Not After Everything

by Michelle Levy

  The lock and door are, like, two hundred times more expensive, but she has absolutely insisted on helping to keep me and the rest of my things safe.

  • • •

  We found the perfect lock and she’s having it installed today along with a solid wood door. We’re on our way to meet the guy. I just hope Dad didn’t choose today to stay home from work.

  Thankfully, his car is gone when we pull into the driveway, because there’s a white van waiting out front.

  Max, the guy Jordyn called to install the lock, strides over and gives Jordyn a hug.

  “Max is one of Henry’s fishing buddies. He did the locks at the studio,” she says after introducing us.

  Max wastes no time getting to work. He lets out a low whistle when he sees the damage done to my previous lock and door, but doesn’t say a word.

  Jordyn and I sit at the kitchen table and I mostly stare at the front door just in case Dad walks in for some reason. Well, that and the red-stained grout on the tile next to my foot.

  “He’s not going to tell Henry about this, is he?” I whisper.

  “I told him you had a break-in and they only went for your room. I told him we think it was one of the guys you got into a fight with trying to retaliate.”

  I brush her hair behind her ear, caressing her cheek with my thumb. “Thank you.”

  • • •

  Max is done in a little less than two hours. “Give me your phone.” He holds out his palm.

  Jordyn digs it out of my pocket and places it in his hand while I try to figure out why the hell he needs my phone. He tap-tap-taps and hands it back to me with a new icon on it.

  “Tap there.”

  I do.

  A screen comes up that reads: User: One. Name: Tyler Blackwell. Access: Unlimited.

  “This shows that you are the only person able to access this lock. Ever. Now I’ll just program a spare key in the event that you lose that one and be on my way.”

  I nod. He takes another key from the box the lock came in as well as my phone, then he taps around some more before handing both back to me.

  “If anyone tries to jimmy it, you’ll get an alert on your phone and the lock’ll shut down, so it is virtually impossible to open without your master key. And this door should hold, good choice. It’s not a steel door, but I think nothing short of an ax will go through this bad boy. You should be all set. I programmed my number in your phone so if anything happens, call me and I’ll talk you through it.” He hands me a thick manual.

  “Thanks, Max.” Jordyn throws her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek.

  He laughs. “You got some girl here,” he says to me.

  “Don’t I know it.” I shake his hand. “Thanks, man.”

  “Let’s celebrate.” Jordyn takes my hand and suggestively pulls me down to my dungeon as soon as Max is on his way. But the mood is killed when she sees the damage Dad’s done to my room. “Oh my god.”

  “It wasn’t this bad before I left.”

  Along with all the contents of my shelves and drawers scattered all around the room, there are now two holes punched in the drywall above the paneling. And the paneling has been kicked and crushed in in several spots.

  “Tyler . . .”

  “It’s all cosmetic. Don’t worry about it.” I can see the fright clear on her face. “I’ll be fine. I promise. I just wish I knew what the hell he’s looking for.”

  • • •

  “So, what’d you get me?” Dad’s on the couch when I get home from school the first day after winter break. His tone lacks its usual disdain. “Or did you not feel the need to get a Christmas present for your only parent.”

  I head to the fridge, ignoring him. Why is he home, anyway? Then he starts coughing violently and I realize he’s sick again. Good. I hope he dies.

  “Throw me a beer, wouldja?”

  Of course, he’s never sick enough not to drink.

  When I throw him a beer he actually says “Thanks.”

  I pull out my phone and start texting Jordyn while I wait for the pan to heat up.

  “Where’d that fancy door come from?” Dad sets the opened beer on the coffee table before slowly trudging up the stairs into the kitchen.

  “It was a gift,” I say, stuffing my phone back into my pocket. “Want me to make some soup?”

  He launches into a coughing fit, not bothering to cover his mouth. “I don’t need soup. I need whisky.”

  Yeah, that’ll help.

  He reaches out and gently pats me on the shoulder—the way Henry does—as he passes me to get to the cabinet above the fridge. It completely freaks me out. Did he actually miss me or something? I watch him struggle to get the bottle down, too stunned to say anything. I turn back to my cooking before he sees me staring.

  “I’m short a bottle of vodka. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” He’s standing right behind me at the stove. So close that when he coughs I feel something hot and wet hit my neck.

  “I haven’t exactly been here, not that you’d notice,” I say under my breath.

  “I noticed.” He says this like it hurt his feelings or something. “So, that dog okay or what? I didn’t mean to . . . I’m . . . I don’t know how you’re able to keep going like you do. Got that from her, I guess. Or, well, maybe not. Definitely didn’t get it from me, though. Anyway, I like Captain, he’s a good dog.”

  “Well, he died,” I snap.

  He’s very still for a moment. I can’t even hear him breathing. Then he puts his hand on my shoulder and starts crying. “Shit. I’m . . . Shit, Tyler. I’m so . . . I’m—”

  I can’t do this. I turn the stove off and throw the pan in the sink, chicken and all.

