Wreck: A Novel

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  “You’ve already done all that?” Ike’s amazed.

  “I don’t want to forget anything.”

  “You’re incredible.” He stands and bows.

  “Whatever.”

  Dad gathers the trash, and Ike deposits it into the garbage can. Now there are fiddle-like notes wafting our way. Sid is studying up on country music, obviously.

  “Is Sid aiming for a music scholarship somewhere?” My dad adjusts his shades as Ike pushes him back toward Trash Box.

  “I think so.” I should ask him. I’ve been a little self-centered lately.

  “He’s damn good.” Ike points, and we can see Sid, a block away, outside the candy store with a huge crowd around him. “Gonna make some bank today.”

  We’re at the door. “See you Lipstick Fishes when I get home.”

  Dad’s shaky hand blows me a kiss. “Don’t give Allison too much hell.”

  “I may call Paul down to run some interference.”

  “He doesn’t mind that. Now do a wheelie, Ike, and let’s go to the lighthouse and write some graffiti.”

  “Your wish is my command, sir, but I don’t have a marker.” Ike rolls his eyes at me.

  “Probably better not to engage in defacing public property.” Dad starts singing Gordon Lightfoot’s “Carefree Highway,” like they’re going on a big road trip.

  They head down the street, toward the jetty and the lighthouse, along with a billion tourists. I see Ike bend down to listen to something Dad says, then tilt his head back and laugh at the sky. I see Dad’s shoulders shake. Then I hear Ike holler, “Cholula Maaaaaaaaaaaan,” and he starts jogging. My dad’s hands are clamped on the sides of the chair.

  They’re having fun. And if I watch them for too long, I’ll start to melt.

  I open the door and Allison is right there. “Looks like your dad’s enjoying himself.” She clears her throat. “How are his numbers?”

  “He’s not giving you regular updates? I don’t remember the last number, exactly.”

  She busies herself with something at the register, clicking keys and opening and closing the cash drawer. “Not really.”

  “He’s having trouble swallowing, but his breathing is still okay. He climbs the stairs to his bedroom each night, with his cane, even though it’s really hard. His voice is relatively weak but still there. Sometimes it’s really hard for him to pick up his phone because that requires fine motor skills. Sometimes his emotions are really intense, and sometimes he gets stuck on a word and repeats it for five minutes.” I’m a robot repeating facts.

  Allison nods. “Okay. Thanks. Yeah. Tough. Yeah, just . . . I’m sorry. So tough.” Her head is down, and I don’t realize she’s crying until she looks at me. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

  Here’s what I want to say: There’s nothing we can do about this stupid situation, and we’re handling it, so stop with the pity. I end up feeling bad because I’m not crying and sad like you. If I feel those feelings, I’ll self-destruct. So quit stressing me out. Take your tears somewhere else.

  But I don’t, because she’d lose her shit. And I can’t handle another person in my life losing their shit.

  “Yeah. Me too.” And I escape into the back room so I don’t have to see her face anymore.

  I text Gracie: Would you like an extra aunt?

  Nope. Got four already. #fournosyaunts #foursassyaunts #enoughforme

  Can you introduce them to mine?

  That I can do. Is she being crabby? #fourcrabbyaunts

  She’s got too many feels. Don’t need anyone else’s.

  Your own are enough. #feelingssuck Sad face emoji. Three hearts.

  She has no idea, but the hashtag works for me.

  When Allison goes to the post office, I make two signs on printer paper, with a bunch of colored markers. The first one says WHAT IS YOUR FREAKING PROBLEM? HE’S DYING. CAN’T YOU HELP US? The second one says HE JUST WANTS TO SEE YOUR DUCK UP CLOSE. WTF. BE KIND.

  Then I tape them onto Mama Duck’s portrait in the back room—carefully, so I don’t smear the chalk—take a photo, and email it to Mama Duck’s handler. Way too smart-ass, but whatev. I won’t get an answer anyway.

  It’s 10:30, and my dad’s snoring up in his room. Pop-up shop days make him sleep hard, which is good. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, shoving my action figures into various contortions. Nothing’s happening.

