by K. M. Walton
I barrel around the bed and stumble into the hall. Jacque is nowhere to be found, and for this I’m thankful.
Where can I go? Vance’s car is locked. School is in full swing over there so I can’t walk outside. Is there a bathroom close by? I have no destination but I move. As I’m about to pass the empty Common Room, the piano catches my eye. I pause and stare. All of a sudden, another Mozart piece plays in my mind: Requiem in D minor. I can actually hear the beginning with the violins, the choir. I pull my phone from my pocket and type the name of the piece into iTunes search. I tap the play button, and the sad notes fill the quiet room.
I drag one of the chairs over to face the window. I sit and cry and listen to Mozart. I would give anything for my music to have its normal effect on me. Calming yet thrilling. Peaceful and fulfilling.
Right now, it’s simply recognizable noise.
Dad is gone. I never got to look him in the eye and get to the bottom of our layered and complicated relationship. The most important consistency in my life—having a living parent—no longer exists. Dinners at home, having a home, my job at the bar were constants, things that equaled family to me. Will any of them continue? How can they without Dad? He was the last bit of glue we had.
I shake my head as this realization takes shape.
Dad, my God, I can’t believe you’re gone.
Vance
Six months ago
My lawyer was dead-on about what the judge would give me: probation and counseling. For probation I was ordered to attend school regularly, which I did; hold a steady part-time job once my knee healed, which I had; and meet with a probation officer, which I wasn’t too excited about. Since my shit show had happened in New Jersey, my lawyer requested that I be allowed to work with a Pennsylvania probation officer and counselor. The judge agreed.
For the last two weeks of September, my schedule had been: Monday counseling, Tuesday physical therapy, Wednesday probation officer, Thursday physical therapy, Friday collapse.
Counseling consisted of me with a group of other kids my age in various degrees of addiction and disaster. Some had been expelled from school, others kicked out of their homes, one girl never said a single word, one dude cried every time. The group members changed a lot so it was hard to get invested in them or their stories. I never said too much but I listened. The therapist was an okay guy, not very inspiring, kind of just going through the motions.
At the conclusion of each session, I’d walk out thinking what a huge waste of time it all was. And not that I’m, like, really in favor of making kids go to therapy or anything, but the sessions really were a pile of missed opportunities. Some of those kids were pretty messed up emotionally, and they could’ve used inspiration.
It was Wednesday so I sat across from Mr. Richards, my probation officer, for our second check-in. He was a big guy with a shaved head and thick, black-rimmed glasses. The first time we met him, Dad and I said his handshake practically squeezed the life out of us. He was obviously letting us know he was all man. My pinkie ached for an hour afterward. I got the message.
“Let’s get started,” he said. Mr. Richards was cranky and serious, which I could handle because he didn’t waste time on friendly shit. So in addition to being all man, he was also all business.
His office was small and cramped and filled with nothing but filing cabinets and Eagles paraphernalia. There were bobbleheads, player figurines, framed ticket stubs. Folded jerseys, footballs, posters. This guy was a hard-core fan.
His desk was covered in neat stacks of paper, along with a laptop and an enormous office phone. Seriously, that phone had three rows of preset buttons and a dial pad.
“I’d like to stick with weekly meetings till the end of the month and then go to every other week. Assuming, of course, you continue to keep your end of the bargain.”
“Okay.” My end of the bargain meant counseling, clean drug tests, school, and work.
He dropped his eyes and began filling out a paper from my file. “We’ll reassess midpoint, which’ll take us to Christmas.”
“And this ends in March, right?”
Mr. Richards’s hand froze, and he lifted his brows. “Let’s take this one day at a time, Vance.”
I nodded slowly.
He went through the same boring stuff as last week, and then we were done. I limped back toward the car. Each step hurt like hell, like a sharp, stabby pain. My physical therapist said recovery from my injury was one of the longest and that I’d have pain for a pretty long time.
Oscar had dropped me off at the front door so I wouldn’t have to walk far. Since the probation meetings were over in twenty minutes, he’d decided to just wait in the car. I scanned the lot and saw that he wasn’t too far away. As I got closer, I could see that he had his homework spread out all over the front seats. I tapped on the hood and startled him.
“Damnit!” he shouted.
I grinned. Scaring the crap out of him hadn’t gotten old yet.
“God, Vance! You made me rip my notebook page,” he said. Oscar was so damn uptight.
By the time I got situated in the front seat, I’d lost the urge to apologize. So I let it go.
He turned onto the road. “When can you drive yourself around? I’m unequivocally over being your chauffeur.”
I clutched my chest. “Aw, come on, little brother, you’re breaking my heart. You mean you’re not loving our extra time together?”
He stared straight ahead and acted as if I hadn’t said a word. Why didn’t he have a fully formed sense of humor? I swear it felt like he was part cranky old man. “I’m obviously kidding, Oscar. You’re always a total buzzkill.”
He huffed. “Oh right, I’m killing your buzz. Maybe you should stop chasing the party and learn how to be quiet.”
“I haven’t partied since the beach, so how about you be quiet?”
