Kick, Push

by Jay McLean

  Because it didn’t live in me.

  It lived in her.

  I opened the lid of the box and emptied its content all over the glass top of the coffee table. Hundreds of pictures scattered all over the place, some falling on the floor.

  I pointed at her, then at the pictures. “Look,” I mouthed, and she slowly picked up one, and then another, and another. Her eyes scanned through the memories of Josh and Tommy’s life together—every single moment I was able to capture. Every smile, every laugh, every bit of joy I was blessed to be a part of. Her hand froze mid-movement, her gaze fixed on a picture of Josh and Tommy sitting side by side on my grandmother’s porch, a single skateboard across both their laps. Their heads were thrown back, their smiles identical.

  The air turned thick.

  The silence deafening.

  “You see your son?” Cordy said.

  “You see his smile?”

  “You see how happy he is?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Do you, Natalie?”

  She looked up, right into my eyes.

  “Do you, Natalie?” Cordy repeated.

  Slowly, she nodded.

  “The smile on Tommy’s face—the happiness in his life—they don’t belong to you.”

  “You don’t deserve them.”

  “They belong to Josh.”

  “Because he earned them.”

  “You haven’t.”

  Natalie swallowed loudly, her fingers shaking as she set the photograph down with all the other ones.

  Henry cleared his throat. “It’s strange…” he started, and I turned to him. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands clasped together, his head bent and his voice low. “Out of all the people in my son’s life… the only one who has the courage to stand up for him is someone who’s only been in his life a few months.” He sniffed once, his shoulders lifting with the strength of it, but he didn’t look up. “It’s taken almost four years for the people that should’ve been there from the moment you got pregnant to be in the same room together—and this is why… Because of a little boy you gave birth to—my grandson—and we don’t even know him. You got scared and you left. I got scared and I turned him away. I was so afraid for him—afraid that he’d made a mistake and that his life was over and I thought it was my fault—that I didn’t raise him right and I was ashamed. What the hell kind of father does that make me?”

  He finally looked up, his eyes on Natalie. “He’s the only one who was man enough to do the right thing. His girlfriend had walked out and all the parents in his life turned their backs on him… and the one man he looked up to wasn’t man enough to deal with it. So we abandoned him. All of us. I lost my son, and for what? So that I can lie in a bed wanting to die because it’s easier than living with my regrets?”

  I reached out and without a moment’s hesitation, I took his hand.

  My grandmother gasped and I knew she wouldn’t understand; me touching a stranger. But he wasn’t. Not to me, and not in that moment. Right then, he was just like Josh. A man with regrets living in a world full of unforgiving circumstances.

  Henry added, “Do the same thing that Josh did three years ago. Do the right thing, Natalie. Please.”

  We drove Josh’s parents home in silence. It wasn’t until we pulled into their house that any of us even moved.

  “Josh can’t know about any of this,” Cordy relayed for me.

  “It stays between us,” Josh’s mom agreed.

  I looked at his dad but his gaze was on his lap again.

  I tapped his hand and when he looked up, I pointed to the box of pictures I’d taken with me. I lifted it between us and offered it to him.

  Then he did something that seemed so out of place on him; he smiled, a smile just like his son’s.

  He took the box from my hands.

  Followed by my phone.

  He tapped it a few times and then handed it back. “Thank you,” he said.

  And that was it.

  Two days later I got a message.

  Unknown: Don’t give up on him yet. But don’t wait three years like I did.

  37

  -Joshua-

  “So how’s things with Natalie?” Dad asks, sitting up in his bed sniffing whatever the hell Mom had just brought in for him. I chuckle as he places it on his nightstand next to my SK8F8 trophy.

  “Things are good. She Skyped with Tommy last night—says she misses the crap out of him. She’s only been gone a month.”

  He shrugs. “Tommy’s an easy kid to miss. I missed him yesterday.”

