Wreck: A Novel

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  He sighs. “I’m Catholic, for one thing, so suicide doesn’t work for us. We can talk about my feelings some other day, okay? Time to talk about you and him.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “The disease is messing with his brain. Maybe you figured that out by now. Not just the pseudobulbar stuff.” Ike glances into the living room at Dad, who’s sawing logs, snoring louder than most freight trains.

  “Is there a rating scale for that part?” I look at my dad, too. Today it’s almost hard to recognize him. His hair’s still his hair, still wavy and golden blond and thick, but that’s about all. His face is even more drawn, and he’s getting way too skinny.

  “Not really. He’ll still have good moments, for sure, but there might be times when he seems like a whole other person.”

  A chill runs up my spine, and I hear the tune for his outdoor sex song. “Great. Thanks for the heads up.”

  “I can’t imagine how much this all sucks for you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And this is where Stephen Hawking had an advantage.” This thought amuses him.

  “Huh?”

  “Stephen Hawking was amazingly good at thinking, and thinking was the one thing he had left. It may have been all he needed. Stephen Oliver, on the other hand, lives in his body more than his brain—running, saving people. And it’s all failing him. I can see why he’d want to end it before his body’s completely stolen from him.”

  My brain pauses several beats while the anxiety stops whirling and Ike’s words sink in. “I see your point.” Not that I want to say it, but it’s fair.

  We don’t say anything for a while. Dad continues to snore loud enough to be heard in Canada. Ike and I work on supper together—frozen lasagna and a salad—and then we wake Dad. He’s groggy, but clues in once we get him walking. He perks up when he sits down and Ike pushes the Cholula over to him. “Smells so good!” He drizzles it on his lasagna. Gross.

  Since Ike’s been with Dad, we’ve had a bottle of Cholula Hot Sauce on the table next to the salt and pepper shakers. New family members have new condiments. It’s way too hot for me, but Dad and Ike are liberal with it.

  Supper discussion is basic. The marathon. The annoying tourists. The weather. Rich is working on getting a new partner, though he’s sad about it. Dad sheds a few tears, but Ike keeps him calm and the storm is quick.

  After supper, Dad heads back to the couch. “Come sit with me, Tobin. Just for a minute.” He pats the cushion next to him once he gets settled.

  So I do.

  He picks up my hand and squeezes it, stronger than I’d expect him to be. “I love you, daughter. I’m going to die soon.”

  “Yes.” I look at Ike. He nods, as if to say, It’s fine. Let him be how he is.

  “But I’m going to kill myself first. I’m sorry about that, but I’m too angry to live with this body forever.”

  His cheeks are red with fury—his eyes glow with hate for the whole world, it seems.

  “Do you know how awful this is? How tired I am? How furious and jealous I am that you and Ike can still do the things you normally do? Do you?”

  I can’t even nod to reply as his energy assaults me.

  Then his face literally shifts from furious to tired. “But right now, I want to go read in bed.” Crisis over, just like that.

  Then he gets his rickety self off the couch, with the help of his cane, and heads toward the stairs. “Ike, will you help me for a moment?”

  Ike and I look at each other as Ike follows him up.

  His emotions are like the storms on the lake—intense, then gone.

  But you gotta take shelter when they happen.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #9

  Don’t take yourself so seriously.

  MAY 17

  No answer yet from the Mama Duck guy, so I send another email: a photo of Mama Duck and her haiku, in the back room of Trash Box.

  During first hour, Mrs. Brooks calls me into her office. I brace for the worst, but she’s smiling. “Are you looking forward to your trip?”

  “My what?”

  She’s still smiling. “Your family trip to Hawaii? Your dad called yesterday. You’ll be missing the last two weeks of school. Next Monday, you’ll have your finals, and then you’re off! Have you been there before?”

  When the flip was someone going to tell me we’re going to Hawaii?

  “Um, no.”

  Her expectant face looks like this is all just wonderful, a dad and daughter going on a trip. She stands and holds out her hand. “Enjoy yourself. See you in the fall. Thanks for getting your classes back on track.” When I extend mine, she pumps it like she’ll never see me again. If I look closely, I’m sure I’ll see tears in her eyes. I don’t look.

