Nervous System (The System Series Book 1)

by Andrea Ring

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that much of an adult’s life and choices are not appropriate topics of conversation with a child. For example, if a parent is divorced, and the child asks about the divorce, most parents will say that they grew apart, or that they wanted different things out of life, or something equally generic. A good parent is not going to unload on the child and say your father had an affair and I started taking pills, so we had to get away from each other.”

  “Why not?” I ask. “Why wouldn’t the parent just tell the truth?”

  “Because the truth is not always appropriate. I know you think you could handle any honest answers your dad might give you, and maybe you could. But as the parent, it is your dad’s call. He has a responsibility to decide how much information is good for you.”

  “That’s…I don’t like that answer too much,” I say.

  “I understand that,” Dr. Rumson says. “From what I gather, your father has been a good man. He provided for you and your mother. He put himself in harm’s way to protect our country. Whatever hand he has had in raising you, he certainly didn’t screw up. You are an amazing young man. Your dad has to be given credit for those things.”

  I frown, thinking about that.

  “So your father will be out of the military for good, is that right?”

  I nod.

  “It will be an adjustment. I think you know that. For all of you. Your father is used to living a certain life. Being a member of our armed forces is probably important to his identity. I hope you will be patient with him.”

  “Yeah, I get it. We always have to adjust when he comes home on leave. I’m used to that.”

  “Except this time, your dad won’t be leaving again. There will be no end point. You’ll have to find a way to live together. And you’ll have to find it in you to forgive him.”

  “Why must I forgive him? He’s not sorry for what he did.”

  “He had his reasons, Thomas. Until your father gives you a reason not to, trust him. Trust that he’s making the best decisions he can for you.”

  “I don’t know if he even thinks about me like that,” I say.

  “Do not forgive him for his sake. Forgive him for yours. You cannot find peace unless you can move past this.”

  “That’s probably true.”

  “Good. Keep it in mind: what would God want me to do?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I’m still thinking about Dad and forgiveness and opening up by degrees the next day, as I sculpt at the kitchen table. The clay in my hands, the tools, having a definite task in mind and seeing it to fruition…it all calms me. It’s even better than regulating, because there are no after-effects. I can create and think and ponder.

  I’m making a model of Mom’s right hand. She had the most beautiful hands, slender, refined, long nail beds kept short, feminine. They were the hands of a pianist. The hands of a gentle mother.

  Her right hand was dominant, and she would often gesture with it, or stroke my hair, or poke me on the chin. She wore a single silver filigree ring on her middle finger, which once belonged to her mother. She always wanted to wear it on a different finger, but it was too large. She was afraid to get it sized, because sizing it would have required cutting into the design.

  The ring always fascinated me. It was something out of another era, a connection to my grandparents, who I never had a chance to meet. I have it in my top dresser drawer, under a pile of socks. I want a way to display it, and when I’m finished with this clay hand, I will slip it on the middle finger.

  Dad liked the ring, too, I think. When he thought no one was looking, he would take Mom’s hand in his and kiss the ring. Mom would smile the smile she only gave to Dad. Dad would sometimes wink at her.

  I wonder if Dad knows I have the ring. She wasn’t wearing it when she died; I found it on the rim above the kitchen sink. Mom must have done dishes that morning.

  I cry a bit as I sculpt. Nothing dramatic, but a few tears slip down my cheeks, and I wipe them away and push them into the clay. This seems poetic, and fitting.

  I finish the basic shape of Mom’s hand, and start to carve in the details. I wonder if Dad remembers her hands. He certainly has the ability to, but I have no idea if he pays attention to things in the same way I do. Maybe by the time I am his age, the details won’t be so important.

  I remember Dad’s hands, too. They are large and strong, with thick calluses on the palms. He has hairy knuckles, and a long pink scar on the top of his left hand. I wonder why he has a scar at all.

  I really know nothing about him.

  He is a Navy SEAL.

  He never went to college, but was recommended for Officer Candidate School on the basis on his service.

  He taught me how to dribble a basketball, and how to play MarioKart.

  He loved my mother.

  My mother loved him.

  He never wanted a child, but he’s changing his life for his child.

  My tears speed up.

  Dad has been a pretty fun dad, all in all. Maybe he missed a lot of my childhood, but lots of dads work instead of raising their kids. Maybe my childhood has been completely normal and I never realized it. Maybe Dad has given me everything he was capable of giving. Maybe I have expected too much.

  I finish up Mom’s hand and grab another piece of clay. I begin to make Dad’s hand, upside down and fingers curled in, as though he is cradling her hand in his.

  It seems fitting.

  Grandma makes me a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, and we watch a recorded episode of Top Chef. Grandma loves Tom Colicchio. I don’t see much to love about a bald man with a high opinion of himself.

  Grandma goes down for a nap around two. I work on my hand sculpture. Grandma wakes up around four and starts dinner. She wants to make meatloaf and mashed potatoes, Dad’s favorite. We haven’t heard from Dad, and I force myself to stop glancing at the door, and the clock, and the phone. No expectation means a happy me. Yeah, right.