  “Well, I get to share him around now. I’ve got Chazarae and Rob and Kim—who’s not too happy about the new Tommy schedule, by the way—and now you and mom, plus I still want him to go to daycare so he’s around other kids, you know?”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Besides, he told me you gave him a chocolate bar before lunch.”

  Dad averts his gaze. “That little… I told him it was our secret.”

  “Yeah? I guess he’s only good at keeping the secrets he wants to keep,” I tell him, thinking about him and Becca’s secret language. He still won’t tell me what holding up one, two or three fingers means. I’ve asked, numerous times, and every time I do he asks about her. Where Becs? What Becs doing? I wish I could tell him, but I have no idea. So I tell him she’s out on adventures with her camera—because that’s what I hope she’s doing. Out there somewhere in the world, making adventures, living dreams, capturing moments that make her question life.

  “He’s not the only one good at keeping secrets,” Dad murmurs, and I wonder for a moment if he’s thinking about Becca, too—about their little secret. A secret I’ll take to the grave.

  I shrug, not knowing how else to respond.

  “And therapy?” he asks.

  “Same old. There’s really not a lot we discuss. I asked Natalie to think about dropping the clause. It’s just a waste of my time and money.”

  He sighs but he doesn’t press on. Instead, he asks, “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “Tommy and I were going to skate for a bit… thought I’d drop by to see if you were up to coming with but looks like you’re not doing too well.”

  He throws the sheets off of him and sits on the edge of the bed. “Let’s go.”

  “Mom said—”

  “Son, I love your mother. For many reasons. Giving me you is the main one. But Jesus Christ, that woman doesn’t quit nagging. I go downstairs and it’s twenty questions about everything. The other day she tried to sneak in getting my temperature while I was sleeping on the couch.”

  He waits for me to stop laughing before adding, “Sometimes I’m just happier in here staring at the wall and sitting in silence.”

  “So what? We have to sneak you out of here now?”

  “Leave it to me.”

  I wait for him downstairs while he gets changed and when he comes down the first thing he says is, “I’m going out, Ella, and I don’t want to hear it.”

  She pauses half way through pulling a Lego out of Tommy’s pants. “What do you mean you’re going out? What’s the weather like? Did you eat? Have you gone to the bathroom? What are you wearing? Who are you going with? What are you doing?”

  My dad looks at me, his hands on his hips and his eyebrows raised. “Told you,” he mouths.

  I stand up, laughing under my breath. “Ma, we’re just going to skate. I’ll take care of him. Promise.”

  She walks to the entryway and opens the closet, then pulls out his wheelchair and coat. “He has to be in the chair,” she says. “He gets too tired too quickly and it’s not good for his immune system if he catches a cold and—”

  “I’ll sit in the damn chair,” Dad shouts, sitting in the damn chair.

  “Damn chair!” Tommy yells.

  I cringe.

  “I’ll make you boys some lunch,” Mom says, fussing with his coat.

  “Ella! We’re grown ass men,” Dad grumbles.

  “Yeah!”
Tommy shouts. “We grown ass men.”

  “You can’t say stuff like that in front of Tommy,” I tell him.

  He drops his head. “Ah, shit.”

  “Dad!”

  Tommy laughs. “Ah, shit!”

  “Dammit!” Dad mumbles.

  “Dammit!” Tommy yells.

  ★★★

  “Hey, Warden! What’s up?” Chris, the guy from the SK8F8, says from behind the counter at Deck and Check, the only dedicated skate store in town.

  I slowly release Tommy from my back as I walk over to him. “You work here?”

  Chris shrugs. “Something like that.”

  “Like a summer job?” I ask. “Aren’t you still in high school?”

  “Just graduated and nope.” He leans back a little and nods a greeting at Dad rolling in behind me. “I own the store.”

  “What?” I ask, surprised. “What happened to Aiden?”

  “He wanted out so I bought it.”

  “So no college?”

  “Nah. Not my thing.”

  “And your parents are okay with that?”

