Wreck: A Novel

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  I take another drink. “All the people we loved, and all our animals. Any food we want to eat. It’s always the perfect temperature and sunny, but with good shade, if you want it. And you never have to pay for anything.”

  “You can kayak every day, or surf, and the waves are always perfect. And the water’s just the right temperature. And you never get sick or sore or fat.” Ike gets himself a Coke and drinks half of it, then pats his stomach, which is a bit less round now than when he started.

  “You need to keep that devil mazapan out of this house.” I point at him and then the cupboard where I know it is.

  “If you jog and push your dad on the days I don’t, you too can eat mazapan with no consequences.” He grins.

  “My definition of heaven is Dad being able to run again, and not being so whacked out. I want him to be himself.”

  Ike drains his can and puts it in the sink. “I will tell you this—it’s very clear when a soul leaves a body. Very clear.”

  I sit down at the kitchen table, because my legs are starting to shake. “Good to know, I guess.”

  Ike sits down across from me. “It’s just like people say it is—the body’s a husk. A shell. Not the person. A meat sack.”

  “Meat sack.” The words make me want to vomit.

  “Maybe souls just go into the Universe, and not to heaven, I don’t know. All I know is that they’re not in the body anymore.” Ike burps.

  “Very reverent.”

  “Death is a process, just like birth. If it’s not an accident or a trauma, that is.” He burps again, which kind of makes me want to punch him. “Totally natural. Sad and gut-wrenching, but natural. Like burping.” And he does it one more time.

  “You’re gross, first of all, and this is one million percent serious to me.”

  “Me too. And your dad. He’s been there for a few deaths.”

  “Can we just stop now? If I have to talk about this for two more seconds, I will lose it. No hell, delicious food, hopefully running and dogs. Good talk.”

  I go out on the deck and breathe. And breathe. Then Dad wakes up, and Ike comes to get me, and we all watch Adam-12, and Ike takes him upstairs to get ready for bed.

  I have no idea if there’s a God, or a Higher Power, or Anything anywhere to help us out. But if there is, I hope She oversees a heaven.

  Running on clouds. Running with our dog Ranger, the dog we had when I was in kindergarten. Crossing the finish line of Grandma’s in Canal Park. Running among the stars of the Big Dipper, over the lake. In his favorite shorts and shoes, waving at people he knows.

  Running.

  Laughing.

  Free and happy.

  Being himself.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #15

  Sometimes you gotta chuck it in the “fuck it” bucket and move on.

  JULY 4

  On Park Point, we watch the Duluth fireworks at the Beach House. Usually there’s at least a hundred of us. Some folks are spread across the dunes, and some are on the lake in boats—canoes or kayaks or sometimes speedboats. Everyone eats and talks and laughs until 10:30, when the fireworks start. Duluth puts on a good show, with big fireworks, not little puny ones. It’s one night we share with each other. There are community tables set up with hot dog fixings and plates. Another table has a bunch of salads and snacks. All sorts of people show up, and nobody fights. Everyone is happy to live in the United States, at least for one day.

  My dad and I have been going since before my mom left. Tonight is Ike’s first time, since he’s never lived on Park Point before. He’s always watched them from Duluth. We get there about 8:30, with our wheeled cooler. I stay with Dad in his chair up by the Beach House while Ike grills us some dogs and Dad chats with folks walking by.

  Sid’s mom and dad are there, but Sid’s visiting his older brother in Minneapolis, finding a new violin for his senior year. Who knew violins had to be test driven before you bought them? Gracie’s here with her family—they’ve come every year since they moved away from Park Point. She keeps her little brothers busy at the edge of the lake and doesn’t look at me, which is fine. I’m not ready to make up.

  We push Dad to the edge of the concrete patio, but he isn’t happy, because we didn’t bring his cane. We try to compensate by feeding him chips and s’mores, which take forever to get to his mouth. Ike makes him laugh by telling him paramedic jokes: What happened when Waldo had a heart attack? He died, of course—nobody could find him! People come by and tell him how glad they are to see him, and he’s completely polite. Charming, even. But he’s got an edge to him. Maybe only Ike and I can tell, but it’s there. In his words. In his eyes.

