by Will Boast
My eyelids fluttered. An honest laugh, I hoped, not a cruel one.
“I might never have taken you as a patient if I hadn’t known I’d see her every week.”
“What? I was the best guinea pig you ever had.”
“You were too fatalistic. You thought you were doomed.”
I started to protest. Then I realized he wasn’t wrong. “You could have asked her out. She would’ve liked that.”
“A long-distance relationship? I wouldn’t have had the time.”
“She’s only an hour and a half from here.”
“Yes, well, I used to think my research was more important.”
“So there’s really no getting better from this?” I rapped my fist on my own skull.
“Better?” He looked at me questioningly. “But look at you. That’s your car out front, isn’t it?”
“A loaner.”
“You drove here. I didn’t think that would ever be possible. To be honest, I always wondered if you’d make thirty. How old are you now?”
“Right on the money, Dr. Bell.”
“You do the best with the data you have.” He smiled, dug in his pocket. “Mint?”
I DROVE HOME IN A HAZE. The world was flat and vacant, and I was alone, drifting untethered. Coming into town, the roads were potholed and rough, but I hardly felt it. By the time I pulled into the driveway, I was blinking away sleep. I went in as quietly as I could. But underneath the chalkboard wall, clutching a half-full Peroni, my mother sat at the kitchen table, blinking at me. “You took the car out.”
“I just drove around a while.”
“That was dumb.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“You could’ve answered your phone.”
“I know, Mom, but, look, I really need to sleep now.”
“Sit down. Get a beer if you want. But you’re sitting down.”
“Peroni?” I got one from the fridge but took my time about it. “Alden’s brand?”
“I told myself I wasn’t going to yell at you. I’ve been sitting here waiting for another call from the emergency room.”
“Another one?” I said.
“You know what I mean.”
“That call came from the morgue, Mom. From the frozen food department.” I started rubbing out one of the walls of the Villa. “Why not yell? Go ahead, do it.”
“Oh, quit it, would you? Alden spent a long time on that. He was out half the night driving around looking for you. I sent him home to rest up. He’ll be worn out all day thanks to your little joyride.”
I swished the beer around my mouth, bitterness creeping back up. “So what happened to all the years holding vigil for Dad?”
“Your father’s still part of this house, Daph.”
“Well, yes, historically that’s been the problem.”
“Alden understands. You think we don’t talk about the past? Once you get to our age, all you do is talk about the past.”
I got up and took another beer from the fridge.
“You went through that quick.”
“If we’re talking, I’m drinking.”
“Do I have to worry about that again as well?”
I sat down, swished around the beer some more. “Fuck it, I’m too tired to work up to this. What happened to Dad? He didn’t have a heart attack. There’s no way he did.”
My mother’s eyes startled, then turned as fragile and cloudy as old glass. “That’s what your uncles and I told you, what we told everyone, ourselves even. But, Daph, do you really not remember . . . ?” She pressed her cold beer to her forehead.
It was the Fourth of July, she began, and the three of us—her, Dad, five-year-old me—had driven over to the river. My two uncles had brought everyone up from Georgia, the Irvine boys’ annual barbecue. That year there’d been added reason to celebrate, though everyone down south had been keeping quiet, to make it a surprise: Jerry, my dad’s youngest brother—who’d been through layoffs and back pain and a tree falling through his house—was finally healthy enough to work again and, best of all, getting married to the girl he’d been courting forever. My Aunt Bethany had finally said yes.
“When your dad heard the news,” my mom said, “he sat down in a lawn chair, then slowly, real slowly, a smile came across his face. Using one finger he kind of beckoned Jerry over, slowly raised his arm, shook his little brother’s hand—weak, but he still shook it. ‘Oh, Don’s already drunk,’ we all said and laughed it off. The truth was we hardly ever saw him smile like that. We figured he must be drunk, though he was never a real big drinker. Anyway, he hardly ever seemed to get worked up over anything. ‘Stoic,’ we called him. He and Jerry finished their slow-motion handshake, everyone laughing about it. Then we all went back to beer and goofing around. If we’d known . . .”
