On Solid Ground

by Melissa Collins

  Before we could say any more, a loud cacophony of alarms and beeps sounded out from Dad’s room. With our talk on hold, we raced to our father’s side, in the hopes that we’d have him for at least one more day.

  And that one day turned into another and then another. Despite his rapid deterioration, we feel lucky to still have him with us.

  It takes me a minute, lost in my own thoughts, to realize he still hasn’t responded. His eyes are open, wide and staring at me, a glint of fright in them. “Dad, you okay?”

  Feelings of helplessness pervade every inch of my body as I ask him the same question for the second time. If it wasn’t for Tonka at my side, I wouldn’t be able to keep it together. But with his help, I’m able to keep my demons at bay long enough to fight through the panic.

  One tap for yes.

  Two for no.

  This is the system we worked out after the first stroke and that we used after the second. Just in case he’s forgotten, I repeat the instructions to him. But still, he gives me nothing, except a petrified look of anguish.

  Covering his hand with mine, I reassure him that everything is okay.

  I know it’s not, but it’s impossible for me to explain to him, the man who I actually thought possessed superhuman strength, that he’s withering away to nothing, right before our eyes.

  “I know you can hear me. It’s okay. Let me call the nurses in. They’ll let us know what to do.” Trying my best to stay calm, I squeeze his hand once more and walk out to the nurse’s station.

  “Hey, Gladine.” A tall, slender nurse pulls out Dad’s chart and walks out from behind the counter. “Anything new on Dad?”

  “Nothing came up on the machines, sweetie.” I know better than to ask, but if I had to guess, I’d say Gladine is somewhere in her late forties. She’s kind and genuine—a real source of comfort in the last few days. “Let’s go take a look though.” She gently pats my arm, reassuring, but promising nothing.

  We all know it’s near the end. The tumor is growing every day, causing massive pressure in his brain. With her usual cheerfulness, she greets Dad, reading off his vitals for him. She knows he can’t respond or ask any questions, but she doesn’t want him to feel left out of the loop.

  Mom walks in just as Gladine begins reading through the brain activity monitor that he’s hooked up to. “How’s he doing?” Mom asks quietly, making sure Dad can’t hear her.

  “He couldn’t move his hands when I came in this morning.” There’s not much else to say. It’s happening just like the doctor’s said it would. He’s slowly losing his ability to speak, his ability to move—eventually the tumor will claim his life and there’s nothing we can do besides watch.

  Gladine calls us over to Dad’s side. “See these here?” she asks, pointing down to a few blips on the paper printout. Mom and I nod, clearly seeing the variations about which she’s talking. “It looks like he had a few mini-strokes last night. I’ll call the doctor to be sure,” she adds as she squeezes Mom’s hand.

  “I need to go call your brother.” Wiping away the tears as they track down her cheeks, Mom excuses herself from the room, following closely behind Gladine.

  Tonka joins me back at my seat next to Dad’s bed, but instead of curling up by my feet, he nuzzles his snout under Dad’s hand. “You’re a good dog, Tonk. I don’t know where I’d be without you.” Scratching him behind his ears, I let his inner calm bleed into me.

  “Dad . . . I don’t know what to say. You know there was a time when I thought you were actually a legitimate superhero. You had me convinced that you were Batman because I’d never seen you and him together in the same room. God, I wish that were true now . . .” My last words come out as choked sobs. Tonka moves from Dad to me, working his face into my lap.

  “Jakey,” mom’s sad voice calls from behind me. Dropping a hand to my shoulder, she loses the battle with her tears. “It’s okay. Don’t get upset.”

  I know she’s just trying to keep me calm, to keep up a brave face for fear that I’ll lose it, but I’m not a piece of glass. “Mom,” I stand from my seat, surprising her with the quickness of my movement and the tone of my voice. “How am I not supposed to get upset? He’s dying.” My voice near shouting, her hand flies to cover her mouth. “Stop treating me like some kind of invalid. And would you stop it already with the Jakey shit. I’m not twelve. Fuck,” I curse, throwing my arms up in a fit of anger. Tonka whines at my side, nudging my clenched fist with his cold, wet nose. “My father is dying and there’s not a fucking thing I can do, but sit here and watch. If there ever was a time that I was allowed to be upset, it’d be now.”