  Ike sits down across from me. “Need some ideas? Cholula Man is here.”

  “Who came up with that nickname?”

  He grins. “When we jog, your dad says it’s the hot sauce that gives me my extra strength.”

  “Guess that’s your superhero name now.”

  He picks up the bottle and shows it to me like he’s showing it off on a game show merchandise showcase. “Mexican superpowers in a concentrated, easy-to-use food additive.”

  I laugh.

  “Back to the question.” He puts the bottle next to the salt and pepper, where it belongs. “Want some help?”

  “I’m failing big time, so, sure.” I tumble the Star Wars X-Men Fam across the table to him. He moves them around a little bit, his mouth twisted up like it’s the biggest puzzle in the world. Then he gets up, goes to the fridge, and takes out an apple and a can of the liquid protein stuff Dad sometimes drinks instead of forcing himself to eat. He puts them down on the table and goes for a knife and a cutting board.

  “What the hell?”

  “Watch.”

  Ike cuts up the apple into pieces the size of big dice, then gets a fine-point Sharpie from the can of pens in the Everything Room. He puts a heart on one, then a frowny face on another. A smiley face, a lightning bolt, and a money sign go on some others. He puts the symbols on every side of the pieces. Then he puts Professor X on top of the can of Promote.

  “Got your camera?”

  “Not on me.”

  He gives me a look. “How you gonna take photos, doofus?”

  His laughter follows me up the stairs.

  When I come back down, he’s made a background for Professor X and his can of Promote with a dish towel draped over a cookie sheet, propped up by the toaster. “Our new photo studio.” He’s proud.

  You think you sculpted a bear, but it’s really a moose. You think you drew a caterpillar, but it’s really a turtle. You think your photos are just action figures, but then you add in apple chunks. Art is like that. You gotta go with it.

  I click off a few shots, up close and far away. Then I take Professor X out of his wheelchair, leave it on top, and splay him in front of the can. That seems a little bit more realistic.

  “Nice.” Ike’s behind me. “Your dad hates that stuff.”

  “It tastes like shit.”

  “Yup.”

  I take a few more shots, then Ike clears away the Promote. He changes out the kitchen towel, so we have a different background, then sets up Mystique and Rey. He sets Mystique’s and Rey’s arms so they look like they’re throwing things between them. “Get your action setting ready.”

  “You’re gonna have to angle it just right to make it look realistic.”

  “How does the word realistic even enter your mind if you’re representing your mother as a blue mutant?”

  I change the settings. “Go.”

  First, he throws the heart cube. Then the frowny face, then the dollar sign. Then the smiley face. Each time he throws, I capture about ten shots.

  “Let me draw one more.” I grab an apple piece and the Sharpie and draw two stick figures, tiny ones, but female ones with dresses, a mother and daughter. Then I draw an X through them. Then I repeat it for all sides and hand it to Ike. “Throw this one next.”

  He looks at it, then at me.

  “Not kidding.”

  “Okay then.” He throws, picks it up, throws from the other side, on and on. I take a crap-ton of shots.

  I move Lando in front of Rey, even though he’s the same size as Little Rey. They didn’t make action figures very big in the eighties. “Lando is Paul.
He protects me.”

  Ike picks him up and studies him. He makes Lando’s arms look like he’s throwing/catching, and we get started again, using all the cubes. I shoot a ton.

  When I look at the clock above the sink, it’s 1:30.

  “Do you realize we’ve been doing this for three hours?” I stand up from where I’ve been kneeling behind my camera on the table. “Why didn’t you tell me it was so late? You know he’s going to wake you up early.”

  Ike yawns. “I got good at sleep deprivation in the army.” He stretches his arms above his head and bends and twists. He’s been kneeling on the floor, too, to get the throws just right between the action figures. It was a really small arc.

  I yawn, too. “Was it horrible? The war?” As soon as I say it, I blush. He already said no talking about it. “Sorry. Foot in mouth. And duh, of course it was.”

  “Depends on which part, but yeah, it was bad. I wasn’t there at the worst part. Plus, Afghani temps get above a hundred and ten on a regular basis. Compare that to Duluth.”

