Wreck: A Novel

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  “I take care of my dad and work and take photos. That’s all I have time for right now.” I watch the houses going by, so I don’t have to look at Gracie.

  She notices. “Look at me, would you?”

  I turn. She’s got a kind smile on her face.

  “I know shit is tough right now. Can I come over and read to your dad again? Help him pass the time?”

  “That would be great.” I don’t know what else to say, so I look back out the window. “Are you working?”

  “Yeah. At Fizzy Waters, actually. I’m going to grab my paycheck and this grape soda that I really love. It’s from England.”

  “Eeew.”

  “I know it’s not your thing.” She laughs. “But there’s some really good peach stuff I thought you might like. And you need to get out.”

  “True.”

  There are a ton of people we know at Fizzy Waters, which is weird, since town kids don’t usually go where tourists go. We’re there until it closes at ten. It’s good to be a high school senior for ninety minutes.

  Gracie drives us home while we sip on a 1919 Root Beer. I’ve got a bag of ten different sodas on the floor between my feet—Gracie insisted on using her discount to buy me whatever I wanted: strawberry, peach, five different kinds of root beer, two different ginger ales, and one I don’t remember.

  “You’d better not let Ike drink all that stuff.” She gives me the eye. “Or maybe you should, since he’s so cute.”

  “He’s basically a big brother, and I’m sure I’ll share.”

  She stops at a stoplight. “If I had a cute guy living in my house that I wasn’t related to, I’d be making moves all the time.”

  “Because I have lots of time for romance.” I sigh. “Brother, remember?”

  “Your dad goes to sleep at some point, doesn’t he? You could be quiet.”

  That comment is at least three steps over the line. “You just don’t get it, do you, Gracie?”

  “Get what?” She’s genuinely surprised.

  “Ike is there to help my dad eat, poop, and get up and down the stairs.”

  “Tobin, you can’t think . . .”

  “I’m out.” We’ve started moving again, and we’re almost to the lift bridge, almost out on Park Point. “Stop the car, please.”

  “Tobin! I didn’t mean anything! He’s just so sexy.” She’s got that grin on her face that says I’m so cute, you can’t be mad, but yeah, I can be mad.

  “Stop the car or I’ll jump out.”

  She pulls over to the curb and I lurch out.

  “I’m sorry!” She yells from behind me. “And you forgot your soda!”

  “Keep it.” I shout it at her, but I don’t look back. I just walk.

  She passes me thirty seconds later, going toward my house, since she can’t turn around yet, and I see her flash me the peace sign out the window.

  “Not interested in your crap right now!” I yell it as she goes by. I have no idea if she heard me.

  I have no goddamn time for cluelessness right now.

  I don’t look at her when she’s driving back toward Canal Park. Back toward her house, and being a teenager.

  When I come in, looking like a thunderstorm, Ike raises his eyebrows at me.

  “Thought you went out to have a good time, not a bad one.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” And I stalk through the house, out the back door, and onto the dunes.

  If you drive up the west side of it, the lake is loud all day and night, crashing on the rocks. But here on the south, if there’s no wind, the lake almost purrs.

  I let its hum wash over me. I concentrate on freezing out the anger. But I can’t do it tonight. Everything hurts.

  Please.

  Somebody.

  Take this away.

  There are no feelings that will help me right now.

  None.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #13

  Bad things will happen to you. That’s life. The amount of optimism you have determines how bad you feel when they do.

  JUNE 18

  Anybody who’s normal should be asleep right now. It’s 7:02 on a Saturday morning. But normal people don’t run marathons.

  The lake’s already showing off her beauty with shimmers and a clear blue sky to reflect in her ripples. Mornings are so fresh and clean, especially sunny ones. They make me never want to leave.

  I’m sitting between Allison and Paul in the back seat. Dad’s being anxious in the front seat.

  “I’m going to forget. I know it.” He’s breathing kind of hard and shuffling his speech from hand to hand.

  “No, you won’t.” I see Ike reach over to him to pat his shoulder. “I trust.”

  Dad looks out the window. “All the times I ran this damn thing. No better marathon in the country. Just gorgeous.”