  “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

  She sits back down and busies herself with papers. “Talk with your teachers and get your exams arranged. You may go.”

  I scram out of there before it can get any weirder.

  My dad will just trip over the sand. Or try and surf and drown himself. Or he’ll cry the whole time.

  Listen to me, crapping all over Paradise.

  I text Ike: Are we really going to Hawaii?

  Return text: yes! :)

  WHY DIDN’T ANYONE TELL ME?

  Shrug emoji in return. We can talk when you get home.

  Grrrrrrrrr. 100% not impressed about being left out.

  No reply.

  I talk to teachers, finish the day, go to Trash Box, dust more shit, wait on people, and think about all the ways a vacation could go wrong. Paul comes downstairs before I leave and gives me a snorkel and a waterproof disposable camera. I hug him tight and thank him, but it still pisses me off that nobody told me.

  I make pork chops and rice—bake them with cream of mushroom soup, supper of Midwestern champions, thank you very much—and Ike comes in while we’re eating and talking. Well, I’m eating, and Dad’s getting some chewed up, but not much. He’s talking, while I’m being a silent asshole again.

  Ike grins as he sits. “Got a new joke! A combo: Stephen Hawking and bad dad. I know how you like bad dad jokes, Tobin.”

  “Pork chop, Ike?” My dad waves a shaky hand at the cupboard with the dishes. “Grab a plate and sit down.” He seems very clued in tonight, which is nice. “What’s the joke?”

  Ike dishes up, then sits and puts Cholula on his pork chop, eyes twinkling. “Guess what, Tobin? You matter! Unless you multiply yourself times the speed of light squared. Then you energy!”

  My dad laughs. Like outright belly-laughs, not even uncontrollably. “Stephen Hawking would love that joke. And hand that hot sauce over here. Good idea.” Ike does, and Dad adds a generous dollop to his pork chop.

  I chuckle, because the joke is funny. And because my dad is coherent and eating hot sauce on the most Midwestern dish ever. My crabby-ass bitch stance takes a momentary break.

  “When was someone going to tell me we’re going to Hawaii?” I try not to frown, because it’s Hawaii, but I’m still annoyed.

  Ike talks with his mouth full. “It was supposed to be a surprise. Bucket list for your dad, and a break for you.”

  “Except that I looked like an idiot in front of Mrs. Brooks today.” My internal bitch’s smoke break is over.

  “Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen.” Ike looks at Dad. “Next time we take a trip, we make a list of things to do, and one of them is to clue Tobin in about everything.”

  My dad nods. “I’m sorry.” I see his eyes start to well up.

  I have to derail those tears, so my brain grabs for anything. “Have you been looking at pictures of Hawaiian fish? What’s your favorite one?” I make it sound like he’s six and into animals, which isn’t quite right, but he does know a lot about Lake Superior fish, so maybe he’s been studying Hawaiian ones.

  “The humuhumunukunukuapua`a.” My dad says it with no hesitation or stumbling.

  “The what? That’s a word? And a fish?”

  Ike laughs.
“Oh. That one. I’m sure we’ll see a lot of them.”

  “If I’m remembering right, Kahalu’u Beach has a ton of them. At least they did twenty years ago, when we were there. Have you snorkeled, Ike?”

  “It’ll be my first time. I’ll tie myself to you and let you show me around.” He smiles.

  My dad smiles in return. “Here’s a bad dad joke about Hawaii, Tobin. Knock knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Hawaii.” He’s trying not to laugh.

  “Hawaii who?”

  “I’m great, how are you?” And he loses it so hard he almost falls out of his chair. Ike has to prop him up.

  “Good one, Dad.” I roll my eyes at Ike.

  Ike shrugs. “I liked it.”

  “We leave when?”

  Ike goes to the living room and grabs a stack of papers from beside the couch. “We’ll drive down to the Cities next Monday night. We leave Tuesday about 7 a.m., and the airline will have a wheelchair waiting for us at the Delta desk. We just have to get your dad to the desk.”