  “Jake . . . please . . .” Her words fall on my back as I walk out of the room. Needing to gather my thoughts, I step outside.

  The view outside the hospital is breathtaking. Reaching up into the sky at harsh angles, The Rocky Mountains slice through the horizon. They’re not the same as the shorelines of Long Beach, but they have the same calming effect.

  Of course thinking about the beach makes me think about Beck—though to be honest, there hasn’t been a minute here when I haven’t thought about him, wanted him at my side.

  Every chance I have to call him, I find some way to talk myself out of it. He’s busy getting settled in his new place, helping Nikki readjust to life outside of rehab, being there for Violet. Who am I to intrude on that? Besides, after how things went down between us when I left, I doubt he ever wants to hear from me again.

  Pushing all of those doubts down, I pull my phone out of my pocket and turn it back on. I was at the hospital so late last night, I never even bothered to turn it back on when I went back to my parents’ house.

  Just like I’d expected, no messages or texts. It really is quite foolish of me to think that Beck would be worried about me. Who the hell am I kidding? We’ve only known each other for six weeks. I’ve already talked myself out of the idea that I was falling in love with him. It’s safer that way.

  But it’s impossible to ignore how much I miss him—his voice, his arms, and his presence. And just like that, as if I’ve conjured him from thin air, one missed call pops up on my phone. There’s no voicemail, but Beck’s number flashes up on my screen.

  There may be hope yet.

  With my finger hovering above the call button, I deliberate for a second too long.

  “Jake,” Lance’s loud, booming voice calls out the front doors. “You need to get back in here.”

  Moving as fast as my legs will take me, I run with Lance back to Dad’s room. Mom is sitting at his side, holding his hand in hers, crying softly against them. The doctor is standing at the other end, sliding the chart back into the slot at the bottom of the bed. “He had another stroke while you were outside.”

  “We’ve given him morphine. At this point, our goal is to keep him as comfortable as possible.”

  Keeping him comfortable is just a euphemism for letting him go. That thought lodges itself in my throat, making breathing nearly impossible. Somehow I still manage to ask, “How long?”

  The doctor walks over to me, drops a hand on my shoulder, and looks me in the eyes. A sad reassurance meets my tear-filled eyes. “We can’t tell for sure. A few days, maybe.” Quietly, and only so Lance and I can hear him, he adds, “Spend as much time here as you can.” And then he’s gone.

  Sitting in shifts the rest of the afternoon, Mom, Lance, and I never leave Dad’s side. When the nurses make sure the rest of the visitors leave as visiting hours come to a close, they assure us we can stay as late as we’d like. They even bring in a cot and an extra chair so that we can stay the night.

  When Lance steps out for a few minutes to call his wife and check on his daughter, I figure now is as good a time as any to apologize to her. “Mom?” Pulling my chair next to hers, I pull her cold hands into mine. “I’m sorry about before. I didn’t mean to lash out at you.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” She wipes her nose with a tissue. Looking up at me through puffy and bloodshot eyes, she looks as strong
and capable as ever. “You don’t have to apologize. I was treating you like glass, but you’re my baby and I can’t stand seeing you worry, or stress out over something like this.”

  “Like this? That’s one way of putting it,” I joke and revel in the sound of her soft laughter joining mine.

  “Okay, that wasn’t the best way to put it. Dying isn’t something any of us can control. It’s as haphazard as the wind, coming and going whenever it pleases. It’s as random as falling in love. Your father and I lived a damn good life together and we loved more than this lifetime is capable of holding.”

  Her hands shake in mine as her tears flow rapidly down her reddened face. Swiping them away, I wonder how on earth I came to have such a warm and caring woman as my mom. Not everyone is so lucky.