  We’re on the fast highway, not the highway where they’ll run, so we can’t see the lake right now, but I know she’s moving into her sparkly mode as the sun gets higher, like someone’s scattered a million diamonds on her surface. The runners will have a beautiful morning. Even though I hate running, I would do a couple miles just to take it all in. When Lady Superior shows off, she does a good job.

  When we pull up to Sonju Motors in Two Harbors, where the race starts, runners are already gathered, like a million of them, and it’s only 7:15. Dad and Ike were here at 5:30 this morning, making sure all the signage was clear, and making sure no assholes had stolen them. They only came back to get Allison, Paul, and me. Driving on race day is a pain in the ass, but they have a GRANDMA’S MARATHON STAFF sign on their dashboard that gets cops to let them through the traffic jams.

  “Tobin, will you help your dad get settled while I park the car?” Ike turns around to look at me. “Maybe you and Allison want to wrangle. Paul and I will join you in a second. It’s a good time to breathe deeply.” He shoots me a grimace, and I get it. Dad’s been intense this morning.

  “I’m on it.” I hop out the door, then get my dad out of the front seat as carefully as I can. We have his cane, because he wants to walk up the stairs and stand on top of the announcement stand thingy, which is tiny. Ike wanted to bring his wheelchair, but Dad was adamant the cane would be fine. His direct quotation was, “I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit down in front of people I’ve run with.”

  Dad’s testy when I help him get out. “I don’t need to be wrangled.”

  I try and smile. “You just need a handler, then?”

  He jabs his cane at me with a crabby look. I dodge it, since he’s pretty slow, and since he needs it to balance, while I breathe in, as deep as I can. Then I exhale with a whoosh. The sound is lost in the crowd noise.

  Allison clears the way in front of us as I escort Dad to the base of the announcer’s stand. He’s talking to people close by and waving at other people he knows. Some of the marathon committee is here, too,

  I just stand there, watching my social butterfly dad, when someone touches my elbow. When I turn, it’s Rich.

  “How’s Medic 3464 today? We’re on duty.” He cocks his thumb back at the rig he and my dad used to drive.

  Dad turns and smiles when he hears Rich’s voice. “Glad you’re here.”

  “You’ll be brilliant, I know.” Rich hugs him.

  Rich’s new partner, Lexi, raises a hand to us. She’s maybe Ike’s age, maybe a little younger, blond and pretty but strong-looking, like she could lift Paul Bunyan if he needed help. She came over with Rich one afternoon, and I think she passed Dad’s inspection, even though he told her she was too young for the job. She punched him in the arm when he said it. Rich told her to.

  Allison takes Dad from me, and after Dad says goodbye to Rich, they ricket over to a group of Duluth runners.

  Rich watches them go. “Wow. He’s . . . diminished. I didn’t know it would be so soon.” Then he kind of shakes himself. “I mean, he looks good. He’s holding his own.” Rich slaps me on the shoulder, like he was just kidding about what he said before. “Where’s Ike
? You all doing well in the same house?”

  “He’s the big brother I never had.”

  Rich grins. “He always wanted a baby sister to spoil, since his big ones pick on him.”

  Just then Ike and Paul arrive, and Ike gives his dad a hug before we go toward the announcer’s stand.

  Paul takes my dad’s hand. “Ready? The race starts in five minutes.”

  Dad pauses and closes his eyes. “Let me review my speech one more time.” He keeps his eyes closed for about a minute, then opens them. “Ready. Ike?”

  Ike comes around to my dad’s left, and then steers Dad by his elbow over to the three steps that will take him to the top of the announcers’ podium. He follows behind Dad as he starts up.

  It’s agony watching him climb. Last year, I’m sure he was bouncing at the starting line. He was always a bunny at the beginning of a race—hopping and moving and trying to get the nerves out, remembering to pace himself. Pure energetic joy.

  The crowd hushes, because folks in the front have watched him climb, and they know something’s going on. The stillness ripples back into the runners a block away and more, and soon the whole pack is still. As still as a pack of 9,500 runners gets.

  Ike takes hold of the mic, makes sure it’s on, and hands it to my dad, who’s leaning on his cane, trying to catch his breath. My dad closes his eyes, steeling himself, and opens his mouth.