  “My dad’s a TV producer, Warden. All the trashy reality bullshit you see on TV… that’s his doing. He didn’t go to college, he worked hard on the AV side and slowly worked his way up in the business until he was able to meet and talk to the right people. My dad doesn’t care for college. He thinks it’s a waste of time, and for what I want to do—I agree with him.”

  I nod slowly. “So that’s why you used to follow me around with a camcorder? Your dad’s influence?”

  “I knew you remembered me!” he says through a laugh. “What can I help you guys with today? This your old man?” he asks, dropping his gaze to my dad.

  “Yeah, that’s him.” I introduce them quickly then say, “I just need to get my kid and I some new boards.”

  He eyes me for a long moment but he doesn’t speak.

  “So, I’ll just take a look around I guess.”

  He nods, then moves around the counter and leads Tommy and I to the back wall where dozens of boards are on display. “So the online skate world kind of blew up after SK8F8. You were the number one topic. That must’ve been cool?” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t really check or anything.” I pick up a junior board for Tommy and show it to him. He says it’s poop.

  Dad laughs from behind me.

  I put the board back.

  “Listen…” Chris leans his shoulder against the wall. “I actually wanted to call you after the comp but I didn’t really have things worked out yet…”

  I stand taller. “Call me about what?”

  “Just hear me out, okay?”

  “You’re kind of freaking me out a little, dude.”

  He laughs once, pushes off the wall and bends down to Tommy’s level. “What’s your favorite color, Tommy?” he asks.

  “How do you know his name?”

  “Research.”

  “You mean stalking?”

  Chris laughs again. “Just a little.” He focuses back on Tommy. “So, little man. Favorite color?”

  “Poop,” Tommy tells him, and my dad chuckles.

  “So brown?”

  Tommy nods.

  Chris searches the board stock on the floor and when he finds the one he’s after, he opens it and shows it to Tommy. A shit-brown Torpedo board. “You like it?” Chris asks him.

  Tommy pulls out the board and inspects it, then drops it to the floor and settles one foot on the deck, rocking it back and forth. Then he looks up at Chris. “Yup.”

  “Good,” Chris says, patting Tommy’s shoulder. “It’s yours.”

  “Whoa. You can’t give—”

  He ignores me and speaks to Tommy again. “Whatever you want in the store, Tommy, it’s yours. Take it.”

  I step in front of him. “What the fire truck are you doing?”

  “You too, Warden, anything you want in the store, it’s yours.”

  I throw my hands in the air. “Okay, seriously, what the hell is going on?”

  He sighs dramatically and crosses his arms. “This store—it’s just a stepping stone for me. It’s small and that’s cool for now but I want to open another one, and another one. Then the biggest one in the state. And then the country.”

  “Why not just use your dad’s money and open another one? Also, if you want to make money then you have a lot to learn. Giving shit away is probably the first thing you’re doing wrong. They probably teach that in Business 101 in college. Maybe it’s not too late for you.”

  “Joshua,” Dad chides. “Language.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, even though he said the same thing in front of Tommy no less than fifteen minutes ago. Apparently being schooled by my dad still has the same effect, even at twenty.

  Chris rolls his eyes. “I don’t want my dad’s money. I want to earn it. I want to be able to look back and say that I did it. That I became successful and it was because I worked hard for it. And that’s not even the point. The point is the store is just something to keep me busy while I work on the major stuff.”

  “What major stuff?”

  “You, Warden.”

  “Me?”

  He nods. “Like I said, you can have anything in the store… you and your son. All you have to do is wear the Deck and Check gear at skate comps. You promote me and my brand and I promote you.”

  Amusement sets in. And then confusion. “Who says I’m doing more comps?”

  “Who says you aren’t?” Dad chimes in.

  Chris and I face him. “What?” I ask.

  “So?” Chris says, raising his hand between us. “Deal?”

  “What? No.”

  “You’ll also be my client.”

