by K. M. Walton
I gaze at Dad’s smooth forehead and count his breaths. Now that you’re about to leave me, Dad, I really don’t want you to die. “I wish he had more t-time.” My voice cracks. Vance looks up so fast that I don’t have time to swipe the tear running down my cheek. He glares at me. And glares. I turn away. The pain in his eyes is so intense, so sharp.
He hates me.
How will we survive this? The future? Anything?
If Vance chooses to move on without me, I will have no blood relative in my life. No one to share a family memory with. No one to commiserate this loss with. Why am I suddenly wanting things that I could’ve had my whole life? Maybe watching my father die a slow death has made me lose touch with reality.
An ache forms at the base of my skull. I want to crawl into a bed and sleep for days. Vance and I don’t speak for a while, maybe an hour, and I’m okay with this. If Vance had kept it up, I might’ve blabbed my feelings out. I don’t think I’m ready to admit any of that stuff to him.
Vance winces as he stands. “The sofa out in that Common Room sucks. I hurt my bad knee getting up.”
I hadn’t noticed him limping when he came in so I hope this is his way of letting me know that he’s moved on. “Well, we’re in a hospital,” I say. “I’m sure they’d be able to spare two ibuprofen.”
He must still be angry with me because he acts as if I’ve said nothing. To show him that I’ve moved on, I say, “I’ll go get you some. Stay off your knee.” Out of habit I take my sketchbook with me.
He doesn’t look up as I pass, but he says, “Thank you.”
Vance
Eight months ago
Growler’s mom never did extend the invitation for me to stay the night, so I fake-left and just walked the boards until Growler could meet me.
“If the cops come, run. They’ve only showed up once before, and we all got away,” Growler said.
“How many people come to these parties?”
“Could be twenty, could be fifty. Depends on who’s down and who brought friends.” He tossed his arm around my shoulder. “We’re hooking up tonight, friend. No doubt. These girls love lax players down here.”
We passed the last row of beachfront condos and then the final light pole. The boardwalk ended, and we stopped to survey the dark beach. Growler pointed to a light about two football fields away. “There they are. See the fire?”
We wandered up, grabbed two beers from the keg, and started socializing. About twenty minutes and three beers later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and there was the hot girl from the Mann, smiling. “Hey, Vance, right?”
She remembered my name? My head bobbed, and to be cool, I took a sip from my cup.
She tilted her head, and the firelight caught her face. Wow, still beautiful. “So, Vance, who are you here with?”
I chugged the rest of my beer before answering her. “Well, Chrissy-with-the-boyfriend, shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
“It’s Christina actually.” Her mouth curled into a grin. “And you can ask me whatever you want. I don’t have to answer you, but you can ask me.”
Before I had time to organize a normal response, I blurted out, “Here’s a question. Are you flirting with me?” What the hell? What a dick. I needed another beer.
She looked me in the eye. “Maybe.”
“Where’s your boyfriend?”
“Not here.”
I smiled. “Well, that’s good news.”
“Wanna go for a walk?”
“Only if you promise not to take advantage of me,” I said.
“I don’t like to promise things unless I can fully commit.”
I nodded. “So you plan on taking advantage of me out there?”
“Maybe.”
I held out my hand and offered to fill our cups before we walked. Growler sat by the fire with a curly-haired girl, and they were laughing their asses off. I bent down and told him I was going for a walk. We gave each other knuckles.
Christina was waiting right where I left her. She took her full cup from me and looped her arm in mine. “So you go to West Chester High School with Jacque, right? Do you like it? Jacque never shuts up about how much she loves that school and softball, and who the hell cares, right? High school sucks. It’s designed to suck. Who thought putting a thousand teenagers in varying stages of puberty together in small rooms with cranky middle-aged adults was a good idea? It’s madness.