I only half-heard my mother. I was there again, the patchy, sharp grass, the low pulsing cicadas in the trees, the adults all going down to the river to swim. When he came out of his attack, my father must not have been able to resist. Still clumsy and tentative, he kept to the shallows while they all splashed and dunked one another in the cool water and the high, hazy sun. Then, one by one, they all got out to towel off, get the grill going, pop open more beers and containers of food, meat on the grill, the soft breeze carrying the smell, the white smoke, the glad laughter across the water. But he lingered there, the gentle current tickling his toes, still keeping apart from their joy, trying to keep his own pleasure private and small.
“Jerry swam out to this raft chained out in the middle. I guess your dad wanted to be out there with him. We all knew how at home he used to feel in the water.”
It came into focus: my uncle on the raft, a couple of wooden pallets lashed to some old blue rain barrels. Jerry sat on the edge, kicked his feet in the water, sprawled out to get some sun. My father pulled himself up, sat beside him, the two brothers together. Jerry started doing cannonballs off the raft, splashing my dad, who put up with it good-naturedly, just sitting there, slumping a little. When the burgers came off the grill, someone shouted for them to come eat. Jerry dove right in. But my dad stayed out there, so happy he didn’t want to move, or couldn’t.
And there I stood in the shallows, looking out at him. I raised my chubby arm, waved to my father. Slowly, he stood, waved back, his arm struggling to reach above him but waving anyway. He called out something, the words all jumbled. “Daddy, Daddy!” I cried out, giggling. “You’re the king of the river!” He tried again to call out to me. Then he crumpled to the lip of the raft and dropped into the water.
“Before your diagnosis,” my mom said, “his death was a mystery, to all of us. When Dr. Bell came along and told us about your condition . . . But I still wouldn’t accept it.” She rubbed out one of the old notes on the blackboard. “Otherwise, the tragedy was just explained away.”
A huge wave of happiness, too sudden for him to stop it. He must have wished he could just let go, glory in the moment, a second or two too long—and then he was in the water. He’d panicked. With panic, there was no easy way out. He wouldn’t even have known how to come out of it. But he must have tried, instinctively, to tamp it down. I’d watched him sink slowly to his knees, so that, when he went under, he didn’t make a loud splash. Or maybe it was just that no one heard.
“We were toasting your Uncle Jerry, having a great time. Then someone said, ‘Where’s Don?’ ” My mom shook her head, her eyes closed. “We went to the riverbank, saw him floating facedown. I was screaming. Uncle Jerry and Uncle Rick had to drag him out. His skin was still pink. He’d only been gone a few minutes. We put you in the car. We didn’t want you to see.”
“I saw him go into the water.”
“Oh, honey.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to remember. I told myself you wouldn’t.”
“I do. I do re-mem-ber.”
My fingers slipped from the beer bottle. I slumped against the wall. The chalk dust got in my nostrils, burned
. I couldn’t even sneeze. My mother reached over, wiped my nose. “Take your time. I’m here.”
Finally, my tongue came back. “I saw him. I saw him fall in. I could’ve done something, told someone.”
“You were five, honey.”
We sat in silence. My mom got up and took two more beers from the fridge. “He was like you,” she said. “Just like you. So openhearted.”
I scoffed. “Don’t bullshit me, Mom.”
“You’re your father’s daughter. You take everything to heart.”
“And that’s what got him killed.”
My mother’s face creased, folded on itself. But she didn’t. She didn’t cry. “How’d we get so far away, kiddo? I remember you and me making bubble beards doing the dishes, drawing a whole little world together on this wall, castles and mountains and whatever popped into your head. Now you’re just a little box in the corner of the screen, saying awful things to me.”