  • • •

  I call Jordyn as soon as I get into my car. I tell her everything. I tell her how I made him feel guilty and how he sort of apologized and how it only made me angrier. She tells me to come to the studio until he’s passed out. I pick up some burgers for us on the way. Then I spend the rest of the night hanging out with Jordyn and Henry. But instead of working, I do my homework.

  “Are you . . . ?” Jordyn feels my forehead with the back of her hand. “Are you feeling okay? Because I’m pretty sure that’s . . . homework. And you’re, like, applying yourself.”

  I grin back at her. “What can I say? I actually found this assignment interesting.”

  She shoves my hand out of the way to further investigate. “Yep. Definitely sick. Nobody actually finds calc interesting.”

  “AP calc,” I say, shoving her aside playfully. “And I do find it interesting.”

  “Freak.” She kisses my cheek.

  “Love you,” I call out as she bounces through the curtain.

  And I actually do find it interesting. In fact, I enjoy all of my classes this semester. I don’t have Mrs. Hickenlooper anymore, so that in itself is a reason to enjoy school again.

  Before long, I find myself falling back into my old groove. Almost like I was before I found Mom in the tub. Some of my teachers comment on it, but in a delicate way. And it doesn’t even bother me. Not even when Mrs. Ortiz stops me in the hall to tell me she’s so happy to see me smiling. And it makes me wonder . . . Shit, maybe she actually did want to help me and just didn’t know how. Like Sheila.

  How many other people did too?

  THIRTY-TWO

  Dr. Dave is speechless. And all I did was tell him what I did over break.

  “So I guess I’m, like, cured or whatever?” I joke.

  “I’m really impressed. I think I need to meet this Jordyn.”

  “I can’t believe I’m in love. Like, honest-to-god in love, Doc.”

  He laughs. “So are you thinking again about going to Stanford?”

  “If they still want me.” I wipe my hands on my jeans.

  “I think w
riting that letter to the admissions department was a really good call. I don’t think you have any reason to be nervous.”

  “Jordyn really encouraged me with that, you know. I don’t know that I would have actually been able to mail it if it weren’t for her.”

  He leans forward in a mock-serious manner. “Are you sure she’s a real person? Do other people see her, or does she only appear to you?”

  “She’s not a hallucination. And if she is, I don’t wanna be cured.”

  Dr. Dave smiles. “We should all be so lucky. So what did your dad have to say about you spending the holidays away from him?”

  “He didn’t care. He actually broke into my locked room and destroyed it. Even pissed on some of my stuff in a drunken stupor.”

  Dr. Dave’s eyes go wide and I realize I’ve slipped up. I swore I’d never let him know about Dad. Because then he has to report it. Shit.

  “It wasn’t that big a deal,” I say, all casual. “He didn’t really destroy it—he just went through my drawers. I think he was checking for drugs or something. And he only pissed on some clothes I left on the bathroom floor. He has bad aim when he’s been drinking.”

  Dr. Dave’s not buying it. “Is this typical behavior for him?”

  “Not at all,” I lie, rather convincingly, I think.

  He scribbles something in his little book.

  I crane my neck to see what. No luck. “In all fairness, I shouldn’t say he didn’t care I was gone for the holidays. He did kind of admit that he missed me. We even bonded over dinner that night.” A slight exaggeration.

  “You always keep your room locked?”

  “I don’t want him finding my porn stash.” Not that I have a porn stash. I mean, who needs that with the Internet?

  Dr. Dave scribbles something else down.

  He’s not buying a word I’m saying.

  “Doc?” I ask, hoping he’ll look up from his frantic writing.

  He doesn’t.

  “What aren’t you telling me about your father, Tyler? I can’t help you unless you’re honest with—”

  “Nothing. He’s just a dick.”

  “Why do you really keep your door locked? Are you afraid of hi—”

  “Of course not. I just want my own space. A place that isn’t his or Mom’s.”

  “Are you hiding something?”

  “I told you about the pictures of Mom and what he’d do if he found them.” I’m getting angry. I really don’t want to talk about this. How the hell did I screw up like that?

  “You’re positive that’s all it is?”

  “Yes!” I snap.

  “Okay.” He holds his hands up.

  I seriously need to change the subject. I take a deep breath before speaking again. “I’m thinking about asking Coach for advice on the whole Stanford thing. You think that’s a good idea? I mean, I think he’s probably still mad, but I kind of miss football and I’d like to apologize to him for leaving the team in the lurch.”

  This does the trick. Dr. Dave eyes me warily, but then he sees I’m not bullshitting. “I think that’s a very good idea.”

  “Yeah? I wasn’t sure. I mean . . .” I trail off, stopping myself.

  Dr. Dave can tell I’m on the verge of letting him in. He’s trying so hard not to push me—I can see it all over his face—that I even kind of want to.

  “I didn’t realize I missed football so much, but I do. I really do. And I was thinking the other day . . . Well . . . I can’t keep blaming football for keeping me from being there for my mom. She probably would’ve killed herself either way, right?” I’m not asking him to confirm.

  He sets his notebook down and leans forward until I look at him. His smile is a mixture of elation and pride.