  I shudder. “It’s so much easier to get warm than to get cool.”

  “Exactly.” His look is solemn. “The army itself gave me discipline and focus, which helped me become a man I like. Someone who can function in the real world. But deployment was awful.” He pauses. “Though ALS is on a pretty close par.”

  “Do you really have to say that right now?”

  He comes to me, where I’m rubbing my knees and the small of my back and puts his arm around my shoulders. “Running from the truth only compounds the problem. Yes, ALS is as bad as the army. In fact, ALS is way worse than the army.”

  “Can we not say any more truth for the rest of the night?”

  He grabs the apple cubes from the table—the ones with the symbols on them—and eats them. “Truth all gone.”

  “You’re a weirdo. Is Sharpie ink poisonous?”

  “You’ve just noticed? And I have no idea. It probably won’t hurt me too much.”

  We go into the living room so we can sit on the couch, and we check out our work. In the series with Mystique and Rey throwing the mother-daughter X-ed-out cube, there’s a perfect shot. The cube is upside down, frozen right between them, and the entire shot is clear. I couldn’t have done it better in Photoshop.

  “That one’s going in.”

  “Most definitely.” Ike nods.

  There are some good Lando ones. There’s one where he catches the heart cube almost perfectly between his hands, or at least it looks like that. Photos are illusions, after all.

  “Does Paul know you’re representing him with a Star Wars smuggler?”

  “Remind me to tell him.”

  “He’ll be honored.” Ike yawns again. “For all my talk of sleep deprivation, I need to get some. See you in the morning, Voyageur.”

  Hearing that name sets off a warm glow somewhere close to where my heart used to be, and the glow travels up my spine to my brain. It’s the first time anybody not biologically tied to me has called me Voyageur. And it’s nice.

  Our tiny family is complete.

  “Thanks again. Some of these are really brilliant.”

  “My pleasure.” He heads up the stairs.

  I scoop the rest of the apple into the trash, after I eat a little more of it. It’s 2:30 now. I’m sure my dad will be up by six.

  I make sure everything’s put away, then head for my room. My teeth will survive one night. I have to get up at nine to be at Trash Box by ten. I’ll brush them in six hours anyway.

  Having a big brother is a good thing.

  Even if I got him in a really crappy way.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #12

  Peer pressure is both useful and bullshit. Make sure you know which it is.

  JUNE 14

  The marathon is in four days, and Dad and Ike are moving as fast as they can to keep up with the details. I was right to wonder about the stairs in Grandma’s Restaurant—turns out he gave up on them the day we ate Subway outside. After he and Ike came back from their constitutional, he tried them again and couldn’t do it. The marathon committee has been kind enough to come to our house every day. They’ve known him for years, so they were cool with moving. Dad was embarrassed, and he cried, but they insisted.

  It’s the worst. When stuff just . . . slips away.

  It’s my job to serve drinks, so I get the beers that three of them want, and the glasses of water that three of them want, and the coffee another wants. Lucky for me Ike can go to the liquor store.

  The windows are open, and the lake is humming its evening song. Not too many tourists come this far out on Park Point, so the traffic is light. It’s very pleasant in our living room. And Dad’s excited and happy, too, which is a welcome change. Lots of tears and anger these days. Even Ike can’t always take it. I caught him on the back porch yesterday, breathing very deliberately and slowly. When I asked him what was up, he said he was taking a break. Too much emotional energy.

  They feel like arrows, Dad’s angry words. And his tears can burn.

  “So, folks, have we got all the things we need? We’re down to hours now.” Kerri looks around our living room at Rachael, David, Kevin, Chris, Ken, and Layla. They nod. “Then we have a request, Steve.”

  “What’s that?” His voice is weaker than it was even last week.

  “Will you please say a few words at the beginning of the race? Kick us off?”

  He’s surprised. “Nobody wants to hear from me.”

  “You’ve run this race for how many years, and been involved with this committee for how many years?” Kerri spreads her arms wide.

  “Too many to count, and thirteen.”