“Mom,” I said feebly, tasting slick, welling tears. “I’m sorry. I’m . . .” I closed my eyes, leaned harder against the wall. I felt it unravel, the tight little knot coming all undone. “I’m coming home, Mom. I’m moving back for good.”
“Oh, Daph, that’s not what I want.”
But it was. It absolutely was. And I couldn’t resist anymore. How many more nights alone could I risk? I never wanted to go back into that darkness. Dr. Bell was right—the impulse to survive was too strong.
“I can sell my place. It should be enough to live on for a year or two. If it comes down to it, Eli Lilly is usually hiring. Or I’ll find something closer to here.”
My mom’s face slowly unfolded, brightened. “I do worry about you out there. You’re so far away. When I saw you at the airport, and you came out without . . .”
“It wouldn’t have worked out with Ollie anyway.”
“Why not, honey? It can happen. Why wouldn’t it?”
“Because I won’t accept anyone who’ll settle for a defective product.”
“I spent twenty years telling myself: Who wants to date a widow with a kid? Bad questions get worse answers. Don’t come back because of me.” She smiled distantly. “You wouldn’t want to live in your old room . . .”
“Just till I found an apartment nearby.”
“Come on, time for bed. You haven’t slept, and it’s the big meal today.”
I let her help me to my room, her arm threaded through mine for stability. I wriggled under the well-worn flannel sheets. She stood over me in the gray early morning light. I could feel her straining to say something. “Mom, what is it?”
“Honey, we were going to tell you tomorrow. Alden and I are moving in together. He’s giving up his apartment, moving in here. And we’re getting married, next summer.”
“That’s great, Mom. I’m really glad. Really.”
“I know you are. I can tell.”
“One happy family under the same roof,” I said. “Free stump removal.”
“Come on, bedtime.”
“Am I already? Am I dreaming or what? Mom . . .”
“What?”
“It’s my fault. That he drowned, it’s because of me.”
“No, it’s not. You know it’s not.”
“It is . . . It is . . .”
“Hush up now, get some sleep.”
She kissed me on the forehead, turned off the light, closed the blinds. With the pale phosphorescent stars above me, my feelings bloomed, thick, tangled, choking. I huddled up to the wall, wearily tried to beat them back. The river, the cattails, the willows . . . But now all I saw was my father—my father slipping under the water. All of those years my image had seemed serene, innocuous. Maybe it had really stood in for overload, shock, paralysis deeper than emotion. Yet I could see my dad again. There he was, waving to me. I could finally see him clearly.
MOM WOKE ME at four that afternoon. We got dressed and drove over to one of the new subdivisions on the other side of town, to Alden’s ex-wife’s house. As we went up the front walk, Mom’s nerves jangled the air. “This the first time you’ve met her?”
“I see her in the Piggly Wiggly. We get along fine. Everything’s fine.”
Thirty or so people were gathered in the kitchen and living room. Despite the chaos of all the little ones tearing around, it was gentle. No flare-ups, no grudges. After some too-polite banter, my mother ended up kidding around with Alden’s ex, making little jokes at his expense, which he suffered with his big, wheezy laugh. Mom kept checking in on me, but I told her I was okay, tried to make a point of socializing. A few people remembered my volleyball days—some glories never faded—asked if I still played. “No, but I think Mom still has my old kneepads boxed up somewhere.” They chuckled indulgently, all good midwesterners, who did everything in their power not to ruffle or disturb you, who just wanted to make sure, honey, that you had enough to eat and drink. The rest of my life could drift pleasantly away on this warm tide of decency.
I found myself playing with a little girl, about four, who explained all the features of the doll she’d gotten for Christmas. If she was sad, she turned dark blue. Happy, bright green. Excited, an even brighter yellow. And you only had to coo softly and tickle her belly, and she laughed and burbled and sang and lit up all colors.
“Do you know how come?” the little girl asked me. “How come she works?”
“You’ll have to show me again,” I said. “Show me how you make her happy.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING I SAID GOOD-BYE TO MY MOTHER on the front step. I was surprised she wasn’t going to see me off safe at the airport.