  “What client?”

  “I’ll be your agent, your PR rep, your assistant. Your everything, basically. And you know I’ll be good at it because I know the skate scene better than anyone. Not just the amateur or the underground, but the pro circuit too. And that’s where I plan on taking you.”

  Dad speaks again. “Josh, is he the kid from the skate comp you told me about?”

  I nod, my gaze switching between them.

  “Sounds like a good deal,” Dad says. “Your mother should be your manager.”

  “Okay,” Chris agrees.

  “What?” I ask everyone.

  Dad says, “Who else would look after your best interest better than your mother? Plus, she needs something to do when I kick the bucket.”

  “Dad!”

  He just shrugs.

  “Mom doesn’t know anything about skating,” I tell him.

  “I’ll teach her about the skate side. That’s not a problem,” Dad says.

  “So?” Chris asks.

  And I don’t really know what happens next or what the hell makes me say: “I’ll pay you.”

  Chris smiles. “I take a cut of anything you earn from the competitions and any sponsorship deals I might make from it. So will your momager.”

  “Momager?”

  “Mom/Manager…”

  Tommy laughs from the corner of the store—a dozen hats on his head. “I’m a fat-hat-man!”

  I turn back to Chris. “I don’t think any sponsors would be interested—”

  “They already are, Warden.”

  My mouth opens but nothing came out. Maybe it’s the shock… or maybe it was something else completely. “I don’t want anything that’s going to take me away from my son.”

  Chris shrugs and looks at Dad. “That’s cool. We can put it in the clause, right? You’ll speak to your wife about it? Actually, I’ll get her number and we can set up a meeting.”

  “What clause? What meeting?”

  “We’ll work on it. I’ll have my lawyer draft up the contract.” He jerks his head to his hand still raised between us. “Deal?”

  I swallow loudly. “I um…”

  “Just shake his hand, Son,” Dad says.

  So I do, because he’s my dad and I alwa
ys do what he says.

  “Good.” Chris grins from ear to ear and pats my arm twice. “This is going to be good, Warden. I can feel it.”

  “Me too,” Dad says, shaking Chris’s hand.

  “Me poop!” Tommy yells.

  Chris makes his way behind the counter again. “And I wasn’t kidding when I said you could take whatever you wanted. Just tell me what it is so I can remove it from inventory.” He busies himself with paperwork behind the computer. “I’ll get some shirts printed for you and your son.” He points to my dad. “And you and your wife too?”

  He nods.

  “Just give me a list of sizes for whoever else will be in your camp at the comp next weekend.”

  “Next weekend?” I shout.

  “Yep. We got a lot of work to do,” he mumbles, still not looking up.

  “I work full time, man. I can’t just drop it to train.”

  “Did you train for SK8F8?”

  “Well, no, but… I mean, I should train and I can’t get enough time in at the skate park while I’m watching Tommy and working and—”

  “Robby?” Dad interrupts, his phone to his ear. “Can Josh take the next week off?”

  38

  -Joshua-

  Chris takes care of everything; from my clothes, to my decks, registrations, schedules, etc. Luckily, this comp’s local—only an hour away. He says my mom and he will look at the full tour schedule and go through “logistics” later.

  Whatever that means.

  Chris’s good at what he sets out to achieve. I don’t have to worry about anything but skating and that’s pretty damn perfect for me.

  Of course everyone shows up to the event, even my dad, forced—again into a wheelchair by my mom. They wear their matching Deck and Check shirts and hats, the same ones I wear.

  They sit and watch me skate and move on to the next round, round after round, and each round they sit together and show their support.

  My mom claps.

  Robby whistles.

  Tommy squeals.

  But my dad—he just smiles the same proud smile I’ve seen at every comp he’s ever taken me to.

  And when it’s over, I drive us back to my parent’s house; set the first place trophy right next to the other trophy on dad’s nightstand and I face him. “I skated my heart out today.”