  “Tell me how you and Dad met. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the story.” As close as Mom and I have been through the years, I’ve never asked the most basic of questions. Having spent so long feeling like an outsider in my own family, I realize now I’ve never made much of an effort to work my way inside.

  A small smile curls on her lips. On a deep breath, she begins telling me of a young boy, literally pulling on her pigtails at recess. At least that’s where it started. Theirs is a once in a lifetime kind of love story. One that survived decades of growing up, but never apart. One that survived war and somehow managed to come out stronger because of it. Through it all, I never lose sight of the very real fact that they both had to work at their relationship. They had to communicate and be honest with one another. She tells me of times when things weren’t perfect, when they were close to their breaking point. It was in those times they held on to solidity the other provided. When they felt as if all hope was lost, they knew they’d make it out to the other side, stronger somehow.

  At the end of her story, one single thought races through my head and my heart: Beck. He’s become part of the foundation on which I’ve built my new life. And without him, my life’s just not the same.

  “What are you smiling about?” Mom asks, a teasing playfulness in her voice. “Thinking about someone?” she asks hopefully. The slight pause I take only makes her egg me on more. “Oh, come on. Tell me about her. I need a little good news.”

  Pausing again, I ask myself, Can I really tell her? Is now the best time? What if she doesn’t react the way I think she’s going to? Her husband is dying—now might not be the best time to find out her son is gay.

  “Jakey, you know you can tell me anything.” And there it is. There’s something in her voice that tells me she’ll be okay, that she’ll understand. Softening to her and hopeful that she’ll be accepting, I let the Jakey slide. It’d be weird for her to call me Dax, anyway.

  Letting her story of the relationship she’s had with my dad fortify my courage, I take a deep breath and let the words tumble out of my mouth. “His name is Beck. He owns a tattoo shop in Long Beach. We met right after I moved in.” Stopping to evaluate her reaction, she’s literally on the edge of her seat.

  Without missing a beat, Mom says, “Well, go on. Tell me more about him.”

  So I do. I tell her about my tattoo and the reason behind why I had it done. “Delaney died in that final battle, the one that sent me home. I was missing him so badly at first, having his name tattooed on my skin was the only way I could think of remembering him.” She cries when I tell her about Delaney and laments about wishing she could have met him. “Lucky for me, I met Beck. I had an attack while he was working on me. And he . . . he treated me normally. That was probably the first thing that made me realize he was different.” Erring on the conservative side, I leave out the part about finding out about his apa, and about him drawing me in the nude. There are some things moms don’t need to know.

  It’s impossible for her not to smile when I tell her about Violet and about how sweet Beck is with her. “That’s a good sign,” she says. “Any man who is good with kids is kind at heart. It sounds like he’s really special.”

  “I don’t know. I think I screwed things up,” I admit, letting our final words play through my head.

  “Oh, honey, how so?” There’s no possible way to mistake her words for anything other than genuine concern. She hasn’t even flinched at my coming out and it makes me wonder why they hell I ever thought she would have ever had any other reaction.

  After I tell her about Lance and his surprise entrance on my life, I tell her about how I let Beck feel like I wanted to keep him hidden. “First of all,” she rolls her eyes and stifles a laugh, “your brother can be a real jerk sometimes, so don’t you pay any attention to him and what he has to say.” With a simple swipe of her hand, we both laugh aloud at her rather accurate assessment of Lance—one I hadn’t known we’d shared.

  “And?” I prompt.

  “Oh, and second of all,” she manages as she recovers from her laughter, “even if you think you’ve screwed up, you never know if you can fix it until you try.”

  On her last word, the machines start blaring out random noises. Lance bursts through the doors, quickly making his way over to us. Dad lays motionless on the bed despite the rapid and random movements of the arm on the brain monitoring machine. Before the doctors and nurses can make their way into the room, the monitors go silent, their buzzing the only noise apart from Mom’s sobs.

  After a quick, albeit rather pointless check of Dad’s vitals, the doctor who was in here earlier, nods sullenly to the nurse before saying, “Time of death twenty-three thirty-five.” He moves over to us, offering his condolences. They’re cold and meaningless, but when Gladine comes to Mom’s side, crying right along with her, the reality of his death hits us full force.

