Wreck: A Novel

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  “I love you so much, Tobin. I’m so sorry. It’s all such a big mess.” He pulls me into a hug again, and I return the gesture, but my insides aren’t going to keep themselves together much longer.

  Dad starts crying again, and then he’s wailing. Ike comes around and carefully pulls him back from me. “Steve, Tobin will be able to talk about this soon. It’s a big shock.”

  “She hates me, Ike! She just hates me!” And he’s off, howling and wailing. Ike shoos me away over my dad’s shoulder and mouths go upstairs, so I do.

  Where I heave my guts up, then sit and stare out my bedroom window. Not that I can see anything, really, since there’s no moon. The lake is a big absence of light, like the world just falls away into empty, deep space, as far as the eye can see.

  I close my eyes and let that black absence of light flow into my body, deadening my limbs, my torso, and finally my brain. Stopping everything that was just vibrating itself toward light speed.

  After Ike goes home, I go downstairs, and my dad’s asleep on the couch, which seems to be the nightly routine. He’s slumped to the side, mouth partially open and breathing slow. So, I take photos. His hands. His cane propped next to him. His face, which isn’t really his face anymore. Too skinny. Too hollow. Like half of him is free-floating atoms. His eyes are still puffy from all his crying.

  The box isn’t on the table. I look in the Everything Room, and it’s on the top shelf, next to the 20 Mule Team Borax detergent, like it’s an ordinary box. Just a Box of Death, ho hum, no big deal.

  When I go back to the living room, the tears almost rush out of my mouth in a howl, but I push them down into submission with the black absence I absorbed from the lake.

  My dead, black heart. That has to stay the same.

  Then I sit on the couch next to him and take a selfie with my half-dead dad. Soon to be all dead. Sooner than I thought.

  He’s disoriented when I wake him, but I know he wants his own bed. He says sleeping on the couch isn’t very comfortable anymore.

  Once I’m back in my room, I look at the photos and realize there are tears on my face in the selfie.

  I didn’t even feel them.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #8

  Don’t close off your heart, even when you’re tempted.

  MAY 5

  The morning after Dad showed us the box, he was calmer than I’d seen him for a while. He was setting out cereal and milk for me when I made it into the kitchen before school. Now that I drive myself, since Dad’s feet aren’t coordinated, I get up earlier. Sometimes that means time for breakfast.

  He’s made all the arrangements, he said. He’ll write a letter and give it to Rich, in case someone questions what happens. Nobody will get in trouble. It’s all his choice. The house will be mine. The car will be mine. He’s got it all worked out.

  I kept my eyes on the Cinnamon Chex, silent as the grave.

  Ha ha, that’s a pun.

  Allison will be my guardian, he said, and there will be trust funds made from paid-out insurance money. He’s taking care of me in the best way he can.

  Can’t I see that?

  When I left for school, he was weeping at the table. Ike was on his way.

  He begged me to talk.

  I just left.

  Now it’s three days later. I’m still maintaining my freeze.

  Text on the way to school. Gracie. Doing ok, hun? #missyou

  I’m OK. #missyoutoo

  We haven’t hung out for forever. Like two weeks. Can we soon? #GracieandTobinGetTea

  I hope so. #teasoundsgood

  I don’t say, My dad’s going to kill himself. He’ll die sooner rather than later.

  I don’t say, My life is completely upside down.

  A cargo ship is arriving as I get to the bridge, so I call the school’s office and tell them. After the ship blows its horn, the bridge blows its horn back, saying hello and letting folks know the bridge deck is lifting. The office hears the bridge horn, so they know I’m not lying.

  I’m happy for the pause, though I’m probably the only one in this line of twenty cars who is. The chatter and hum of school jangles my nerves. The longer I stay away, the better off I am.

  Another text. Sid. Where are you?

  Stuck on our side of the lift bridge.

  Lucky you! Can’t wait till school is out.

  Me either.

  How’s your dad?

  Holding his own. Mostly.

  It’s more info than I gave Gracie. But he’s calmer—quieter—than Gracie.

