Wreck: A Novel

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  A woman, followed by five guys, walks up the beach and sticks out her hand to me. “I hope you’re Tobin. We’re Mama Duck’s minions. Chip said you’d have food?”

  “Right inside. Help yourselves.”

  Mama Duck’s minions stop just inside the door. Then I hear the woman say, “You might want to see who’s come to visit you.”

  My dad wheels through the door as soon as Mama Duck’s crew is out of it, pushed by Rich. Then his mouth falls open. It’s even better than the mariachi band.

  Then he starts to sob.

  Rich picks him up and cradles him like he would a toddler, then carries my dad toward the beach and Mama Duck. I follow behind with my dad’s chair—neither of them see me standing there. They’re about fifty feet ahead of me, and my dad is wailing like a fire siren. As they get closer to Mama Duck, though, he quiets down. He just stares. I get his chair on the dock, next to where Rich is standing with him. Rich looks surprised to see it appear, but he deposits Dad into it with slow, careful hands.

  The talkative man comes over and extends his hand to Dad. “Happy Birthday, Steve. I hear you’re going to be the big five-oh.”

  Dad shakes his hand in amazement. “Tomorrow. Is she here for my . . . birthday, or were you just . . . cruising . . . along the shore?” His breath is so short.

  Chip smiles. “She’s here for you.”

  “How did you know?”

  He glances over Dad’s head to me and raises his eyebrows. I nod. He smiles again at Dad. “I’m sure you’ll find out at some point.”

  Dad looks Mama Duck up and down, passing right by what Chip said. Rich elbows Dad. “Does she remind you of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man in Ghostbusters? The first movie from the eighties? Every time I see her lit up like that, I think she’s going to start smashing the city.”

  Chip throws back his head and laughs the heartiest laugh ever. “I promise you she’s not into destroying things. She just likes to cruise around and be happy.”

  “You have the greatest job ever, don’t you?” Rich looks at the duck and then at Chip.

  Chip nods. “All the sadness and crap in the world, and I get to bring the joy. Luckiest guy ever.” He walks toward me. “You must be Tobin?” He sticks out his hand again, and I shake it.

  “Please have some food and some cake. You crew’s in there already.” I gesture back toward the Beach House. “Thank you so, so, so much for coming.”

  “Thanks for your hospitality. And congratulations on your tenacity. It will serve you well.” He raises his eyebrows at me, grins, and walks past me.

  Yeah, well. Don’t patronize me, dude. I did what I had to do.

  I turn around to check on Dad, who’s gazing at Mama Duck like she’s going to disappear if he takes his eyes off her. The crowd drifts around, talking to the crew, who’s come back down with their plates of food. Mama Duck just glows her happiness over everyone. Dad stays on the dock with Rich. I get my camera and my action figures, then position them on a piece of driftwood so you can see their silhouettes against Mama Duck. She looks like she’s been engraved with four shapes that might vaguely be people. She doesn’t mind, though, because she’s the biggest duck in the neighborhood. She can take it.

  After a few more shots, I walk back to the dock and around my dad’s chair to see his face. “What do you think, Dad? Happy birthday!”

  He cranes his neck around me, so he can keep looking at Mama Duck. “She’s amazing. Did you know she has a . . . pontoon underneath her?”

  “I did know that.”

  Chip comes back, and he and Rich and Dad start talking mechanical stuff, what it takes to make her, or power her, or steer her, or light her up. I get a few pictures of the three of them, deep in the technical details and backlit by Mama Duck. They talk until it’s completely dark. Peaceful, kind Mama Duck is the only light on the beach, watching over the partygoers with a calm smile.

  Some things are still the same. This goodness that floats around my dad and me: it’s always here, even when I don’t remember it. Even when I’m an awful bitch. This feeling that surrounds us is the same as it was when he was healthy and strong.

  We are safe, and cared for, and loved.

