’t hurt anything.”

  “It was more than a couple. He was sick all over the floor as soon as he got home.”

  Del made a face. “He’ll learn to hold his liquor better when he gets older.”

  “I don’t want him learning that kind of lesson.”

  “Learning that lesson is part of growing up. Deal with it.” He sank onto the sofa and rubbed his temples. “Now that we’ve had this little discussion, could you leave me alone?”

  “No, I won’t leave you alone. We’re not through talking.” Anger and frustration pressed at the back of her throat, sending words rushing out of her. “You may think it’s all right to waste your life sponging off other people and playing the charming rogue, but I want better for my son. I don’t want him to be like you.”

  Del narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I know. You want to make him into some uptight worker bee, someone who keeps his nose clean and contributes to society and does his mama proud. It’s really all about you, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not about
me.” What was wrong with wanting to be proud of her child? Or wanting to know that he was financially secure and successful? “It’s about Casey growing up to be the best he can be.” All he needed was a way to channel his talents, something that would interest him enough for him to focus. He wasn’t going to find that sitting on a riverbank, drinking beer with his uncle.

  “Then quit trying to force him into a mold you’ve made for him. He’s his own person.” Del sat forward, his gaze burning into her, his voice a menacing growl that made her take a step back. “He’s more like me than you’ll ever admit. The sooner you accept that and let him be, the happier we’ll all be.”

  “I won’t accept it.” She pushed back a wave of panic and took a deep breath. “I’m his mother. My job is to help shape his life. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “There is if you can’t be happy with him the way he is. Keep trying to make him into what he’s not and you’ll drive him away for sure.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “What would you know about it? You’ve spent your whole life trying to be whatever anyone wanted you to be. And it didn’t make you any happier, did it?” He sagged back on the sofa and closed his eyes. “Get out of my house. Before I throw you out.”

  She ran from the trailer, gasping for fresh air, trying to clear the ugly images his uglier words had conjured: of Casey growing up to be like Del, and of herself as some ever-changing chameleon, trying to please People—her father, Tom, even her boys—who could never be pleased.

  The idea made her cold. Was she that way? Maybe, but was it so bad—to want to make the people you loved happy?

  But what about making yourself happy? The voice in her head was quiet, but clear, and the question repeated itself over and over, a mantra she couldn’t shake.

  Karen had calmed down some by the time Casey shuffled out of his room shortly before noon. When he saw her, he ducked his head. “You don’t have to say anything. I know I messed up.”

  “Good. Then you’ve saved me the trouble of hauling out my lecture on the evils of underage drinking.” She folded her arms across her chest and studied him. He was still wearing the clothes he’d had on yesterday, and his hair stuck out in all directions. He looked like some homeless per son—or a typical teenage boy, de pending on your perspective. “I don’t want you going off alone with Uncle Del anymore.”

  “Aw, Mom.” He frowned at her. “This wasn’t his fault.”

  “He brought the beer. And he didn’t do anything to stop you from drinking it. If I know Del, he probably encouraged it.”

  The guilty look on his face told her she was right. “He’s supposed to be the adult,” she continued. “But he certainly didn’t act like one.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I like Uncle Del because he doesn’t treat me like a kid.”

  “But you are a kid.” She looked him up and down. “Not a little one, but you’re not an adult yet, either. And I don’t even want to think what could have happened if there’d been an accident on the way home. Del certainly wasn’t in any shape to be driving.”

  “But nothing happened.”

  “Nothing happened this time. I’m not willing to risk a second chance. I’ve already spoken to Del. He knows how I feel.”

  He shuffled past her to the refrigerator, where he took out a Coke. “So what’s up with Dad? Why’d he leave early?”

  She winced. Leave it to Casey to change the subject to something even more upsetting to talk about. Her first instinct was to try to get the conversation back on track, but that was the easy way out. The one that didn’t require her to be honest about her feelings.

  She took a deep breath. How much harm had been done already by never revealing how she truly felt? “He thinks I should put Grandpa in a nursing home and come back to Denver right away. I’m not ready to do that yet.” That wasn’t the only problem, but the only one she was willing to share with Casey.

  “Uncle Del thinks Grandpa doesn’t care about anyone or anything but birds.”

  She sat at the table and stared at her folded hands. “Sometimes it seems that way.”

  Casey sat across from her, long legs stretched out in front of him. “I told him I think Grandpa cares about a lot of things. He’s just not one to show his feelings.” He took a swig of soda. “Maybe he doesn’t know how to show them.”

  She wanted to hug him then, but the fear she’d break down altogether if she did so held her back. “E motions can be scary things,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “People have different ways of showing them.”

