I pull it off my head with the full intention to put it back over my face again, but his face stops me cold. He’s so sad it takes my breath away.
“We can’t both lose our shit at the same time.” I reach and wipe the tears off his face, and he does the same to me, but it’s more like a gentle punch, and I laugh, and he laughs, and then we can look at the sunrise.
“STEVE?!” The yell comes from behind us.
“Out here, Ike.” I yell back over my shoulder.
My dad breaks out in song, quiet and wheezy, saying every third word or so. It takes me a while to realize he’s singing “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” Of course.
I start singing it with him, and it’s amazing how many words I know.
Ike comes over the dune, and he sings right along with us once he hears us. “The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomeeeee.”
We finish the song together—Ike’s strong baritone, my passable alto, and Dad’s wheeze. It takes a bit, because it’s a long song.
When we’re done, Ike pats Dad on the shoulder. “Seriously, Steve, stop it right now. Today’s not a day to be cold.” Somehow that song makes you feel cold, even in August.
“Today I get . . . to do . . . what I want.”
“Fair enough.” He turns to me. “How you holding up, Tobin?”
“Dancing on the ceiling.”
The smile he gives me is tender, under his own tears. “Same here.”
“Enough crying . . . for now . . . We’ve got . . . living . . . to get done.” Dad pokes at his face and tears with his uncooperative hand. “Doesn’t this sunrise . . . grab you?”
The wispy clouds keep the sun outlined, but the fierceness of the day is already streaming around them, getting ready to douse us with brightness. The lake is just itself, and the sand is just the sand. Squishy under my flip-flops.
Eventually Dad speaks. “Push me back . . . time for breakfast.”
Once Ike carries Dad up the back steps, he and I cook an enormous breakfast: pancakes, eggs over easy, and so much bacon. Ike feeds Dad more than I’ve seen him eat in a month: half a pancake, half an egg, and at least three strips of bacon. And we laugh. About Monty Python, the fish in Hawaii, my dad’s first marathon where he got serious diarrhea that went down his leg—anything and everything he wants to talk about.
Dad falls asleep while Ike and I clean up, and we just let him rest there in the kitchen, maneuvering carefully around him so we don’t bump his chair.
“Ready for this?” Ike is drying dishes while I wash. His voice is low.
I drop a glass and it shatters. I feel confident I’ve broken at least one glass a month for the last seven months.
“Are you cut?” He glances at Dad. No reaction. He’s sacked. He’s already used up so much energy today.
“No.”
Ike drains the sink to clean up the glass. “All I’m doing is calling Rich, when it’s time. That’s it.” His voice is a little louder than it has been.
“We both know that.” Everything blurs in front of me.
“I’ll sit with you both, once he’s . . . taken it.” He pats my back.
“Understood.” I dry my hands on the other dish towel while Ike wipes the last few pans. Then I push Dad into the living room, so he can rest in the sun.
“Where’s the stuff?” Ike follows me.
“He asked me to take it upstairs. All we need is a glass and some water for after. And the Zofran for before.”
“My dad brought the Zofran last night.” Ike gestures to the coffee table, at an envelope. Then he sits on the couch and closes his eyes.
I sit in the recliner. We wait for Dad to wake up. It’s his day.
I drift off. But then I hear, “Tobin! . . . Up and . . . at ’em!”
Dad’s smiling at me from his chair. “Where’s Ike? . . . Visiting to do!”
I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “Visiting? Ike’s right there.” I point at Ike, asleep on the couch.
“Yes, ma’am . . . going downtown.” He seems stronger, though that’s not possible, strong and confident.
“We are?”
“IKE!” He hollers, like he would if Ike were in Wisconsin rather than three feet away, but he’s still barely audible.
“Right here, boss. What do you need?” Ike snaps to attention like he wasn’t asleep at all.
“A shower . . . then visiting . . . One last . . . constitutional. . . . Want to wear . . . my running shoes.” His eyes are actually sparkling, like there’s another twenty-five years to live behind them. Or fifty.
“My wish is your command.” Ike wheels Dad to the bottom of the stairs, scoops him up, and heads upstairs to the bathroom.