  “Wheelchair?” It’s the only word that registers.

  My dad slaps the table with his hand, which isn’t loud and hard, but it’s still a hit. “Stephen Hawking would get his ass in a wheelchair and take that ass to Hawaii. So that’s what we’re going to do, too.”

  A wheelchair.

  Airports are some long walking. Long ricketing, that is. It makes sense.

  But if I had a heart in my body, it would flip over.

  Ike’s reading the stack of papers. “Just like your Professor X, Tobin. Sometimes even super mutants need some help.”

  “My what?” My face is hot.

  “I know you’re doing weird stuff with action figures, but you’re an artist, so I figure you know something I don’t.” He looks over the paper he’s reading, and his eyes crinkle, like they do when he smiles. “I’m just a dumb medic.”

  “Right. A dumb medic. So leave the artist alone.”

  “Tobin!” Dad’s not having it. “Don’t call Ike names! We couldn’t live without him.” He glares.

  “No offense meant, Ike.”

  “None taken.” His eyes crinkle again over his papers. “Pack by Monday morning. We’ll take off right after school.”

  “How much packing am I doing?”

  “Ten days’ worth.”

  “Who the frack is paying for this? We don’t have that kind of money.” My voice is louder than I mean it to be.

  Ike sets down his papers. “My dad took up a collection and raised enough money for plane tickets, with the help of a doctor’s frequent-flyer miles. Another doctor donated their condo.”

  The tears are running down my dad’s face, but he’s calm. “Rich is so kind. For us, it’s about five hundred dollars. We have that.”

  “But we’ll need it! You’re only going to get sicker.”

  “I need to see some new fish. You need to have fun. Ike wants to visit Hawaii. Who are we to deny him the chance?” He sniffles. “So let’s just take a damn trip before I can’t walk across a room or open a door. When I lose my skills, they’re gone. Forever. So let’s just take a goddamn trip.”

  He rickets up off the chair, picks up his cane, and heads into the living room. Case closed.

  Ike looks after him as he goes. “Guess you got told.”

  All I can do is nod.

  After Ike and I clean up supper and do the dishes, I notice there’s a box by the front door. From France.

  I text Gracie. Box came for you. I’ll leave it on the front porch.

  Can I come in and see you? #longlostBFF

  Probably not wise. Dad’s resting.

  Can you hang out soon? #GracieandLongLostTobin

  I don’t really have the strength to be a high school girl, but I can’t tell her that.

  Hopefully. Turns out I’m taking a trip to Hawaii. Before we go?

  Let’s do pedis! #prettytoesfortheocean

  Good idea. #forgothowtobeagirl

  The next day is Friday, and my teachers tell me my fate. Only two are making me do multiple choice, sit-in-the-testing-center tests, and the other three gave me short essay exams to write over the weekend. It was very clear they feel sorry for me, since I’m only getting to go because my dad is literally on his last leg. Poor, sad girl was right there in their eyes.

  Pity sucks.

  On Sunday, I pack my camera, lenses, swimsuits, shorts and tops, and six pairs of flip-flops. Then Gracie and I go for a pedi. She assaults me with a million questions, about Hawaii and my dad, which I try to answer, and I promise to bring her home something with a Hawaiian print on it.

  So. Many. Words.

  Gracie acts like nothing’s wrong, like nothing’s changed, like we haven’t seen each other for a long time because of school, homework, work, whatever. Not because the world is upside down. I nod and smile, nod and smile. Nod. Smile.

  Monday morning, before I go to school, I look in the Everything Room, and the box of drugs is still next to the 20 Mule Team Borax. One ordinary Box of Death, ready and waiting.

  Fuck you. We’re going to Hawaii.

  I hand in my essays and take my tests, and we get everything into the car, including my dad, by four. Paul and Allison help us load up.

  Allison gives my dad a kiss and a hug. “Be careful, Steve. Don’t give Ike trouble. Same goes for you, Tobin.” She kisses my cheek, though I shrug away from her hug. “Help your dad out.”

  “No. I’m gonna push him into the ocean and leave him there.”