  We get home around 12:30. Dad’s still wired, talking about all the people he saw, how awesome it was to have Mama Duck there, how cool the mariachi band was, how delicious the cake was, when he could get it into his mouth, and every other little thing. Even though he can barely breathe, he never shuts up.

  Ike and I are completely exhausted.

  While Ike’s getting Dad ready for bed, I click through my photos. It’s a mixed bag of art, dumbness, and hilarity, as usual. One of them is my dad, with everything else blurred out, and he’s laughing and looking like a man I used to know six months ago. It captures the fact that he’s still in there, even if his body is barely present.

  I didn’t take that shot.

  The next one is a pattern—bright daisies. Only one person wore that fabric.

  I text Gracie: The photo you took of Dad is brilliant. Thank you.

  #sosorry #loveyou #letsgetteasoon

  You’re on.

  This feels so much better.

  Ike comes downstairs and flops on the couch, opposite from where I’m sitting.

  “He in bed?”

  “Yes. Still babbling about the party.”

  “Fantastic.” I lean back and close my eyes. “It was a good night.”

  “The bucket of donations had eight thousand dollars in it.”

  I sit straight up. “How do you know that?”

  “Paul told me. He’s going to put it in your trust account.”

  I close my eyes and sink back again. “We’re going to need that money for other stuff. We don’t know how long he’s going to live.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  My eyes fly open. “We do?” The words cut my mouth like they’re broken glass.

  Ike nods, slow and solemn. “He’s hit his pinnacle, he says. The party was the ultimate. He’s had a good life, so it’s time for a good death.”

  “Did . . .” My chest is so tight it’s going to implode.

  Ike nods again. “August 22.”

  “That’s a week.” The blood in my body turns to ice.

  “Yep.” The tears are rolling down Ike’s face. “Six days.”

  I stand up, without a word, and go to bed.

  Where I don’t sleep. I stare at my ceiling.

  I hear Ike go to his room and shut the door. The gentle hum of his voice slides out from under his door. He’s praying.

  I hear my dad snoring. I lock that sound in my brain.

  The only breaths I can take are shallow and tiny. My chest hurts too much.

  What was I thinking?

  My heart barged back into me, telling me how to feel, and I can’t do it.

  Not now. Not ever.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #21

  You get everything you want in life if you lower your expectations.

  AUGUST 18

  I go to Trash Box at 10 a.m., and I last for three hours. Then I take Allison into the back room and tell her I’m sick, which is the closest word that makes sense.

  She studies me, but then her face breaks, and she hugs me, sobbing.

  I hug her back, which is the polite thing to do.

  She finally raises her face from my shoulder, sniffling. “I’m so sorry, Tobin.”

  “Okay.”

  “Paul told me.” She pats in her pockets for a Kleenex. “About what’s going to happen on the twenty-second.”

  “Was he supposed to do that?” Paul is the one person who’s never done anything to hurt me, and now I’m pissed.

  Her face is shocked. “Your father is my brother. Of course he’s going to tell me when Steve’s going to die!”

  I just glare.

  “First of all, I am completely against you being there with him. You can’t make a rational decision to help him. You’re too young.”

  She is so full of
shit.

  “And I don’t believe in it.” She sniffs, like she’s disapproving and also trying to get rid of some snot from her crying fit. “I’m not going to be a part of it when it happens.”

  How can she make this about her?

  “Tobin?” She’s waiting for me to say something, given the expectation I see on her face.

  I take a moment to decide. Honesty or tact?

  I opt for walking away without a word.

  When I get home, there’s a man in the living room I don’t know. He and Dad are working on something. They both look up at me when I come in, but neither says hello. Dad doesn’t seem to be doing much talking, just signing. His signature looks like a chicken wrote it.

  I go into the kitchen, and Ike’s doing up the lunch dishes. The box with mountains on it is back in the middle of the table.

  “Where did that come from?”

  Ike turns around to see where I’m looking. “Paul brought it over.”

  I walk straight out the back door.

  Paul brought it for Kleenex Day.