  Dinner at eight comes and goes; we waited as long as we possibly could. I show Grandma my finished sculpture, and she gasps and gets teary-eyed and hugs me as though she’ll never let go.

  We watch more television, and I finish a ridiculous homework assignment—a writing prompt: Without owls, how would the world be different? At ten, Grandma is snoring in Dad’s recliner and I am not sleepy.

  I watch TV. Sometime after midnight, the front door creaks open.

  I run to the door. Dad has dropped his duffle bag on the floor and is simply standing there.

  I run to him and burst into tears.

  He holds me, just holds me, and he carries me to bed with him and we fall asleep tangled together.

  

  I wake up in Dad’s bed alone. I take a moment to orient myself and hear him and Grandma talking in the kitchen. She’s cooking for him, of course.

  “He’s handling it all remarkably well, Michael,” Grandma says. “No thanks to you.”

  “We’re not having this conversation again,” Dad says. “You know my reasons. I don’t expect you to agree with them. But I’ll make it up to him. I’ll do my best to make it up to him.”

  “Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t joined the Navy?”

  “No.”

  “Come now, Michael, you must —”

  “No, I don’t,” he says. “It’s a fruitless exercise. It hasn’t been all bad. It gave me Thomas. It gave you Thomas.”

  I must not have heard that right—the Navy gave me to Dad?

  “You would have had children anyway,” Grandma says. “Eventually.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Dad growls.

  “How can you say that?” Grandma asks.

  “I’m speaking the truth. You always took joy in your abilities. They delighted you at every turn! That is not me, and has never been me. They are a curse, not a blessing. Look at Thomas. Look at his life. How can you say we’ve been blessed?”

  I sit
up straight in bed and strain my muscles, making sure I don’t miss a word.

  “No! How can you say we are not blessed? I healed myself of terminal cancer! Thomas healed a spinal cord injury! We would be long gone if we didn’t have our abilities, and you’re right. I delight in every minute I’m here, every Goddamn minute I get to spend with your son!”

  “What?”

  “Our life is God’s gift to us. It was bestowed upon us with a purpose. It may be difficult at times, it may—”

  “What did you say?” Dad asks again.

  “I said you need to count your blessings, you ungrateful idiot!”

  “Not that! What you said about Thomas. He healed a spinal cord injury?”

  “Yes. Of course. I thought you knew that.”

  A pause. “No. Who else knows?”

  “No one. Maybe Dr. Morley. I think Thomas explained that part to him.”

  A chair scrapes on the kitchen floor. Ten seconds later, Dad bursts through the bedroom door and moves to his dresser.

  “You heard all that?” he asks, taking out a t-shirt and fresh underwear.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you tell Dr. Morley you healed your spinal cord?”

  “No.”

  He glares at me. “Grandma thinks you did.”

  “I didn’t. I told him I broke my neck. Nothing else.”

  He throws the clothes on the floor and sits next to me on the bed. “You’re sure?”

  “I could relate the entire conversation word for word if you’d like.”

  He takes his time thinking about it. “No. I trust you.”

  Huh.

  “Dad, can you heal nerves in your central nervous system?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  “Grandma can’t do it either,” I say.

  “No.”

  “How do you know that? Grandma didn’t even know that.”

  “No one else has ever been able to do it,” he says.

  “No one else? You mean, there are others?”

  Dad blows out a breath. “Yes. Not a lot, but some.”

  I want to scream at him again, condemn him for keeping me in the dark, but I force myself to remain calm. I regulate, just a bit.

  “Why would you not tell me that?” I ask gently.

  “It’s complicated, Thomas,” he says.

  “Okay,” I say.

  Dad barks out a laugh. “Okay? Just like that?”

  “Well, no, not really. But I trust you. You had your reasons for not telling me. You have your reasons for not telling me everything now. I can wait.”

  He searches my face, which I’ve made carefully blank. “Really?”

  I nod. “I will wait somewhat, but not entirely, patiently.”

  Dad smiles. “You must take after your mother. I have never been a patient man.”

  “I’d like to give her the credit, but honestly, I got it from Dr. Rumson. He’s a minister I’ve been seeing at Grandma’s church.”

  “You’ve been going to church?”

  I nod. “I know this goes against your beliefs, but I’m starting to believe in God.”

  “Oh, I believe in God, all right,” he says. “I just don’t like Him all that much.”

  

  We take our showers and dress for the day, and I tell Dad that I’d like to go to church with Grandma. I invite him to come along.

  He says, “I think I’ll pass.” But at least he doesn’t try to stop us.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  For someone without my abilities, Tessa has quite a memory. As soon as I walk into class, she pounces on me.

  “Your dad. Did he get here?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “Late Saturday night.”

  “Did your grandma let you stay up?”

  “She did.”

  “How late?”

  “Past midnight. I don’t know exactly how late.”

  “Midnight? That’s like the middle of the night! You’re so lucky. Mommy never lets me stay up that late. When do I get to see him?”

  “See who?” I ask her.

  “Your dad. He’s so cool. Maybe I could come over today after school.”