“Whatever, Vance. You know as well as I do that when your knee heals, you’ll be back to numbing yourself up, and then you and Dad can party your feelings away.”
A huge semitruck whizzed past, shooting a whoosh of air into my face. I just wanted to live. I wanted to feel alive and know that I was present and accounted for. What was wrong with having fun? Oscar wouldn’t know how to lighten up even if he went to Fun School and studied fun. My brother was mind-numbingly un-fun.
“Me driving myself can’t come soon enough, shithead,” I said. “Believe me.”
Oscar
Since my back is to the world, I let myself fall apart. My face slick with tears, my mouth open and twisted, my sobs loud. I can’t bear to be near his body. Not when it is already starting to get cold.
Did I say what I wanted to say? Was my good-bye enough? Will I ever forgive myself for wanting his death to come sooner? I have no answers. Things that will never happen again torture me: I’ll never hear his voice, buy him another Father’s Day gift, see him smile, drive in the car with him, watch him serve customers behind the bar.
None of it.
I wasted so many moments while he was alive by being moody and jealous. It was so easy to resent the fun he and Vance always had. Why didn’t I ever join them?
I should’ve joined them.
After a while I’m dry. I am unable to shed another tear. No one has bothered me since I’ve been in the Common Room, which is very thoughtful. It’s most likely hospice protocol to let family members grieve privately. I wonder how my brother is, if he’s still in there with Dad. Maybe we should be together right now. Before walking back, I use a bunch of tissues to clean up my face.
Just before I enter Dad’s room, a terrifying thought jabs me: I am an orphan.
Vance will be the only person to whom I can say, “Do you remember when Dad…” If my brother pulls away from me—which is absolutely possible, considering our relationship—I will be alone.
I’m just outside Dad’s room, and I ca
n hear Vance crying. The sound catapults me back to when we got the news of Mom’s death. The heartbreak, the despair, the fear—it’s all there in that miserable sound. The door glides open, and the scene before me rips a fresh hole in my heart. Vance has the chair pulled up to Dad’s bedside, as close as he can get it, and his head rests on the mattress. And he is bawling.
Somehow my body produces more tears, and they spill over. I walk to the other side of the bed. Vance lifts his head. We lock eyes, desperately searching each other’s gaze for something, anything. He drops his chin as his body shakes with sobs.
There aren’t any useful words to say so we don’t talk.
Dad looks awful, and I desperately want to close his mouth. His skin has taken on a yellowish-gray tone that looks about as far from living as possible.
After a while the room goes silent. Vance and I are cried out. It is in this quiet that I glue my eyes to my father’s chest. It’s still as stone. His labored breaths are done. What are we going to do without him?
A light knock on the open door makes us both turn and look. It’s Peggy. “Just so you know, boys, you can sit with your dad as long as you like. We don’t put a time limit on things here.”
Vance sniffles, nods, and stands.
“When you’re ready, come and get one of us, and we’ll explain what happens next. Take all the time you need here with him, okay?”
I bob my head this time. She does the same before heading back into the hall.
Vance and I are alone with our father’s body, again.
“D-dad was too y-young to die. He was too fucking young!” Vance gets louder with each exclamation. “This can’t be h-happening!” His eyes leak, sending fresh tears down his cheeks. He runs his hands through his hair as he paces. I think he’s about to punch something. What he just said is true, except the “this can’t be happening part.” It has already happened. We are currently in what Vance would call a “shit storm.”
My mother would be hugging us, kissing our foreheads and telling us we’d be okay, but she’s been gone for three years now. I haven’t had a hug since her funeral.
I wish I had the guts to go embrace my brother, squeeze him tight, so we could share this heavy sadness. But I don’t want to get punched in the face. He looks like he’s about to blow.
Vance continues going from bed to sitting room and back. “How can he be dead? We have no parents, Oscar! What are we going to do without Dad?”
I clear my throat. “That’s what I keep asking myself. What are we going to do without him?”
He kicks the side of the dresser. The lamp wobbles, and my arm shoots out to steady it. I don’t want Vance to get in trouble for losing it again.
“Maybe we should tell them we’re done. Are we done?” I ask.
Vance turns back to the bed. “The thought of him lying in some freezer all alone makes me want to puke.”
I hadn’t thought of that, and I shiver. The image of him on a metal gurney, all alone in the morgue produces a wave of nausea. I actually may vomit. I throw my head back and take in a huge breath through my nose. The queasy feeling remains.
We need someone to come and tell us we’re done. We have no idea what we’re doing. Why won’t they help us? We’re drowning in here. Tiny white stars flicker in my eyes. I can’t catch my breath. My whole body is on fire. I stumble backward and—
Vance
Five months ago
You know those scared-straight shows? The ones where the army guy or ex-cop went all hardcore on badass kids and tried to reform them?
I didn’t need that.
I was completely hell-bent on getting my knee strong so I wouldn’t lose my Drexel scholarship. By some miracle, Drexel remained in the dark about my arrest and my injury, so I still had my early commitment and full scholarship. Everyone in my counseling group said that since my arrest wasn’t big time and all over the news, Drexel probably would never find out. My dad was psyched about that bit of information. He said it was the only good thing he’d heard about me lately. Even though that stung a little, he was right, so I didn’t argue.