  I can’t call it what it is.

  A speedboat goes by, on its way to Duluth. Another goes by, on its way to Wisconsin. A seagull swoops around and lands on the beach. It caws and makes noise and drops a feather from its wing. Then it looks right at me and takes off.

  Whatever, bird. I’m losing my mind here.

  I almost can’t find my heart in the silt on the bottom of the lake. And it’s blacker, if that’s possible. It’s the size of a button.

  “Can I sit with you?” It’s Ike.

  “It’s a free back porch.”

  He sits on the other chair and hands me a glass of water. “Drink this. It will help.”

  “How?” But I drink it. Suddenly I’m incredibly thirsty and need to drink seventeen more.

  “How many meals have you eaten since the party?”

  I count in my head, and the number isn’t good, so I add a couple. There have been eight meals since the party. “Four.”

  “That’s why you need a glass of water. And a burger, maybe.”

  “Gross.”

  “I’m going to do some cooking in these next couple days and freeze it all. For fall, when you won’t have time. Senior year will be busy.”

  “Senior year?” Then I clap my hand over my mouth.

  I forgot.

  Ike looks out at the lake. “When I came home from Afghanistan, I threw my heart out there. Metaphorically, of course.” He chuckles. “It’s the most reliable freezer I know.”

  He is not saying this. “Bullshit.”

  He nods. “Why not? Cold and quiet down there. Exactly where my heart wanted to be.” He looks at me. “Why is your mouth hanging open?”

  “How is it that two people who didn’t know each other could come up with the same idea?”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “I threw mine in the night Dad told me his diagnosis. Then it came back into my body at the party. When you told me what he said, about how soon Kleenex Day is, I threw it back.”

  He chuckles again. “Kleenex Day. Good name.”

  “How could it be that we both had the same weird idea?”

  “Call it kismet. A mind meld. What you do when you live by an enormous, cold body of water. Whatever it is, you can’t do it anymore.”

  “Fuck that.” I look him dead in the eye.

  “So you’ll end up in the hospital.” He gives me the same dead-eye stare. “Talking to a million professionals, doing a million things you could have avoided if you’d just decided to feel in the first place.” Ike is stern.

  “How do you know?”

  “About six months after I came back, I wanted to kill myself.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe . . .”

  “Shut up, Tobin. I’m talking here.” His mouth twists into a wry smile. “The feelings were there. Survivor guilt is powerful. I was in the hospital for a week, then I saw a therapist for about two years, and then I got my shit together and went back to school, but it wasn’t the right program, and now I’m here, doing this for you and your dad. In the spring, I’ll go back to school to be a paramedic like my dad. So don’t doubt me. I know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

  He doesn’t drop the f-bomb around me.

  “Why do you think that would happen to me?”

  “It might not. But I do know burying your emotions inside is a recipe for disaster, and it always causes self-destruction if we don’t let it out the right way.”

  “Which is?”

  “Through your eyes and your mouth. In big sobs and wails, the same way your dad does. With people who care.”

  “Speaking of him, is that lawyer dude still here?”

  “No. Your dad’s asleep on the couch. And you’re not getting out of this conversation. Grieving people have to express that sadness. Or you’ll get cancer, or crash your car, or drink yourself to death. Something.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “My grandpa died of cirrhosis. Rich’s dad. Dude was a straight-up mess. Vietnam veteran who was abused by his mom. Rich made me go to therapy for two years because he didn’t want me to end up like Grandpa Marcelo. So take a lesson from three generations of Navarros. You gotta let it out.”

  In my mind, I see myself shatter. Nothing left but Tobin atoms, floating into the sky and over the lake. “What if I . . . can’t put myself together again? Once it comes out?”

  “Some days you’ll fall apart, but we’ll help put you back together. Some days the pain will be manageable. And those days teach you how to deal with the rest.” Ike pats my leg. “Come inside. Eat, drink, give your dad a kiss. We can play a game tonight. Something goofy. And it will be fun. Even a little bit normal.”