  I would like to spend time with Tessa. I’d like to ask her about her dad—I’ve never met him. He is a computer engineer, and builds and maintains computer networks for large companies. Tessa told me he works a lot of funny hours, because he can only fix the computers when other people aren’t using them. At Christmas, a major bank had a computer problem, and a lot of their customers did not have access to their money. The bank paid Tessa’s dad a “buttload” of money, Tessa had told me, giggling (her brothers had used that word), to fix the problem. Mr. Halter missed their annual Christmas Eve caroling, and didn’t show up until two days later. Tessa’s mom made all the kids wait to open their presents, and they had a late Christmas on December 28th. Then with the extra money he’d made, Mr. Halter took them all on a surprise trip to Big Bear for the New Year.

  Tessa’s story didn’t mean much to me when she told it to me. I was still missing Mom terribly, and Dad wasn’t home, and I felt sad for Tessa that she missed Christmas, and sad for me that I missed her snow trip. I’ve never seen the snow in person, never touched it. I remember wondering what it would be like to feel snow falling on my tongue.

  But now that I’ve had my epiphany about Dad, I wonder about Tessa’s father and how much of Tessa’s life he has missed because he’s working. Sure, he can be home most nights. Sure, his presence is felt more than my dad’s. But I don’t think he’s any more involved in Tessa’s life than Dad’s been in mine. Maybe even less, from the sound of it.

  “Let’s find your mom after school, and if she says yes, you can walk home with me.”

  “Yes!” Tessa squeals.

  At our free center time, Tessa snags a computer right off, but I am too slow to get one of the others. Sitting next to her is Sophie Barone, one of Tessa’s friends. I don’t know Sophie very well, but she seems like a nice girl. She’s polite in class, a good listener, and very detail-oriented. She is always the last one to finish her tests, and I’ve observed that it is not because she doesn’t know the answers, but because she likes to double-check them.

  I sit at the poetry table next to Colton. He mines for some gold and sticks his finger in his mouth. Gross. I have to remember to wash my hands after sharing his space.

  My word is “read.” I try to write my poem while listening to Tessa and Sophie.

  “You haven’t seen it yet,” Sophie is saying. “My grandpa painted it white and pink, my favorite colors. And my mommy sewed pink curtains to match.”

  “”Do you have furniture for it?” Tessa asks.

  “I got a bed for the mommy and daddy, and a couch and a lamp and a table, and the kitchen has stuff. Like a frigerator and an oven and a clock.”

  “I have some things from my old doll house,” Tessa says. “I got a bunk bed, and a potty, and a cat. I could bring them over.”

  “Okay. You could bring them over today,” Sophie says.

  What is in your face I read, I write on my paper.

  “I can’t today. I’m going to see Thomas.”

  “Thomas?” Sophie says. “You mean him?”

  “Yeah, Thomas in our class. He’s over there.”

  I assume she’s pointing at me across the room.

  “Do you like him?” Sophie asks.

  “Yep. He’s my new friend,” Tessa says loyally.

  “But he doesn’t play dolls, does he?”

  “No, he’s a boy. He plays stuff like my brothers, except he’s way smarter.”

  “Is he nice?”

  “Pretty nice. He taught me about mummies. And he’s nice to my mommy, too.”

  “He’s nice to your mom? I didn’t know that boys were nice to moms.”

  Tessa laughs. “That’s ‘cause you don’t have brothers. You don’t know anything about boys.”

  “Maybe I could come over to his house, too,” Sophie says. “He
sounds pretty good.”

  “You can’t just invite yourself over,” Tessa says. “My mommy says that isn’t nice.”

  “Well, you could ask him.”

  A thought forming, a sprouting seed, I write.

  A longing born of want and need,

  “Maybe we can play together at recess,” Tessa says. “You can talk to him.”

  “He might think I’m dumb,” Sophie says. “I don’t know about boys or brains or any of that stuff he knows.”

  On your friendship let me feed.

  I finish my poem and hand it to Mrs. Gardener. She is silent a few moments after she reads it.

  “This is beautiful, Thomas,” she says.

  “Thank you. May I…would it be okay if I had a conversation with Sophie? I know we’re not really supposed to talk during centers.”

  “Sure,” she says. “Just keep your voices down and try not to disturb anyone.”

  I walk over to the computers and pull the nearest desk chair up next to the girls.

  “Hello, Tessa. Hello, Sophie,” I say.

  “Hi, Thomas,” Tessa says. Sophie stares at me, mute.

  “How is the computer going?” I ask them.

  “Pretty good,” Tessa says. “I shot all the silent Es, and I’m on long Os.”

  “Cool,” I say. “What about you, Sophie?”

  “Uh,” she says.

  I scoot closer to her so I can see what she’s doing. “You’re on S with the H brother. That’s awesome.”

  “It is?” she asks.

  “Sure. When I first learned to read, I had a tough time with those. I was reading to my mom out loud about the Bishop of Canterbury. I didn’t say bishop, though. I said biz-hop.”

  I laugh. The girls just look at me.