“Why couldn’t school-school just end after eighth grade graduation? Then we would all have to go to cyber high school. And we wouldn’t have to be perfect, or care about what to wear or who saw us trip up the stairs. We could graduate and go right to college. Everyone says college is way better and all the high school bullshit disappears. Why does high school have to exist at all? Right?”
Christina stopped dead in her tracks, and since we were linked, I stopped too. My beer sloshed out of my cup. She took a deep breath and said, “Sorry. Whoo. Wow. Vent much? I guess I’m ready for high school to be over. Can you tell?”
I liked WCHS. But to make her feel better, I told her I agreed.
A tall, white lifeguard stand loomed up ahead. We headed toward it and climbed up. We sat shoulder to shoulder. The moon was bright, and stars dotted the sky. She took a sip and then asked, “So what do you love?”
I snorted and raised my cup.
“Besides a buzz.”
The waves crashed as I tried to come up with a decent answer. “Having fun.”
“That’s in the same category as having a buzz. What else?”
I nudged her with my shoulder. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a question.”
I echoed what she’d said earlier. “You can ask me whatever you want. I don’t have to answer, but you can ask me.”
She held up her cup and we toasted. “Touché, my friend.”
After a minute or so I said, “Lacrosse. I love lacrosse. There.”
“Why?”
“You should either be a lawyer or a shrink.”
“Ew. No.” She shivered. “I’m going to be an author.”
I squinted and studied her face. “I could see that.”
“Okay. Back to you. What’s so great about lacrosse? Sports are a mystery to me. What can you possibly get from running and sweating and tossing around a little white ball?”
“I could ask you the same about books. Reading is a mystery to me.”
Christina covered her ears. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.” She threw her head back and laughed. “Totally kidding. So, lacrosse?”
“It makes me happy.”
She swung her feet back and forth. “Care to elaborate?”
“Nope.”
“Fair enough.”
We sat in the moonlight, Christina’s head on my shoulder, and just breathed. I didn’t try to kiss her, and she didn’t kiss me. We hung out in the quiet until she fell asleep. In my mind, I went over all the ways lacrosse made me happy. The challenge of training, how I came alive on the field, the way my teammates and coaches respected me, even just being outside breathing in fresh air. Lacrosse was a part of me.
Christina caught herself as her head slipped off me. “Shit. Sorry, Vance. Wanna head back?”
I hopped off and helped her down. All of a sudden, she wrapped herself around me and squeezed me tight. “Thank you,” she said into my neck. “This was nice, just hanging out together. You’re a good guy.”
Blood rushed to my crotch. Great. Poking her with a boner would definitely make her change her mind about me. I broke the embrace. “It was nice. You’re nice.” What a dick.
“Let’s walk back. My friends probably think I left.” She linked her arm in mine again.
I probably should’ve kissed her. I wanted to.
When we emerg
ed from the darkness, all hell broke loose. Just like that.
While Christina and I were chumming it up like two old pals, her boyfriend had shown up to surprise her, and he had five buddies with him.
I had Growler.
I’ll admit that it didn’t look good, Christina and me coming back from a walk. Her boyfriend definitely didn’t like it. No amount of “Dude, we didn’t do anything” worked on him. He was wasted and full of jealous rage. Not a great combo. He came at me, and then it was a giant all-pile-on-Vance party. Growler tried to help, but he was only one guy. The two of us didn’t go down easy, but yeah, we went down.
In addition to the six dudes kicking my ass, the sand played a part in my demise. It was impossible to hold my ground when the ground itself wouldn’t stay still. It was like fighting on a treadmill. One guy held me from behind while boyfriend-guy popped me square in the face. When I was released, my leg twisted in the most inhuman way. I heard something snap in my knee.
Someone called the cops. The party scattered like roaches when the big flashlights and loud voices came. Growler and I would’ve run too, but he was knocked out cold and I couldn’t even stand up. I’d tried twice, but the pain from my knee made me collapse into a moaning heap.