  “Welcome to the North Shore.” His tone is suddenly angry, and his face matches his voice. “My name is Steve Oliver, and I have ALS, or I’d be running right alongside you. Do you realize how lucky you are to have legs that work? So fucking lucky you’ll never know.”

  This isn’t his speech. He’s almost shouting now, as much as his voice will let him.

  “I’m on the race organizing committee, and we’ve done all we can to make sure you have a great experience before, during, and after your marathon.” He’s so mad he’s spitting. “Grandma’s Marathon is the most beautiful race in the country, and we’ve got a gorgeous morning to show that beauty off. This race will kick you in the ass, but I want you to enjoy every single fucking step of it, because I can’t. And you fucking suck because you can. See you in Duluth!”

  I’m going to throw up.

  A beat of the most complete silence I’ve ever heard.

  “Oh my god.” Allison’s voice is barely audible. “Does he do that a lot?”

  One yell, maybe a hundred yards back: “Hey! The only person who gets to tell me I suck is my boss!”

  Another beat.

  And the air horn sounds.

  The mass of humanity that is Grandma’s Marathon bolts down the road, and my dad waves his cane at them, barking commands and scowling with the mic in his hand: “Run, fuckers! Like your life depended on it!”

  He gets a lot of glares.

  I look at Rich. His hands cover his face. Lexi watches Rich, Dad, and me, wondering what’s next.

  Ike takes the mic from my dad and shuts it off. “Let’s get you down. It’s going to be a lot harder than up.” He and Dad move toward the stairs from the front of the platform, but before they get very far, a woman is at the bottom, shaking her fist up at Dad. I’ve never seen anyone do that in real life.

  “How dare you say those kinds of things? How dare you say the word—” She covers her mouth and whispers. “—F-U-C-K to a group of strangers in our city? Free speech only goes so far, you know. You’ve ruined their morning!”

  My dad is surly. “Ma’am, you have no idea what it’s like to be in this body. It fucking sucks. But I wanted to welcome them.”

  I hear her draw in her breath. “If that’s your idea of welcoming friends, I’d hate to hear you talk to your enemies!” And she stomps away.

  Dad stares at her as she goes. “Whatever, bitch.” His face is a picture of frustration.

  Ike tightens his grip on Dad’s arm. “Let’s focus on getting you down.”

  Dad lurches down the first stair and makes it maybe an inch before he’s tumbling in a tangled heap of legs, arms, cane, and metal edges.

  Rich is right there, picking him up and soothing him, crooning to him like he’s a hurt child, because once he hits the bottom, Dad starts yelling and crying.

  Ike is on Dad’s heels, clattering down the stairs. “Steve!”

  Rich carries him over to Dad’s old rig and checks him out for injuries while he and Lexi patch up his scrapes. Ike and Rich talk over Dad’s head in Spanish, almost identical worried looks on their faces. Dad’s sobbing like he’s five and someone’s run over his dog. “Get your stupid fucking hands off me! I hate this body!” Over and over and over.

  Allison and Paul are on either side of the stretcher. Allison’s holding Dad’s hand, and Paul’s patting his shoulder. I’m standing down by his feet, holding them and watching the very last runners move off the starting line.

  Kerri approaches Dad, and he bursts into more wails. She’s as understanding as she can be, given that a man just dropped the f-bomb more than once in front of almost ten thousand people who were not expecting to be cursed at. She gives him a hug and reassures him.

  Then she comes to me and hugs me. “Does this happen often?”

  “It’s unpredictable, but it’s never been like this. I’m so sorry.”

  She sighs. “We’ll get nasty letters, I’m sure. I’ll just send a mailing to the runners about what can happen to your brain if you have ALS. It’s not like your dad meant to do it.”

  We both look at him. He is the picture of misery on his stretcher. I’ve never seen anyone so sad. The things he used to be able to count on—his legs, his brain—are abandoning him.

  “Tell him we love him. Don’t ever let him say we don’t.” She gives me one more hug, hurries over to give him one, too, and then she’s gone. She’s got a race to keep on track, no pun intended.