  While I wait for the ship to get through, I google it. If you search “ship” and its name, it usually shows up. This one is named Trudy, and she’s from Liberia, on the west coast of Africa. I can’t get to school, but it can get here, in the middle of the country, all the way from Africa? I know there’s a way, through the St. Lawrence Seaway and all that, but I just can’t imagine it. How long does it take? It would feel like a million billion years.

  In my mind’s eye, I see my dad on a map, pushing a wheelchair through all the Great Lakes, on his way to Africa. Right before he gets to England, he and the chair sink.

  I check my email, and there’s a response from Chip, the guy who takes care of Mama Duck: We don’t generally honor Make-A-Wish requests. We are very busy and cannot be fair to all inquiries we receive.

  I reply. The man has ALS and will be 50. Isn’t that unique enough to consider this request? August 15 is also the weekend after the Tall Ships Festival, and you’re normally in town for that, aren’t you? The party’s on Park Point, so Mama Duck has familiar territory to float in. Can’t you do a kind thing for a dying man? Send.

  I may have been too blunt.

  It’s the first time I’ve written the words dying man.

  There’s another ship right after the first one, this one going out. I shut the car off, and my mind drifts.

  Dad’s at a twenty-seven now on the functionality scale.

  Instead of discussing that fact endlessly, like Dad and Ike do, I work on my portfolio. Peapod Baby has been replaced by Little Rey. She’s sat next to Professor X, learning his wisdom at his feet, and she’s also hung out with Mystique. I built a school out of cardboard, too—it has a flagpole and a flag outside, plus a swing set, so you know it’s a school—and they all took family photos there. There are also shots of Mystique leaving with a suitcase, and Little Rey looking after her. Then shots of Little Rey on the dunes, looking at the lake, reading a little tiny book I made for her, building a beach fire with Lando and Professor X. A tiny family doing family things.

  At supper some nights, I watch my dad and Ike talk and laugh. Sometimes Rich comes over with food from Elena, which is always delicious, and the three of them tell stories of bad wrecks, people they helped, times they avoided disaster. I just listen.

  Sometimes I think, Our tiny family has expanded.

  Then the second ship is gone. People start honking. It’s morning rush.

  I check my own ice, to be sure it’s solid, start the car again, and go to school.

  After school, I park in the back of the shop, dreading the next two hours. The earliest summer tourists are showing up to paw through our stuff, so Allison tweaks even more about dusting and arranging. Thankfully, Paul also comes downstairs more, because he knows Allison tweaks.

  I need to get addresses from her, for far away family. Aside from them, I have no idea who to invite to this shindig. Maybe I should look at the contacts in Dad’s phone.

  Maybe I should actually get some invites.

  Ike texts: Can you take your dad to the marathon meeting tonight? Gotta do some shopping for him. My dad’s on the board of directors of Grandma’s Marathon, and it’s six weeks to marathon time. All the planning gets him out of the house.

  He won that marathon in 1992. This year, he won’t be able to walk to the starting line without a cane. Maybe even a walker.

  I text back before I go inside: Sure thing. See you later.

  Allison hands me
a duster the minute I walk in the door. “We’ve already had ten customers today. Business is picking back up!” She’s practically singing. “The glassware needs to look at sharp as possible, all right, Tobin? And check out our new pop-up shop. It’s right outside the window.”

  “Our what? And why right outside the door?” She’s not making sense.

  “You’ll see.” She smiles.

  I look out the front window, and I see a table covered with records. Then I see a tall, broad man in a sweatshirt standing behind a chair, and I think there’s a skinny guy in a red jacket in the chair, but I can’t quite tell, because the broad guy covers him up. There’s a sign on the sidewalk, on a sandwich board. It says MAMA DUCK’S RECORD STORE, with a drawing of Mama Duck on it, sitting next to a record player. Notes float all around the sign.

  Seriously?

  When I go outside, Ike hears the door, turns to look, and smiles. “Hey, Tobin! How was school?”

  “Moderately okay. What is this? Didn’t you just text me?”