  “Is there anything I can do? Anyone I can call?” Gladine offers through her tears.

  “No, it’s just us now,” Mom says sadly, holding on to both Lance and I for support.

  When my own tears fall, I only wish Beck could be here to support me.

  Sleep is impossible that night. By the time we make it home, it’s early morning anyway. The inability to absorb the fact that he’s really gone keeps me awake even after everyone else has fallen asleep. Watching the sun rise above the mountains from the front porch, I pull out my phone and decide to call Beck.

  It rings a few times before he picks up. His sleepy voice fills the line. “Hello?”

  “Beck,” I choke on his name.

  “Hey.” When he recognizes it’s me, the greeting comes out filled with excitement. It’s an emotion he quickly checks, calming his voice, with a cool, detached, “What’s up?”

  The change in his tone puts me on guard, forces me to bite my tongue in order to protect my heart. “Uh, nothing.”

  “Yeah,” he jokes. “Well, it’s a good thing you called me at,” he pauses, surely checking the time, “six fifteen to tell me nothing.”

  The easiness of his words helps me relax a little, but when I hear another male voice alongside Beck’s, I remain anything but calm. “Yeah, sorry I called so early. I’ll try you again later.”

  His rushed words of repair are lost to my ears as I end the call. The last thing I need to hear is some lame excuse about how he thought we were done. And it’s not like I made the effort to keep in touch with him—not that he did either.

  It’s all such a fucked-up mess in my head—a confusion of who said what and how they said it. Did he still want me when I left? Does he still want me now? Was he just lonely? Who the hell knows?

  Even if you think you’ve screwed up, you never know if you can fix it until you try.

  With Mom’s words in my head, I call Beck again hoping for a much better result.

  “Hi,” he answers on the first ring. “That was Ty, by the way.”

  “You’re with Ty?” I gasp in shock.

  “No,” he gasps, disgust and disbelief lacing through his words. “You really think . . . no, you know what? Never mind. I’m not going to entertain your jealousy. You’re the one who didn’t want me.” His voice rises in volume and intensity, cra
cking with his obviously pent up anger. “You haven’t called. You haven’t once thought of me. You’re the one who left me. And now out of nowhere you think I owe you an explanation. That’s fucking rich.”

  A muffled silence descends on the line. Beck covers the receiver, but I can hear him talking to someone, telling them everything is okay, to just go back to sleep.

  Violet.

  Feeling like an asshole for interrupting his life, my need for him is forgotten. Their need for him is more important.

  Without saying another word, I let him return to his life and I return to mine. Thoughts of fixing things vanish as his voice fades away.

  He was right all along. The timing just wasn’t right.

  “Hey, man, I’m gonna go, now. Good luck with that lover’s spat,” Ty jokes, making his way out of the apartment.

  “Yeah, thanks a lot.” I walk him to the door, handing him some money for babysitting the previous night when I had work.

  “When is Dax going to be home?” Violet whines for the millionth time in the last ten minutes. I’d give anything for her not to have heard the tail end of that conversation with him.

  “Not sure, sugar pop. He didn’t say.” Of course, my answer isn’t good enough. It hasn’t been for the last two weeks. But it’s the truth. I have no clue what’s going on in his life and it’s driving me crazy. My own stupid-ass pride kept me from calling him. Fuck that. He didn’t even want me there with him. If he’s so ashamed of who he is, of being gay, then maybe it wasn’t meant to be, after all.

  Then all the thoughts that usually keep me wide awake at night come to haunt me during the day. What if it’s me he’s ashamed of? What if he just didn’t want his parents to meet me?

  It makes sense. I’ve got nothing going for me, besides how would he even go about introducing me. This is Beck, my boyfriend. He owns a tattoo shop and is taking care of his drug-addict sister’s four-year-old daughter while she’s in court-ordered rehab, for the third time. He lives in a shoebox of an apartment, but don’t worry. He’s getting a bigger place so he can move in with his sister.