But my injury was what kept me up at night. Both the ER doctor and my surgeon had said I’d probably never play at the level I was used to. I chose not to believe them. Instead I gritted my teeth, sucked up the pain, and worked harder than anyone in my rehab. It didn’t matter which physical therapist I had working me out—I blew their mind every single time.
That was keeping me clean. My drug counselor must’ve told me how proud I should be of myself, like, a million times. What I’d said to Oscar was true. I hadn’t partied since the bonfire. In the beginning, my lack of energy helped me turn down the invitations, but after a while kids stopped asking, so I wasn’t patting myself on the back too hard. This injury officially kicked my ass. It also kicked my social life’s ass.
My schedule didn’t help matters either. I usually went straight from whatever thing I had after school to the bar to work.
Today was one of those rare Thursdays when my physical therapy got canceled at the last minute. I told Oscar to just go; I wanted to walk to the bar. The day was clear and crisp so I sat on the sidelines watching the football team run drills. Since I couldn’t play a sport, I got a rush watching other people do their stuff on the field. I even started going to WCHS’s ice hockey games.
Growler walked up and sat next to me. “You do know football has the most knee injuries, right?”
I tightened my brow. “No, it doesn’t. Basketball does,” I said with absolute authority. Let’s just say I’d become an expert on sports injuries, especially knee-related.
His mouth slid to the side. “Hmm. Maybe you’re right.”
“I am right. Hello.” I pointed to my knee. “It’s all I’ve talked about four days a week for the past three months.”
We watched the players run routes for a little while. The sun went behind a block of clouds, making the already cool November day go friggin’ cold.
Growler pointed to the field. “Liam’s having a party tomorrow night. Wanna go?”
“I’m working,” I lied. It was my go-to excuse when Growler asked me to party.
“Damn. Your dad’s a slave driver.” He snorted. “It’s after their play-off game, which they’re going to win. Look at them out there!” He cupped his mouth and shouted, “They’re animals!”
I didn’t want to be around alcohol or weed. I wasn’t ready yet. Couldn’t tell Growler that, but it was the truth.
“Everyone’s going. Come on, Vance. People’ll be psyched to see you out.”
“Can’t go, dude. Drop it.” I stood up and changed the subject. “Let’s go get coffee.”
“The Black Bean?” Growler asked.
The Black Bean was the coffee shop in town. “I feel like walking. It’ll be good to loosen me up.”
Growler nodded, and we crossed the end zone.
“When did they say you’d stop limping?” he asked.
I shoved my hands deep into my hoodie pockets. “They didn’t.” Growler’s real question was: When did they say you could play lacrosse? Even though practice wouldn’t start till spring, it was usually one of our main topics of conversation. Growler hardly brought it up anymore.
I’d made the decision that I’d see how I felt once practice started up. But four months of rehab remained, so I had time on my side. Time and determination.
No way I was going to let my scholarship go. I had to fight and claw my way back to a full recovery. For me, yes, but also for my dad. Things needed to be like they were before. Dad eventually came around and stopped just barking orders at me, but it felt different. He would watch me out of the corner of his eye and pretend not to. He had stopped dancing, stopped smiling, and drank himself into a slurring, unhappy mess every night.
His pride in me needed to come alive. I had to bring his happiness back.
; “You guys going to Sugarloaf again for Thanksgiving?”
I hadn’t thought about that. Last year, Dad had talked about it every night once Halloween hit. This year, he hadn’t mentioned a word. We went skiing up there the Thanksgiving after Mom died. Dad said it would do us all good to get away from the house, and he was so right. Skiing at Sugarloaf meant we didn’t have to be in our silent kitchen. Mom always cooked a big feast for us.
I couldn’t ski. Shit, I was still gimping around. “Probably not,” I said. My physical therapists would lose their minds if I tried to ski.
Growler scrunched up his face. “Stupid question. Sorry, dude.”
I changed the subject. “You going to your aunt’s in Reading?”
“As usual.”
We walked a block without talking. That wasn’t an unusual thing for us to do, but now it felt awkward, like we were both thinking things we couldn’t say. My mind was locked on the fact that we’d be home for Thanksgiving—home without Mom.
Growler grabbed my arm and yanked me back. “Whoa!”
A car whizzed by. My eyes went wide.
“You seriously were going to walk across, weren’t you? I just saved your life. High-five.” His hand hovered in the air.
I folded in half and leaned on my knees. What was my problem?
Oscar
I come to in the recliner. Vance and Peggy stand at my feet, talking to each other. They don’t know I’m conscious. I listen.
Vance says, “I can’t believe he just passed out like that. Is he going to be all right?”
A lump forms in the back of my throat. My brother is worried about me—maybe for the first time in his life.
Peggy says, “He’ll be okay. His vital signs are good. Let’s let him wake up on his own.” The room goes quiet for a few minutes, and then she adds, “The social worker is on her way. She’ll do everything she can so that you and Oscar make it through this.”