  He gestures. “Yes, and your dad was bored, so Allison said we could set up a pop-up shop.”

  Then I notice, on the other end of the table, there’s a milk crate with a sign that says GORD’S GOLD, ALL ALBUMS $5 on it. There might be ten Gordon Lightfoot albums in the crate. Vintage record collections always have some Gordon Lightfoot.

  My dad turns and sees me, and his face lights up. “Like my sign, Tobin? We’ve sold five albums to three people. Even one Gordon Lightfoot album!”

  “Very nice.” And I can’t help it. I laugh.

  My dad is interacting with the older couple standing in front of the table, telling them what he knows about the albums he’s familiar with. They’re listening, then all three of them start talking about big band conductors. My dad knows a lot about interacting with people but not much about music. They don’t seem to notice. They hand him a five, and he hands them two albums. They wave, he waves, and they continue down the sidewalk with a smile at me.

  Dad turns to me. “I could do this all day.”

  “Not in July, when it’ll be hot without any shade.” I frown.

  “I bet Paul might have an old umbrella around somewhere. That back room is full of crap.” He jerks his thumb back toward the building.

  “Allison said we can sell albums whenever we want. She’ll set the table up and everything.” Ike smiles at me, trying to fix my frown. “Don’t you want company when you work?”

  “If it makes you two happy, who am I to say?” And I go back inside.

  He could end up weeping if someone buys his favorite Gordon Lightfoot album. Or he could end up cursing them seven ways to Sunday for taking it away from him. Or it could all be just fine. This one’s on Ike, not me.

  Then I realize I just busted up my freeze. I look back out the window, over my shoulder, and Ike is grinning and giving me a thumbs-up.

  Dammit.

  Allison chirps at me from behind the counter. “What do you think? It’s a good way to keep him busy, and we’ve got records for days. He can be out there all summer, if he wants to be.”

  I nod.

  “Have you given up talking permanently, or just for a while?”

  I shrug.

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Dust, then.”

  She has no idea about my dad’s Box of Death. I heard him tell Ike he’s not going to tell her, and that the only three people who will know are me, Ike, and Dad. I guess I can thank him for that. I don’t want Allison’s opinion. Or her pity.

  The duster and I become one with each other, and the glass sparkles when the light comes through the big window as the sun gets lower.

  My trips through the glass aisles also result in some rearranging, and soon I have a rainbow down one aisle. Who knew we had red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple glass?

  “Really nice.” There’s a chuckle behind me. “Wonder if Allison will leave it there for Pride month?” It’s Paul.

  I almost drop a green piece, because his voice startles me. “She might not even notice.”

  “It’s hard not to notice a rainbow of glass filling up an entire shelf. Looks great, hon.”

  “It was kind of for you, and kind of because it was there, and kind of because I was bored.”

  Paul had a partner when I was born, a man named Edward. I don’t really remember him, but I’ve seen pictures. When he died, I was two. Paul said he’d never have another love like Ed, so he quit relationships, which is too bad. He’s a really nice guy, and cute besides, even though he’s in his seventies.

  He gives me a squeeze around my shoulders. “How’s your dad? Hanging tough?”

  “His numbers haven’t gone down a whole lot. He was a twenty-seven last time.”

  “They didn’t have that scale when Uncle Robert had ALS.” He picks up another piece of green glass and puts it into place.

  “Uncle Robert?”

  “Your dad might not remember him. He was pretty little when Robert was sick. Robert was his great-uncle, and he got sick really fast.” Paul’s face is grim. “But Robert was the original couch potato, and your dad isn’t. So that will help.”

  “I hope so.” I wonder if Dad remembers. Paul’s face tells me he remembers it all.

  Maybe I should tell Paul about the Box of Fuck You I Hate You Worse Than ALS.

  Allison comes back from wherever she is and looks over the glass rainbow with a frown. “Where’s the glass that should be on this shelf?”

  I gesture to all the other shelves. “Nothing got lost.”

  “So you can talk to Paul but not to me?” Her frown doesn’t move.