Once Ike is done with Dad’s shower, he gets Dad dressed in his boxers. Then I dress Dad the rest of the way while Ike showers. While Ike and Dad wait on the back deck, I get ready. Three of us will walk west, enjoying the sun and the day. Three of us will walk back. And then there will be two. And then, when Ike goes home, it will be me.
Dad talks about everything. And I mean everything. In breathy bursts.
“A car is . . . marvelous . . . magnificent invention . . . Or sunlight . . . Marvelous . . . Shadows . . . Breathtaking . . . And look . . . Wisconsin . . . We can see . . . another state . . . from here . . . Trees . . . squirrels . . . nature is . . . breathtaking . . . isn’t it?” It’s all wheezy and quiet, but it’s nonstop babble. And I want to listen for a million years.
We go door to door, and store to store, wherever Dad knows somebody. He acts like he’s on a grand tour, in and out of kitchens, distilleries, showrooms, and everything in between. People are happy to see him and ask him how he’s been. He says the disease isn’t going to win. The pity in their eyes is intense, since they know that’s false, of course. I want to scream YOU DUMBSHITS HE’S GOING TO DIE TODAY SO OF COURSE THE DISEASE ISN’T GOING TO WIN BUT HE’LL STILL BE DEAD. But I stay quiet and try to smile.
Eventually we go by Sid, outside of Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, and we stop and listen for a bit, in the back of the crowd. Sid knows we’re there, because I see him smiling bigger than normal. When we leave, I see Dad motion to Ike, who leans down to listen, then lifts Dad’s wallet out of Dad’s back pocket. A fifty drifts into Sid’s violin case, and Sid’s eyes get wide, but he winks at me, and I wink back.
We walk by Trash Box, but Dad doesn’t want to go in. Allison sees us from behind the counter, through the window, and she waves like her hand is made of lead. She looks so sad. Dad waves back in his Muppet way, with his whole arm, and that makes her laugh, which makes Dad laugh, and then we’re just having a constitutional again.
Dad’s talking a mile a breathy minute about how this or that store was a titty bar when he was a kid, and who knew Canal Park would become a respectable tourist destination? I text Paul while we’re window-shopping at the store next to Trash Box: Want to come eat lunch with us? We’re in front of the old titty bar (?).
Maybe thirty seconds later, Paul is there. He doesn’t say a word, just joins us.
Dad decides he wants to get takeout pizza and go out to the lighthouse, so we can watch the lake. By this time, Dad has noticed that Paul’s with us, and he and Paul talk a lot about how seedy Canal Park was, and how long ago the Oliviers came to this part of the world, and every historical thing my dad’s brain lands on. We grab a pepperoni pizza and some drinks, then wheel our way out toward the lighthouse, which juts out on a long cement walkway to form one part of the channel to the shipping bay. The other side of the channel is formed by Park Point and another lighthouse.
He seems so strong today. So with it.
Maybe today is too soon.
By the time we get out there, it’s past lunchtime and into naptime for children and tired parents, so it’s not horribly crowded. The pizza’s still a bit warm, so I eat a slice. But it sits in my stomach like a ball of cement.
“Look!” Dad’s trying to point out into the lake, but his hand
isn’t cooperating. Paul and Ike have been talking about why anyone would surf in Lake Superior when the only time there are waves are dangerous storms.
“What?” I turn. I’ve been staring at a family who’s trying to get their pedal cart working—you can rent a covered bicycle-cart thing for four, and pedal it all up and down the lakefront—and all they’ve succeeded in doing is going backward.
A huge ore ship is steaming toward us. I hear the lift bridge start clicking. The ship toots, and then the bridge toots its long-short-long-short pattern, each greeting the other. The roadway creaks and groans its 125 feet up in the air.
This isn’t the first ship through here today, and it won’t be the last, but Dad watches like they planned it just for him. Ike hands me a Kleenex, and I wipe my eyes while he’s wiping his. Paul pulls out his hanky and gives a big snort into it. The pizza is forgotten.
Then the ship turns the corner into the bay, to unload or load or whatever it’s going to do, and it’s gone. Dad looks disappointed. “I think . . . want to go home now.”