  I see Ike move the Kleenex box toward Dad, because a statement like that could bring on a gale of tears, but nothing happens. Ike is leaning on the doorway to the kitchen, outside their circle of chairs. I see him relax a little.

  “So I think it’s your time.” She reaches for his hand, avoiding any other statement.

  Dad looks around the room. “A cripple with a weak voice, a walker, and a sidekick like Ike should start the race?”

  Solemn nods. Ken speaks up. “Nobody else I’d rather see do it. No offense, dear spouse.” He’s married to Kerri.

  Ike adds in. “It’s an honor to be your sidekick. Please do it.”

  “Yes.” Layla and Chris say it at the same time.

  “Nobody better.” From Rachael.

  My dad hangs his head. “This is . . . well, this is a real honor. Thank you all.” And the tears start coursing down his face. Nobody bats an eye. Ike hands him Kleenex, and I come over, so he can hold my hand. David and a couple other folks grab a Kleenex, too.

  “All right then.” Kerri stands after everybody’s blown their noses and gotten themselves settled down. “I officially declare the planning over. Everyone ready for another zany weekend of racing?” She puts her hand out, and everyone stands up to join her with a hand in the center of the circle. Ike helps Dad up from the couch, and they put their hands in, too.

  “Teeeeaaaaaaam RUN!” Everyone shouts it at once, then flings their hand out of the circle. My dad’s hand goes the slowest of all, but he’s probably smiling bigger than any of them.

  Once they’re gone, Dad turns to me and Ike. “What am I going to say?”

  “Whatever you think would be inspiring.” Ike pats him on the shoulder. He can see that Dad is already slumping. “Just welcome the out-of-towners to the North Shore, tell them how much they’re going to love the course, and tell them how much you love the race. Keep it simple.”

  “Yes. Simple.” His voice is already fading.

  “Maybe you should write it down, too. So you won’t forget. You might get nervous.” I give him a kiss on the cheek. “Be sure to brush your teeth, Dad.”

  “Hey, that’s my line.” He’s almost asleep, but he smiles.

  Ike takes his arm and helps him up the stairs. “Gotta keep that killer smile.” Dad is so thin; 180 is now 140. Ike’s almost dragging him
. Dad’s strength is gone for the day.

  “Like I’ll be alive long enough for it to go anywhere.” Dad gives a weak chuckle.

  Not funny.

  The Box of Death is still there, in the Everything Room.

  I want to throw it away.

  He’d know if it was gone. He’d make me dig it out of the trash. He’d order more.

  I check my email to see if a camera part’s been shipped, and there’s an email from Mama Duck’s team: We’re talking it over, to see if we can fulfill your dad’s wish. His circumstances are rather extraordinary.

  The drawing and the haiku are very clever. We appreciate fan art.

  Well.

  I write back: The man was a paramedic until March. He’s done so much for this town. His uncle is Paul Oliver, the history guy who gives talks at the Tall Ships Festival. Could you please make an exception for him? He’s DYING. Do you not get that? He is RUNNING OUT OF TIME. Mama Duck is the one thing he wants at his birthday party. Can’t you help us?

  Maybe there are uses for pity after all.

  I sit down on the couch to watch some Netflix, something I never do, and Gracie texts: Want to go to Fizzy Waters?

  Total tourist trap. It’s a store with vintage candy and any kind of soda you could want, ranging between candy from when my dad was a kid to a soda with Osama Bin Laden on the label. Who knew?

  I text back: Sure. It’s only 8:15.

  “Ike! Going out with Gracie for a little bit.” I holler it up the stairs, but not too loudly, just so he knows.

  As I walk through the yard to wait for Gracie on the sidewalk, I notice how much it needs to be mowed. Our yard is sloped and hard to deal with, because there’s beach grass and regular grass. It ends up patchy and odd every summer. Now that Ike lives here, he mows. And I’m glad.

  Gracie pulls up and I get in. She starts talking right away, like it’s not awkward that we haven’t seen each other in a month. “We’re seniors now. Seniors! Can you believe that? I thought this day would never come!” She’s bubbly and happy as ever. “You should text me more. We need to hang out—and act like seniors!”