  I don’t answer that but move my little dusting self on to the crocks and boxes and decorative plates.

  Paul’s voice is gentle. “Give her some space.”

  Allison doesn’t have anything to say to that, so she goes back behind the counter to add up the day’s receipts. It’s about 5:15. Dad and Ike brought in their records and their sandwich board sign about 4:30 and headed home. They waved. I waved my duster at them.

  Paul gives me one more side-arm hug. “You need an ear, I’m your guy.”

  “Thanks.” I will the ice to clog my veins, but it’s not working at the moment.

  Allison looks up from the cash register. “You can head out whenever you want, Tobin. I like the glass rainbow. Let’s keep it for a while.” She smiles, and it’s involuntary: I smile back. That makes her smile more, and Paul is smiling, and we’re all smiling, and I remember my dad is going to kill himself, so I bolt out the back door before I can smile again.

  When I finally get home, after getting stopped by a sailboat—a cargo ship is one thing, but a sailboat just pisses everyone off—Ike’s already gone.

  When I open the door, all I hear is Dad singing, at the top of his lungs: “First of May, first of May, outdoor fucking begins todaaaaaaaaaay.” And he repeats it, with the same weird tune, in the time it takes me to get from the front door to where he is.

  He doesn’t see me, because he’s in the kitchen. His cane is leaning against the sink, and he’s getting a glass of water, singing the entire time. His voice sounds like someone I don’t know.

  “Dad?”

  He drops the glass. Good thing the sink contains the shatter. “You scared me, Tobin!” His face is white.

  “Ike asked me to take you to the meeting tonight. Ready? I’ll clean that up later.”

  He grabs another glass, fills it full of water, chugs it, then sets it next to the sink before he picks up his cane. “Ready. My race notebook is on the coffee table. Will you grab it for me?” He starts heading toward the door, almost striding, if a person could stride and use a cane at the same time. No ricketing anywhere. In this moment, he looks close to being Steve Oliver again.

  I drive him to the meeting, which is back over the bridge at Grandma’s Restaurant. Yes, the marathon is named after the restaurant. We don’t get stopped by any kind of ship. Then I head home and clean up the glass after I make us a salad for supper, comp
lete with grilled chicken. Life is always better when you can grill.

  My before-ALS dad would never sing a song like that. He likes to pretend I don’t know what sex is. Periods are one thing.

  There’s another notebook sitting on the coffee table by his usual spot on the couch.

  Dear Tobin:

  I’m going to try and write a picture book for you, one you can take to kindergarten in three years and show all the other kids. Maybe your mom will take photos for it.

  Once upon a time, there was a water witch who lived in Lake Superior. She lived way, way down at the bottom. Her hair was long and dark, and fish swam in and out of the strands that floated in the currents.

  The story stops there.

  As a kindergartener, I would have been scared shitless.

  That water witch is probably sitting next to my black, lumpy heart.

  It’s Saturday. Dad’s taking a nap. I went to breakfast with Gracie and didn’t tell her about Dad’s Stupid Box of Death I Hate It. Then I cleaned the house, took some really dumb pictures of the Star Wars X-Men Fam, and made lists of stuff I’ll need for the party.

  Then I sat down at the table with another notebook from under the stairs, one Dad left on the table. This one is notes from Paul’s Tall Ships Festival presentations and copied passages from Mariette’s journal. Notes about how Dad wants to write a history of Park Point, Duluth, and the fur trade. He’s even got an editor’s name jotted down—an editor who worked for the University of Minnesota Press in 1997, that is.

  I don’t hear Ike come in.

  “You know your dad wants to keep his notebooks private.”

  I jump. “Dude! Yes, I know, but this one is history. No feelings at all.”

  He gives me skeptical side-eye. “It’s still private stuff.”

  My face colors. “I haven’t got a lot of months left to know him.”

  Ike sits down. “I see your point, but still.” He gives me a long look. “Speaking of knowing someone, you seem awfully reserved these days.”

  “Emotions are useless at this point.”

  “But they still matter. And what he said is a shocking thing to think about.”

  “You were pretty against it.”