  She steps away with a horrified look. “Why did you say such a thing?”

  “Why did you say what you said when I help him every single day?”

  She retreats and gives Ike a look, like good luck.

  Paul moves to hug me, and I let him, though I see Allison’s scowl over his shoulder. “Take care, Tobin. And have fun.”

  “We will.” I give him a gentle squeeze.

  My dad’s in the back seat, looking like an eager puppy, and I turn to Ike. “Do we have it all?”

  “If we don’t, we can buy it there. Get your butt in the car.” His grin is contagious.

  When I look in the review mirror, Paul and Allison are actually waving at us, so I wave out the window at them. This could be awful or phenomenal. I’m not going to guess which one.

  The trip to the Cities spools out in front of us. Three hours, including stops. What to do with three hours?

  “Tobin, will you read a book?” My dad, from the back seat.

  “What book?” I brought my Kindle, of course, but I don’t think he’d like anything I have on there.

  A book comes slowly over the seat.

  “The first Harry Potter?”

  “Gracie came over the other day while you were working, and she convinced me I should read it. She read me the first chapter and I was hooked.”

  Gracie can talk anyone into being a Harry Potter fan. I send her a quick text with six hearts: Thanks for reading to my dad.

  Any time. #hestherealmvp Six hearts and three kissy faces.

  “Will you read?” His voice is half of what it used to be. Maybe less than that.

  Ike’s looking excited, too. “I listened to Harry Potter when I was in Afghanistan. All seven books. Three times straight through.”

  “Seriously?” I try not to look surprised, but I fail.

  “You’re no Jim Dale, but you’ll do in a pinch. Now read.”

  I start on chapter two. By the end of chapter three, Dad is asleep, and I put the book down on the seat between me and Ike.

  “Nope. Not Jim Dale. But that’s okay.” He pats my hand.

  “Gracie and her stealth HP domination moves. I’d swear Rowling pays her.” My mouth is dry. “It takes a lot to read out loud. Who knew?”

  Ike chuckles.

  I take a swig of water. “You get to read next if we do it again.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Silence for a while. I drink more water and think about what Minnesota used to look
like, before all the white people came. When Daniel and Mariette got here, I’m sure the trees were thick. And in clearings, there might have been Dakota tipis or Ojibwe birchbark houses. I’m also sure Daniel and Mariette never made it this far south of the lake. They probably went less than ten miles from their camp for the entire time they were alive.

  And that makes me realize something.

  “Ike, what’s your origin story?” If he’s a part of our family, I should probably know this.

  “Origin story?” He gives me a confused look.

  “That’s what I’m doing with my action figures. So, if you’re gonna be hanging out at our house, all parts of the Star Wars X-Men Fam have to have an origin story.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “That’s a bit weird, but okay. As I understand it, my great-grandparents came to America in the early 1950s, as part of a thing called the Bracero Program. Mexican field workers who got to come here legally. They picked sugar beets, but never went back, so they got their green cards, then became citizens. My grandparents met each other in St. Paul, where they grew up after their families left sugar beet country, and then they moved up here because my grandpa liked the woods and the lake.”

  “A Mexican dude who likes the woods?” I chuckle.

  He nods and smiles. “All the great-grandparents came from a warm, dry place, so everyone thought my grandparents were weird, but Grandpa Marcelo liked to fish. He moved to the biggest lake he could find. Rich was born in Duluth and went to college in the Cities. He married Elena after he met her on a blind date in Minneapolis and convinced her to come up here by telling her the sunrises over the lake were pretty. Then my two sisters were born, and then I was, and then there were five brown people in Duluth.” He laughs.

  “There’s more than five brown people in Duluth!”

  He gives me side-eye. “Not very many more. Have you looked? Then I graduated from high school, then I went to Afghanistan, and now I’m here, on my way to Hawaii with you.”

  “Do you have any superpowers?”

  He ponders. “I’m pretty calm under pressure.”

  “That’s way more useful than writing books or taking photos.” Then it hits me that right now I can ask Ike what I can’t when Dad’s around.

  “His brain is worse, isn’t it?”