The cops found the weed. I failed the Breathalyzer test.
Maybe I should’ve kissed her.
Oscar
I wake with a shiver and sit up. In a smooth motion, I push on the lever and get the recliner upright. A rattled breath leaves Dad’s body. I wait for another, which comes. He is still alive.
Vance is crumpled in the uncomfortable chair. There’s no way he’s going to wake up refreshed.
According to my phone, it’s six twenty in the morning. Maybe Vance could get a few quality hours of sleep if I woke him and got him over on the pullout. I stare longingly at its untouched comfort. It calls to me. But I was the last one to sleep on it. What’s fair is fair.
I give his shoulder a shake. “Vance?”
Normally my brother required multiple attempts at being woken up, often to the point where Dad resorted to blaring music in his room. Not since we’ve been close to losing our father though. He’s been springing awake. Like now.
“Is he dead?” he blurts out.
“Still alive.”
He puffs his cheeks up with air and rubs his eyes. “Why’d you wake me then?” There’s no anger in his tone, which is startling to me. His question is simply a question.
I point to the luxurious-looking pullout. “You’d probably get higher-quality sleep over there. It was your turn last night.”
Vance stretches and groans. “Did you sleep?”
“Some. He’s still at three breaths.”
He stands and lifts the sheet, and we stare at our father’s legs. Now his calves have swelled and his feet seem even puffier. We lock eyes.
Vance’s eyes are screaming. My eyes are screaming.
We are together silently screaming.
Vance lets go, covering Dad’s bloated limbs. “Why is Dad such a fucking mess?”
I immediately launch into the reason for his swollen legs, and Vance cuts me off. “No!” he shouts. “Not now. His whole life. How did he get this way?”
Vance’s question is one I’ve asked myself for years, but it is shocking to hear him wonder. I’d always presumed Vance approved of how Dad lived his life. The partying. The lackadaisical attitude. The women. Now he’s asking me how Dad got this way? Now?
He adds, “Do you think it’s because his parents died when he was so young?”
“We don’t have to turn out like him, Vance.” Saying it out loud, with Dad still breathing in and out, makes my stomach swirl. I expect my brother to launch another attack, a fresh argument.
He exhales and nods, and I am stunned.
Not turning out like Dad is important to me. I want to set roots and connect with the people who matter to me. I don’t want to overlook stuff like he did. I want to learn from my father’s mistakes and be better.
Seeing. Hearing. Loving like I mean it. That’s the man I want to be.
Vance heads to the pullout, crawls in with his back to me, and curls up.
The new nurse from the hallway comes in, sees Vance, and walks gingerly toward me. “Hey, there,” she whispers, “how’s everyone doing in here?”
She’s a very tiny and compact woman with short, dark-gray hair and a warm smile. I take in a huge breath—that is a tricky question she just asked. How is everyone doing in here? My brother is so wiped out he has forgotten that he hates me. I’m delirious, working on about two hours of fitful sleep. And my dad, well, his luck is about to run out. I’m not getting into all that with this woman. I lie, “Fine.”
She tucks her lips into a grin and raises her eyebrows. “You sure about that? You look exhausted.”
I shrug and nod.
“Well, let me get a look at your dad.” She walks over to his bedside and scans him head to toe before touching his forearm. The blanket lifts in her grasp, and her mouth tightens into a line.
“My brother and I just saw his calves. The fact that his feet are now bigger is bad, right? That’s what Barbara explained yesterday.” God, that feels like years ago. So does Vance and me driving behind the ambulance. Watching them roll our unconscious father into the hospice building. Meeting Barbara, getting him situated in his own room. Her explaining why they consistently lift the sheet to check the lower half of the body.
And it was only three days ago.
“I’m sure Barb or Marnie explained how the swelling is related to the kidneys,” she says.
“Barb did.” I glance at her name tag and nearly swallow my tongue. Her name is Peggy. That was my mother’s name. My sleepless haze last night must’ve prevented me from noticing her name.