  I have to look away. “It wasn’t because of football that I missed the signs. That was all on me. It was my fault for pulling away. For not wanting to see what was happening. What it was doing to her.”

  “No, Tyler.”

  I look up. The smile’s gone from his face.

  “It was! I, of all people, knew how helpless and hopeless he could make you feel. I knew she was in pain. I knew she hated him and she was afraid of him and she loved him and she blamed herself for the way he . . . I knew all that. I just didn’t want to deal.”

  “Tyler, look at me,” Dr. Dave says in a way that makes me do it. “It wasn’t your fault. Not one bit of it. You understand? You should never have been put in a situation that made you feel responsible for either one of your parents. They are your parents. They are not your responsibility. You are theirs. Okay?”

  I nod because I think that’s what he wants me to do.

  “Good,” he says, sliding a box of Kleenex my way even though I’m not crying. “Now, when you say she was afraid of him and that you knew how that felt . . .”

  Shit. I tune out the rest of his question, desperately searching for a way off of this topic. “Look, my dad is a master manipulator,” I finally say. It’s not a lie.

  “Meaning?”

  “He knows how to word things in a way that will cause the most harm. He hits below the belt. He likes to remind you that you are not better than him,” I say. “That’s why I don’t talk about him. I don’t want to give him any more thought than is absolutely necessary.”

  “Does he—”

  “I’m done talking about him.” I sit up taller, making it absolutely clear that I will leave.

  “Okay,” he says, conceding.

  It’s tense in here now. I eye the door while Dr. Dave arranges his notebook on the coffee table, aligning it just so with the edge of the wood. Finally, he speaks.

  “I’m proud of you for writing that letter to Stanford. They’d be crazy not to have you. I mean that, Tyler.”

  He does mean it too. And it feels so good that he believes that about me that I stop hating him and breathe a sigh of relief. That was too close.

  • • •

  Coach is completely caught off guard when I wander into his office.

  “Blackwell. What do you want?” He makes himself busy even though I know he was probably just playing online poker.

  “Do you have a minute?” I ask, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

  He grunts. I take that as a yes and sit.

  “First of all, I’d like to apologize. For everything. For abandoning the team, for fighting with Brett. And Reece. And just being an all-around asshole this year.”

  He’s stopped pretending to be busy and is now completely focused, taking his reading glasses off to stare at me. I can see the wheels turning. When he settles back into his chair, I take that as a sign to continue.

  “This is kind of hard for me.” I clear my throat. “I’ve been talking to a therapist since . . .”

  He nods.

  “Well, I guess I kind of blamed myself and football and, well, you by proxy, for keeping me from being there to help my mom. Not just on that day. On all the days. Like, I was using football to . . . to hide from her, from the situation, and had been for a while. I know it’s not rational, but there you go. It took me a very long time to realize she would have found a way whether I was at training or not. It took me even longer to realize how much I missed playing.”

  Coach nods again.

  “I don’t know how much Marcus told you about my financial situation, but—”

  “He said your dad was making you work.”

  “He wasn’t making me work. He just wasn’t paying for anything for me anymore. And that included shoes, clothes, my phone bill. I really didn’t have a choice. But yeah, I used it as an excuse to keep my distance too.”

  “I wish you would’ve come to me. I might’ve been able to help.” He’s dropped his usually gruff front. I find it disconcerting.

  “I appreciate that. But I just wasn’t ready. I’m sorry if
I fucked up your record by not playing this year.”

  “Language.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And apology accepted.” He extends his hand over the desk.

  I have to get up to reach it. I sit back down. “I know I’m not in any position to ask a favor, but . . .”

  “Ask away.”

  I pull out a copy of the letter I sent to Stanford and set it on top of the papers that cover his desk. “I sent this to Mr. Barker at Stanford. I haven’t heard anything from them about what’s going to happen now that I missed playing this year. I was hoping”—I take a deep breath—“I was hoping you might be able to make a call for me?”

  He takes the letter and shushes me as he searches for his glasses, which have managed to somehow bury themselves under the mess in the two seconds he’s had them off. Then he leans back in his chair and reads.

  I start to leave, thinking we’re done, but he snaps his fingers at me and I sit back in my seat. It’s so awkward, having him read something so personal right in front of me. He flips the page. I stare at all the stuff he has hanging haphazardly all over his walls. Mostly inspirational quotes from various famous players over a photo of them mid-game. Plays scratched on papers with frayed edges. Photos of the team from the past ten or so years. I study the ones I’m in. When I was a freshman—so scrawny and cocky, I have to laugh to myself. I look like a complete tool. The sophomore picture isn’t much better. But the picture from last year is pretty decent. I’ve lost the chip on my shoulder; I’m even smiling. If I didn’t know myself, I’d say that kid loves football.

  Coach clears his throat. I bet he’s at the part in the letter where I explain how I felt responsible for Mom’s death. It got Henry too.

  He finishes a few minutes later and sets the letter back on the desk.

  After a very long pause he finally looks at me. “Tyler, I think I owe you an apology. I had no idea any of this was going on in that head of yours. I should have tried harder to get through to you.”