  Last year, he’d organized Frisbee tag between about twenty kids at the shoreline. He was laughing and catching Frisbees, and they were pulling him in all sorts of directions.

  I go inside to use the bathroom, and Gracie’s mom starts talking to me, which is awkward, but I escape, only to be trapped by Sid’s mom, who’s a little easier to talk to than Gracie’s mom, but she’s still a mom.

  Then I hear Ike: “TOBIN!”

  I bolt out of the Beach House at a run.

  “TOBIN, WHERE ARE YOU?” Ike is almost screaming.

  “Right here! Where are you?” I’m trying to keep my cool.

  The crowd is parting to let me through, and then I see Ike, crouched at the shore. I look behind me at the Beach House patio, and my dad’s wheelchair is there. Empty. I went right by it.

  The form is hollering. “Goddamn it, Ike, you don’t have to shout! Just fucking help me up!”

  “Get his chair!” Ike points. I grab it and run.

  By the time I get it down to the edge of the lake, which is almost impossible in the sand and the dark, Ike has my dad on his feet. He’s trying to shake off the water, like a dog.

  “What the hell were you thinking, Steve? You could have drowned. You almost did.” Ike is working hard not to blow his cool. I can see it. He carefully guides my dad out of the water, onto the damp sand. A woman brings over a blanket, and Ike wraps it around my dad, turning him into a shivering, angry burrito.

  “You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.” Dad’s breathing fire.

  “You were facedown in the water. Thank god you could pick your head up enough to keep breathing.” Ike is rubbing my dad’s shoulders, trying to help him stop shaking and trying to breathe deep at the same time. He rubs, breathes. Rubs. Breathes. Then starts talking again. “Thank god I saw you fall, even if I didn’t see you get out of your chair.”

  “Some fucking help you are, huh?” The poison Dad spits at Ike is unreal.

  Ike gets him into his chair and takes over pushing it as the crowd re-forms into little clusters, waiting for fireworks and pretending not to notice the family drama.

  “Learned my lesson about leaving you alone, huh?” Ike’s trying for lighthearted.

  “You should have let me drown, you asshole.”

  “Dad, knock it off.” I try so hard not to react, but this is too much. “Why did you even try it?”

  “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, young lady.”

  Ike tries a soothing tone. “Let’s save walking for the house, when you have your cane, and where the ground is level.”

  “I can walk to the goddamn lake! I am not an invalid!” Even though he can’t holler like a regular person anymore, he’s still loud enough that people turn around and stare at him.

  “We’ll talk about this later, okay?” Ike’s trying to smooth things over, but Dad’s not having it. He tries to stand up while Ike’s pushing.

  “Dad! No! Sit!” I grab his arm and pull him backward into the chair. The motion shakes the chair, which shakes Ike, which doesn’t help.

  “Goddamn it.” Dad is furious, a different kind of furious than I’ve ever seen.

  And then the fireworks start.

  “Down in front!” Dad hollers it, in his semi-loud way, and a woman with dark hair turns around and glares. We’ve finally made it back t
o the concrete patio behind the Beach House, so of course folks are standing in front of him.

  “Steve, maybe you could lower your voice.” Ike pats his arm.

  “I can’t see the fireworks around her, or that chick with the rag on her head!” Dad points at a woman in a hijab. Luckily, the fireworks are booming a bit, and folks are oohing and aahing, so the Muslim woman doesn’t hear him.

  “Steve, I know you’re upset, but please don’t take it out on other people.” Ike’s got a stern tone under his words, but it’s too late.

  “If people thought men should fuck other men, the Roman Empire would still be a thing!” Dad’s on a roll now.

  The dads with two kids are just to my right, and both guys look at him, mouths open in shock. Thank heavens their kids are paying attention to the pretty lights and colors. One dad flips him the bird, which I totally agree with.

  Dad yells at anyone and everyone, moving his chair back and forth. He doesn’t have enough strength to roll over people’s feet, but he’s annoying. People start to whisper. Every time Ike asks him to settle down, he shouts, “Don’t shush me, you asshole!”