“You’re Oscar or Vance?” she asks.
“Oscar.”
She reaches across my father’s exposed legs to shake my hand. “I’m Peggy.”
Even hearing her say the name aloud makes my stomach clench.
“Your dad’s new swelling tells me his kidneys are slowing down.” Peggy takes one of my father’s hands into hers. “And his blue nail beds mean that his circulation is steering clear of the edges of his body and sending the blood to the organs instead.”
Why hadn’t I noticed the blue tone of his nail beds? I’ve been staring at him for hours. Does this mean we’ll lose him today? In a few hours? Should I wake up Vance?
“Why don’t you sit down, Oscar,” she says. She’s by my side in a flash, guiding me into the recliner. “You’re as white as this sheet.” Peggy feels my forehead. “Lean back, okay? Let me put your feet up.” I do as I’m told and she pulls the chair’s side handle, lifting my feet. “There you go. Sit tight. I’ll be right back with some orange juice.”
When I first arrived here, all I wanted was for him to die. I thought wanting it would prepare me. Now that the information is upon me, crushing with the weight of an elephant, with the weight of a thousand elephants, the desire for him to leave is gone. I don’t want it anymore. I will reject it. Cover my ears. Close my eyes.
I fake sleep. Peggy leaves a cup of OJ on the dresser at the foot of Dad’s bed. She doesn’t see the circus giants sitting on my chest, their trunks trumpeting in my ears, their thick, white tusks stabbing me.
Vance
Eight months ago
The first person I called from the emergency room was Oscar. Not Dad. My fingers just auto-tapped his number. There was no way I could’ve spoken to Dad right out of the gate. The situation was a shit show. So, like I said, the cops found the weed, I failed the Breathalyzer test, and I needed major reconstructive surgery on my knee. After my MRI, they said I had the “unhappy triad of the knee.” The specialist they called in nodded when I asked him if this would affect lacrosse.
Shit.
Show.
I lost it, cursing and punching the bed. The doctor actually took a step back, and two nurses appeared out of nowhere. “Vance! Calm down,” the one nurse kept shouting. I tossed my head back, closed my eyes, and tried to catch my breath. My thoughts were as messy as my knee—reliving the ugly parts, jumping from thing to thing. The fight, the pain, having to face my dad, the look on the doctor’s face.
Once I was sure the adults were out of the room, I opened my eyes. The first thing that came to mind was: I couldn’t lose lacrosse.
My whole future was linked to it. So was my happiness. Being out on the field made everything disappear—Mom’s death, Dad’s drinking, Oscar’s miserableness. I needed lacrosse. Really, Dad’s happiness was also linked to it. The only time he smiled lately was when he watched me play.
The doctor let me have my fit, and then he clarified, “Not forever. But you’ve torn your anterior cruciate ligament, medial collateral ligament, and your medial meniscus. Your injury is severe. I’d count next season out. Lacrosse is a spring sport, right?”
With my jaw clenched and air shooting from my nostrils, I nodded.
“You’ll still be in rehab next spring. Are your parents on the way?”
I gave him a blank stare and bobbed my head again. When he left, I immediately called Oscar.
After sharing the disaster I was in, it became a breathe-off on the phone between me and Oscar. He broke the silence first. “The police are going to ask for some sort of identification, Vance.”
This was the technicality I couldn’t figure out. “What about Joey or Bill? Couldn’t they pretend to be Dad?”
“I’m certain the authorities will require some form of valid identification.”
He was right. “I can’t tell him, Oscar. I just can’t.” Deep down, I knew this was the real reason I’d called my brother. Yes, Dad was normally pretty laid-back, and he’d taken my vodka suspension in stride, but this was uncharted territory. I’d never been arrested before.
I wanted Oscar to be the one to tell our father how badly I’d fucked up. How I’d just destroyed his one positive escape.