  Paul brings the car to where we are, and we load Dad into the front seat. Rich gives my dad one more hug through the window. Dad is still weeping and raging, though it tapers to silence as we leave Two Harbors.

  Nobody says a word on our way home.

  We drop Allison and Paul off at Trash Box—they’re going to watch at the finish line in a while—and Ike and I take Dad home. When the car stops, Dad gets out, under his own power, bandages on his face and arms, and walks into the house by himself, stabbing his cane onto the ground each time he picks it up. It takes him about a year. He rickets through the house to the stairs—I’m sure he’d give a million dollars to be able to stomp up them—and goes up to his room. The door slams with as much force as Dad can muster, which isn’t a lot, but enough to make his point.

  The next day is Father’s Day. He won’t come out of his room. Ike goes in to check on him, and to make him use the bathroom, but that’s it. He won’t eat. He won’t talk to me.

  I sit in front of his closed door and tell him bad dad jokes.

  After Ike and I have a silent supper, one Dad refuses to eat, I clean up the dishes and go into the Everything Room. The Box of Death is still there, next to the 20 Mule Team Borax.

  I take it down.

  I put it back up and stare at it.

  Then I take it down again and put it on a low shelf by the back door. At my dad’s elbow level.

  Not like he doesn’t know where it is.

  I guess I need to let him know I know where it is, too.

  Either way, it might be his last Father’s Day.

  I knock when I go by his door, on my way to bed. “Love you, Dad. You’re my favorite person on the planet.”

  Very faintly. he replies. “Love you, Tobin.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  No answer.

  Gracie texts: Can we talk? Please?

  I don’t answer. I have no words. For anything.

  Sid texts: How are you? Doing OK?

  No. Dad skipped Father’s Day. Blew up Grandma’s Marathon. Long story.

  Oh shit. Big eyes emoji. That sucks. I’m sorry.

  Yeah. Me too.

&n
bsp; I guess I have words for Sid.

  Three sad face emojis. One with a tear. Talk to you soon. Take care.

  You too. And I put my phone, face down, under my bed.

  I don’t sleep for a long, long time.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #14

  God is much too big to fit inside anyone’s box called “religion.”

  JUNE 25

  My dad didn’t come out until late Monday afternoon. He ate supper with us, let Ike check all his owies, and went back up to his room. He didn’t say a word the entire time.

  Tuesday morning, it was back to business as usual. He was cracking bad dad jokes, some of the ones I repeated to him on Father’s Day. Ike took him to the doctor, I went to Trash Box, and life started again.

  When he came home from the doctor, he told me his functionality number is a 19. I see it everywhere: painted on the kitchen wall, on his bulletin board of race mementos, draped on the stairs, a neon red 19, framed by the word FAILINGFAILINGFAILINGFAILING, written in stark red letters.

  Today I notice the box is gone from the Everything Room.

  I don’t mention it to anyone.

  Nobody mentions it to me.

  I check on my heart, at the bottom of Superior.

  Still there. It’s tiny, though.

  Black, cold, and still.

  Now it’s Saturday, and Trash Box is swimming with people. Why the hell would you want to be inside, fighting over knickknacks and doodads, when you could be outside? It’s gorgeous out there. Go eat chocolate and caramel apples, people. Walk out to the lighthouse. Fight with the seagulls. Do something, anything, everything. Be alive. And get out of this freaking shop.

  Dad and Ike are on the sidewalk, with Mama Duck’s Record Store, and they’re both busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest, as Paul says sometimes. But Dad is just exhausted. He moves slower and slower as the morning goes along. I watch through the window even though I shouldn’t, because I want to cry when I look at his tired face. Ike picks up the slack every time, smiling at Dad like he’s Ike’s own father.

  Allison stays sweet to customers no matter what. She greets everyone with an angelic smile as she talks about Duluth history and what she knows about various pieces. I sit behind the register trying not to frown. She’s gotten another bad review on Yelp about me. It said, “The counter girl was quite surly, and I didn’t appreciate her attitude.” Yeah, well, I don’t appreciate the attitude of people who don’t understand teenagers who are occasionally surly, especially when their father is fading away in front of their eyes.