  Ike points to the sky. “Check out the cool lights, why don’t you?” His teeth are almost gritted, he’s so frustrated.

  “The booms are kind of great, aren’t they? They rattle your ears.” It’s all I can think to contribute.

  “Stop being such a cunt, Tobin!”

  That’s it. We grab our cooler. It was a gorgeous night to walk down, so we did. Not such a great choice right now. There are intermittent street lights out here, so we move in and out of shadows as we walk home.

  My dad keeps hollering. “This is kidnapping! You’re kidnapping me!” Cars slow down to see what’s going on. Ike says, “Dementia,” because the truth is too complicated, and each driver nods and moves on.

  Under his breath, I hear Ike mutter, “Mother Mary and Baby Jesus, if ever there was a time I needed you, it’s right now. Please help us make it home. Thank you. Amen.”

  “Shut up, you fucking greaser! We don’t need your stupid fucking prayers!” Dad’s relentless, but Ike just pushes him along, and all I can do is follow. “I hate this body, and I hate you!”

  We walk through some pretty dark spots. Not exactly what we need right now.

  “I’m scared! Where are we?” Dad’s voice carries, even though it’s not that strong.

  “You’re okay, Steve.” Ike tries again.

  “Shut up, you wetback!”

  “Shut the fuck up!” I don’t even recognize the voice that said it.

  “Tobin.” Ike is quiet. “That doesn’t help.”

  “Just shut the fuck up for one minute!” Then my shame stops me in my tracks.

  Dad keeps yelling, Ike keeps pushing, but then a baritone singing voice slides out into the darkness. I don’t know the words, but the notes are soothing and calm.

  Duérmete mi niño

  Duérmete me amor

  Duérmete pedazo de mi corazon.

  The only words I know for sure are child, love, and heart, the words at the end of each line. The song is quiet, sure and steady. One more shout from Dad: “Where the fuck are we? I’m scared!” but then it’s over. He’s quiet. Maybe Ike’s prayer helped.

  Ike keeps singing as he pushes Dad up the ramp and into the house. Dad is wild-eyed, but we get him settled on the couch with a blanket. Ike keeps singing.

  “Could I . . .” His voice is hoarse. “Could I have a drink?”

  I pull the blanket over his feet. “Be right back.”

  Ike keeps singing.

  Thirty seconds after he drinks the water, Dad is sound asleep.

  Ike goes up to bed. I sit on the back deck and look at Duluth and think about all the life going on over there. How I should drown myself for being a shitty daughter who yells at her dad who has no control over his brain. Then I cuddle into the chair in the living room and cover up with another blanket. I don’t want him to be alone down here. It’s probably 12:30.

  I say my own prayer: Dear Universe, please help me tape my mouth shut if it gives me patience with him. Please give him peace. Thank you. No idea if Anyone hears. At this point, I don’t care. I just need help.

  Three a.m.

  “I hate this body!” Dad’s voice is hoarse and quiet, since he’s already used up a lot of his energy, but his brain’s on round two. “I can’t stand it!” Then there’s a thump, and I realize he’s fallen, trying to get out of the chair we put him in. The room is dark enough that it takes my eyes a minute to adjust.

  “Ike!” I scream it. I can’t get him off the floor by myself without breaking him, he’s so fragile.

  A sleepy voice answers me. “On my way.”

  “Are you all right? Are you hurt? Ike will be here in just a second, Dad, to help you up.” I kneel to check him as Ike makes his way to us in the living room.

  “I’m fine! Get your fucking hands off me!”

  We get him off the floor and up the stairs to bed. Ike sings the whole time. Once we get him laid down, he’s asleep in less than thirty seconds.

  Ike and I retreat to our separate rooms. Nobody shuts their door. Just in case.

  When I come downstairs around 11, Dad’s at the kitchen table, eating a piece of toast torn into tiny pieces and looking through the photos on my camera.

  “Did I say you could do that?” I don’t want him seeing my thoughts.

  “Tobin!” He’s startled. Then he smiles. “Just looking. That’s not permissible?”