  “There is no normal thing about the world right now, especially the world in this house.”

  “I know.” He squeezes my knee. “But we can play Cards Against Humanity, and we can watch your dad laugh at the extra-gross ones. We can live the everyday moments until they run out.” One last squeeze, and he goes back inside.

  Watching my dad laugh is the best thing ever.

  And I’m hungry.

  I see a shadow come across the lake, from very far away. So small and dark. It pauses in front of me.

  It’s my heart.

  No substance. Just a smudge.

  Go ahead.

  I close my eyes as the shadow settles itself where my heart belongs. Suddenly my chest aches, and I can’t breathe.

  I cry for fifteen minutes before I can go inside and eat lunch.

  But I go in. I eat.

  I watch my dad sleep while I make a slideshow of photos from his party. I see a frame around him, one that says f a d i n g f a d i n g f a d i n g in a loopy gray script.

  When he wakes up, I kiss him on the cheek and show him what I made.

  We have steak for supper, though my dad’s has to be pulverized in the blender.

  We play Cards Against Humanity.

  My dad laughs.

  I smile and cry at the same time, watching him.

  Ike notices, but my dad doesn’t,

  and that’s perfect.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #22

  Work hard and be nice to people.

  AUGUST 22

  My dad’s sleeping upright in his wheelchair, on the dunes. Ike must have moved him down there at some point. The early-morning light is kissing his face through clouds scattered on the horizon. It’s maybe six o’clock, and the sun’s just up. I’ve been up since three. Given that I went to bed at midnight, it’s going to be a long day.

  I soak him in: a slumped shape in the chair, messy hair, face full of stubble, legs that are way too skinny, everything wrapped in a blanket. It’s an average, ordinary morning in Duluth, tourist capital of northern Minnesota, and thousands of people will be waking up to spend another day on vacation, if they’re not already up to watch the sunrise. Then they’ll come into Zenith City Treasure Box and walk along the lakeshore and find tiny
agates and smooth pebbles of shale. It will be a good day for them. And less than two miles away, Stephen Tobin Oliver’s heart will stop.

  I grab my camera off the back steps and take the only photos I’m taking in the next twenty-four hours: him, asleep in the sun as it rises over the water. First, I stay behind him and click off a couple shots, to see if I like the shadows, then I shift in front of him and try a couple different angles. The light is so delicate. New and precious. He almost looks healthy.

  In some other dimension, he’ll be able to run and work and goof off and all the things he hasn’t been able to do for six months.

  I cannot be happy about it. But I can be calm.

  I can try, anyway.

  My dad’s eyes flutter open. He smiles, very faintly. “Voyageur. You weren’t . . . supposed to find me here . . . what time is it?”

  I check my phone. “6:01.” His breathing makes talking so hard.

  “Ike should . . . be down . . . anytime.”

  “Why so early?”

  “Today we need . . . every single minute . . . both going to get . . . a workout . . . Are you . . . strong enough . . . to push me . . . closer . . . to the wet sand?”

  “I’m not a weakling. And you’re not that heavy.” We get rolling across the dune grass, though it’s tough. And I can’t push him far on the beach. But he’s closer to the water.

  I wish for a sweatshirt, standing next to him as he’s looking out over the water.

  “Are you shaking?” He studies me.

  “No.”

  He can clearly see I am. “Take it.” He fumbles his blanket toward me.

  “You need it.”

  “Not going to live . . . long enough . . . to get sick.” And he laughs a real, honest-to-goodness Steve Oliver laugh, very quiet and wheezy but unmistakably his. “Take it.”

  I grab the blanket and pull it over my head.

  “You’ll miss . . . pretty colors . . . if you stay like that.” His voice is so weak. So much weaker than even last week.

  “I’m cold.”

  “I know you’re . . . crying . . . Me too.” A fumbling, feeble clawing comes at the blanket, not moving it, but trying to. “Honesty’s . . . all we have.”