“No more places to visit?” Ike wants to make sure.
“Nope.”
“But what about ice cream?” He grins at Dad.
“Oh yeah! . . . Can’t forget . . . about that.” He’s tired, that’s clear, but there’s more adventuring to be had.
“Coming right up.”
It takes a while to walk over to PortLand Malt Shoppe, because it’s on the other side of the highway, west of Canal Park and a bit north. It might be a twenty-block hike, but Dad dozes while Ike pushes. Paul and I just walk. Nobody talks. Once we’re there, Dad wakes up and asks for an enormous chocolate malt. Ike gets chocolate mint in a cone, I get strawberry in a cup, and Paul gets nothing. I take two bites of mine, then hand it to Paul. Gag. He takes a bite and throws it in the garbage.
Dad smiles and sips at his malt on our long walk back, saying hello to people as they pass him while Ike pushes with one hand and eats his cone with the other.
As we get close to the back door of Trash Box, Paul steps in front of Dad and holds up his hand to stop Ike. “Let me go get Allison.”
Dad sighs.
Paul is stern. “She’s your sister.”
Dad actually rolls his eyes. Ike and I share a glance, but I keep quiet.
Not thirty seconds after Paul goes inside, he’s back out, with Allison at his heels. She’s already started sobbing.
“You can’t do this, Steve.” She kneels in front of him, bare knees on the gravel in the alley. “You just can’t.”
“You have . . . no idea.” His face is soft, amazingly, and he’s looking at her with love instead of the annoyance I expected. Maybe her tears changed him.
“Think about Tobin.” She glances over his head at me. I look back.
“Tobin knows . . . I’m a mess.”
She lays her head on his knees and sobs. He pats her hair. Paul’s feelings are streaming down his face. Ike’s too.
Finally, she raises her head, stands up, and brushes the gravel off her skin. “Thanks for being a good little brother. You were a jerk sometimes, but I love you.”
“Love you, too . . . Allison.” His awkward hands reach toward her, and she bends down and hugs him so hard I think he’ll shatter. When she lets him go, she backs toward the store, not taking her eyes off him. No sobs. Just tears. Then she turns and goes in, banging the door against the wall, taking out her anger and sadness on something that can’t hurt her.
“I’ll never see you again.” Paul looks directly at Dad, straight into his eyes.
“I’ll come back . . . as a butterfly . . . or an ore ship.”
Paul chuckles, just a tiny bit, and bends down to hug my dad. “Godspeed, nephew. I’ll miss you.” He doesn’t hug anyone else, just disappears into the back door of Trash Box, shoulders shaking as he goes.
Dad watches Paul disappear, then he starts to sob. I walk next to him to hold his hand. We’re ten steps from the lift bridge when the horn starts to blow. And my dad starts muttering instead of weeping.
“Goddamn ships . . . goddamn people . . . driving goddam ships . . . Fuckers . . . people are waiting . . . goddamn body.” He tries to stand, even though he has no strength, and Ike gently pushes down on his shoulders. It takes nothing to stop him, even though he continues to try and get up.
“Hate people . . . hate ships . . . hate Duluth . . . and you, Tobin . . . everything . . . Even you, Ike! . . . Whole world! . . . My body!” He’s not loud anymore, but he’s obviously unhappy. People notice his agitation.
“Just sit tight, Dad.” I try holding his hand, but he yanks it away in slow motion.
“Have to . . . get out of this chair . . . Stop touching me . . . Ike!”
Ike’s got his hands on Dad’s shoulders, and he’s holding him in place.
“It’s okay, Dad. Give it a minute.”
Ike’s eyes are leaking, too, so then we’re two crying people waiting for the ship to pass under the lift bridge, with probably twenty tourists standing around us and the angry man in the wheelchair. Ike sings the Spanish lullaby, hands on his shoulders, and I rub his arm.
Once the bridge starts coming down, he settles. At this point, the twenty tourists have moved to the south side of the bridge. We’re the only ones left on the north walkway.
“Look at . . . shadows . . . patterns . . . waves . . . how pretty . . . the sun is . . . Just look . . . Tobin.” He continues to talk as we go across the bridge, acting like nothing happened. The tourists on the south just stare at him while they walk across. Ike and I ignore them while Ike pushes him faster.