  “They’re not for public consumption. Everything’s raw.” In more ways than one.

  “These are interesting.” He points to the back camera screen where there’s an image of him sleeping, with a couple of action figures. “Unusual series.”

  “A little bit, yes.” I take the camera and put it on the stairs.

  “If I’m in a photo, it’s my business, you know.” He’s not the screaming banshee he was last night, but he’s plenty edgy.

  “I get that, but these are for my entrance portfolio. I’m not going to do anything with them besides that.”

  His face changes. “I’m not sure you want to do that.” His voice is angry, but quiet.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll be fucked if you use them. They’re ugly, and they won’t get you into college anyway, so no. Permission denied.” He stands, with his walker, and starts to make his way toward the stairs.

  I swoop for my camera and head out the back door.

  “Come back here, bitch! We’re not done!”

  “Hey, Steve. What’s going on?” Ike’s voice comes through the open window. “How was the toast?”

  From the way Ike’s voice is fading out, I’m guessing he’s steering Dad toward the living room, maybe toward his computer and some more Adam-12 episodes.

  I’m guessing Ike talks to Mother Mary and the Baby Jesus way more than just last night, judging from his level of patience.

  Ike comes to find me on the back porch. I’m flipping through the photos on my camera, kicking myself for not downloading and then password protecting them.

  He touches my shoulder. “You hanging in there?”

  “Do I have another choice?” My voice cracks, but I get it together.

  Ice. I’m made of ice.

  “That yelling, name-calling guy is not your dad, and of course you know that, but it’s still all right to be hurt. It’s been a pretty gross eighteen hours.”

  “It’s not one bit helpful to be hurt.”

  “But it’s all part of the grief process. And ALS grief might be crueler than most. That and Alzheimer’s.” He looks as hurt as I feel. “Watching it happen is awful.”

  “Fuck this process.” I stand. “Fuck it twenty ways to Sunday.”

  Ike nods with a sad smile. “Anger is part of the process, too.”

  I slam into the house with my camera and vow to download the photos tonight.

  When I go back downstairs after I’ve stowed away my camera—those hot dogs were a
long time ago and I’m famished—my dad calls to me from the living room. “Tobin? Will you bring me an apple?”

  I consciously remove the bitterness from my voice. “Sure.”

  “Can you cut it up for me?” He sounds like regular Dad right now. Just a weakened, ill version of himself.

  “Really small chunks, right?” I try and think of what I’ve seen Ike do.

  “Yes please. And maybe bring some peanut butter?”

  “You got it.”

  I cut the apple into chunks—just like the ones in my photos—and grab some chunky peanut butter and slop it on the edge of the bowl. Then I deliver it, along with a fork.

  “Will you sit with me?” He pats the cushion next to him on the couch with a very clumsy hand. “Just in case I need you to retrieve apple pieces? And because you’re wonderful?” He can see on my face that something’s not right. “What? Did I yell?”

  “A little.”

  He sees the tears in my eyes before I slam them away. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. So sorry. I don’t know when it happens, and . . .”

  The tears I want to cry fall down his face, and I grab his hand, hoping to avoid a full-on catastrophe. But it never arrives. The water just keeps flowing.

  “Let’s watch Adam-12.” I grab the laptop from the coffee table with my free hand.

  “Hand me a Kleenex, please.” He pulls his hand out of mine, with the speed of a snail, and I hand him a tissue. “I finished that yesterday. I’m watching ER now. Just the right amount of guts and blood. Makes me feel like I’m working again.” A small smile. A honk on the Kleenex.

  “There are some cute guys on that show.” I point at a super-young George Clooney frozen on the screen.

  “I know!” Now Dad’s smile is more his normal smile. “They’re just babies. But I was, too, back then.”

  We laugh, and we watch. I help him get little nibbles of peanut butter on his apple before he stabs it. I ask Mother Mary and Baby Jesus if they’ll please keep the peanut butter from sticking in his throat. Ike doesn’t usually let him eat it, but I forgot that when he asked.

  Ike comes and looks at us from the doorway. Then I hear him make a sandwich.