  He nodded. “I know.” He leaned over and awk wardly patted her hand. “Dad will come around. He just misses you a lot. When you’re back home again, he’ll understand you couldn’t just run out on Grandpa.”

  She nodded, unable to force any words past the knot in her throat. If only it were that simple.

  Casey stood and tossed the empty Coke can into the trash. “I think I’ll take a shower.”

  She watched him go, thinking about the things each generation passed on to the next. Casey had her hair and her nose, and his father’s eyes and chin. But he had an emotional openness she’d never known, and a tolerance for others’ differences his father certainly didn’t possess. Something outside of them had shaped his character. It gave her hope he’d avoid the mistakes she’d made.

  Mistakes she was still making. She looked back toward her father’s office. He was in there, ex changing e-mails with his birding friends and making plans for his next expedition. She hoped before too many weeks he’d be able to look after himself, or at least get by with the help of a house keeper and maybe a visiting nurse.

  She stared at the closed door of the office. All these weeks she and her father had tiptoed around each other’s feelings. They talked, but never said anything too important. She’d been waiting for him to make the first move—for him to apologize for his distance over the years, to thank her for caring for him now.

  She’d been waiting for him to tell her he loved her. As if a man who’d been silent about his feelings for seventy years would suddenly find words to express them.

  Oh, she was her father’s daughter all right—keeping her emotions locked away where no one could ridicule or reject them. Which left her like a child standing outside the door, waiting to be invited into the party, but too afraid to ring the bell.

  No one was going to ring it for her. No one could break this family curse but her. On shaking legs, she stood and walked down the hall, to the door of the study. She waited a long moment, then raised her hand and knocked, holding her breath as she listened for an answer.

  15

  and what is a bird without its song? Do we not wait for the stranger to speak? It seems to me that I do not know a bird till I have heard its voice; then I come nearer it at once, and it possesses a human interest to me.

  —John Burroughs, Birds and Bees, Sharp Eyes and Other Papers

  “In!” Martin commanded. His voice was much stronger now, though he still favored one-or two-word sentences, the minimum number of words to make himself understood.

  Karen entered and dragged a chair around to sit in front of him. “We need to talk,” she said.

  He looked at her, eyes alert, like a crow waiting to snatch the fragments of a picnic lunch. She smoothed her palms down her thighs. “When you had your stroke, and Mom asked me to come look after you, I didn’t want to at first.”

  He nodded, expression un changing, as if this information wasn’t new or surprising.

  “But then I thought, I should do it. Because…because you’re my dad and…and because I thought this might be our last chance to really get to know each other.” She looked at him, silently pleading with him to help her out here. Meet her halfway. “You were gone so much when I was growing up. And even when you were home, I—I never felt like I was very important to you.” Her voice broke on the last words, and she choked back a sob. Oh God, please don’t let me break down.

  She snat
ched a tissue from the box on the desk and blew her nose loudly, then took a deep breath, determined to get through this. “You were the one person I most wanted to love me. To like me. But I never felt that. So I thought, this is our second chance. But now that I’m here—all these weeks…” She shook her head. “Has it made any difference at all?”

  He looked away from her, down at his lap, his expression as unreadable as ever. Her spirits sank and she bit her lip to keep from crying out, drawing blood, which tasted like the tears she refused to shed. They were a pair, weren’t they? Crippled by reticence, hearts encased in protective shells that distanced them from everyone else, even each other.

  His hand trembled as he reached for her, but his grasp was surprisingly strong. “I’m…sorry,” he said, his voice gruff. “I…care. Took…for granted…that you knew.” He squeezed harder. “I don’t know how…to say things…right.” He shrugged, and met her gaze, his eyes glossy with tears. “This is how…I am…too old…to change.”

  “I know.” She leaned forward to embrace him, the strength of his arm around her conveying as much as his words. “I just had to hear it. Once.” She patted his back, and rested her head on his shoulder, his bones feeling fragile as a bird’s against her cheek. “It’s all right now.”

  She’d wanted more, but would take what she could get. He was probably right, that he was too old to change. But was she? Was she too old to find away to break this family curse that held her feelings hostage behind brittle walls?

  After a long moment, Martin pushed away. He picked up his binoculars from the desk and rolled his chair to the picture window. He raised the glasses to his eyes and scanned the scene outside, looking for birds.

  Looking away from her. Always looking away.

  The intense exchange with Karen left Martin drained. He retired to his room and lay down, pondering the rare moment of intimacy with his off spring. He was filled with the same feeling of privilege and elation he had when he had seen a rare bird. Karen was like a bird in that respect—he had moments when he felt he truly saw her and understood her, but these moments were all too fleeting.