“Alden’s going to drive you. I want you two to have a little time.”
“Mom, there will be plenty of that later.”
“Text me when you land, okay?”
I yawned. I could’ve slept another night through. “I’ll probably use the same agent,” I said, thinking aloud about my apartment. “She worked her dark magic on me.”
“Hold on, I’ve got something for you.” My mom disappeared back into the house for a moment. “I don’t know if you’d want this yet . . .” It was one of the framed photos of my dad. “You can tell me I’m crazy for even—”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back in a month.”
“Then hold on to it till then.” We hugged, and she whispered in my ear. At first I thought she said, “Be careful,” as she always did. But, no, she said, “Be good to him.”
Alden was waiting in his pickup. I rode next to this large, unfamiliar man all the way out to the highway before either of us risked any idle chatter. “So, tell me”—I tried to let a little good cheer into my voice—“what’s the biggest stump you’ve done?”
He looked at me cautiously. “Sorry, I didn’t get born with the sarcasm gene.”
“No, I’m really asking.”
He rubbed his chin. “Has to be this old oak down in Martinsville. I drove down, took a look, knew we’d need two trucks. The big ones, diesel, four-wheel drive. But that stump didn’t want to come. Tree must have been two hundred years old, I lost count of the rings. Two hundred years, those roots go deep, and the earth is clay, sometimes stone, and those roots have to push down through it all. You’re pulling up a couple of tons of dirt and rocks as well. Sometimes a winch will get you nowhere. You’ve got to do it in a series of yanks. But watch out now! You’ll wrench a truck’s whole frame if you’re not careful. You’ve just got to keep steady and listen, listen to the way those roots start creaking up. Slowly, slowly. Each big pull, they get looser and looser. Then you feel it. Takes a whole afternoon, but comes a point all you got to do is keep pulling.”
“Bet that feels good,” I said softly, “feeling it all come free like that.”
He looked over at me again. “I’m aware of your ailment. Your mom told me.”
“Better that I don’t have to educate for the millionth time.”
“I understand if it makes it harder for you and me to get to know each other. I’m sorry if I wasn’t sensit
ive enough of that.”
“I’m the one owes you an apology. It’s not an excuse.”
“The holidays. We all go a little haywire.” He shifted lanes to pass a semi. “How’s the weather out there in Frisco?”
I thought to correct him. No one but tourists called it that. “January rains are coming,” I said. “Be nice to miss those.”
“You don’t want to come back here. If I’d gone to Rome when I was younger, I’d never have come back.”
“I have to. We’re talking life or death.”
“Your mom told me about your job, too. Must be hard. I love dogs.”
“Me, too.”
“Your whole deal sounds kind of hard,” he said.
“Well, I guess you just keep pulling.”
He laughed, somehow both mournful and content. “So, think I’m too old for your mom?”
“I thought you were about the same vintage.”
“Nah, I got a few extra rings on me. Want to hear a joke my dad used to tell?”
“Only if it’s a bad one.”
“Old man comes across a frog one day. Frog says, ‘Kiss me, and I’ll turn into a beautiful princess.’ Old man picks it up, puts it in his pocket. Frog says, ‘Hey, didn’t you hear me?’ Old man says, ‘Sure did. But at my age, I’d rather have a talking frog.’ ” Alden broke into his big wheeze.
I slumped forward. The seat belt held me up. Oh, God, dad jokes and everything.
WHEN I WOKE, my flight was passing over the golden rills of the Sierra Nevada foothills. The land grew verdant. The iridescent labyrinths of the salt marshes at the tip of the bay crawled into view. The plane’s wings tilted to descend into SFO, and I saw the Berkeley Hills and the Bay Bridge glowing in the late afternoon sun, a steam train of pure white fog chugging toward the city, the sky above a high, heartache blue. But no one stayed in San Francisco. It was a place you were meant to leave and miss for the rest of your life.