But once we get across the bridge and clear of the tourists, who never walk very far on to Park Point, we slow down. Way down. Ike wants to linger, too. He could be crawling and pushing my dad’s chair, and it would be too fast.
Even though I want it to take a year, we make it home in half an hour. Ike carries Dad into the house and deposits him on the couch while I push his chair up the hill and put it next to the front steps.
“What now, sir? Anything we can do for you?”
Dad thinks. “Out of . . . wishes.”
Silence. Nobody moves.
Finally, Ike speaks. “What does that mean?”
“It’s time.” Dad’s voice is even more quiet than normal.
I am so cold.
Ike is solemn. “Would you like to go up to your bed?”
Dad nods toward the back door. “Probably shouldn’t . . . do it outside . . . should we?”
“Probably not, just in case someone comes by.”
“Move my bed . . . so I can see . . . out the window?”
“That I can do.” Ike heads up the stairs.
“Tobin . . . come here.” He pats the couch next to him, and I sit. Then I’m sobbing in his lap.
“Please don’t do this, Dad. Please.”
“Tobin.” He tries to stroke my hair. “Oh . . . sweet Tobin.”
“Please don’t. I need you.”
“Need you, too . . . And legs . . . a quiet brain . . . not me anymore.”
I just clutch him and cry.
“Couldn’t have asked . . . for a better . . . daughter . . . Remember that . . . okay?”
“Daddy, please.” And then I can’t talk, and neither can he. I feel the tears on my ear that’s turned toward his face.
We stay like that for a long time. When his hand stops moving, I realize he’s fallen asleep, so I sit up as carefully as I can.
Ike’s in the recliner across the room, just watching us. “His bed is ready.”
“Should we wake him up?” I stand and try and unkink my back.
“No.” Ike yawns.
“What time is it?” I yawn, too.
“5:00.”
“Maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow. That’d be great.”
Ike and I go into the kitchen, and I pour myself a glass of water. Ike takes a beer from my dad’s stash. We sit at the table and wait. I put my head down and drift off.
A shriek makes m
e bolt upright. “IKE! . . . TOBIN!”
“Right here, Dad. Right here.” We race into the living room like we’re on fire, or Dad is.
His eyes are scared. “Devils . . . chasing me . . . in my dream . . . Won’t happen . . . right? . . . Should go . . . to heaven?” He’s a frightened five-year-old.
“Of course you will.” Ike leans down to give him a hug, and then I do. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known, aside from my dad.”
I nod, because I can’t talk.
“What can we get you, Steve? What would you like now?”
He closes his eyes and sighs. “Ready to go . . . upstairs.”
“First, let’s take this. So you don’t throw up the drugs.” He hands Dad the Zofran, then goes to get a glass of water. Dad manages to get the pill to his lips, but the glass is too heavy. Ike helps him with it, not looking at me. Then he scoops up my dad and walks by me, carrying him upstairs.
I try and slow my heart down, but it doesn’t work.
Then I follow them.
Ike’s rearranged Dad’s room so the bed is right next to the north window. He gently sets Dad down in the bed, takes off his running shoes, then covers him up with the sheet. The late afternoon sun is gushing through the west window.
“What can I get you, Steve?”
“Glass of water . . . glass . . . orange juice . . . for meds.” Even weak and wheezy, he sounds in charge, which is a relief. “Scissors . . . to get . . . the box open.”
“The lightest glasses we have, okay, Ike? The absolute lightest.”
“I’m on it.” Ike leaves.
Dad looks at me. “When you’re . . . an EMT . . . have to be careful . . . with your words. Meeting people . . . on the worst days. . . of their lives . . . Can’t be rude . . . or uncaring.” It sounds like someone’s squeezing his lungs. “Have to find . . . the right words . . . to help them . . . with their fear . . . or grief.”
His face tells me he’s failed me.
“I have . . . no words . . . for my own family . . . I hate . . . irony.” He smiles, and tears run down his cheeks. “Love you . . . Tobin . . . only words . . . I have.” His lips are slightly blue from lack of oxygen.
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