Ultimatum

by K. M. Walton

  “What the hell are you doing?” He shoved my hands away.

  “It’s Dad! He’s in the emergency room. Some lady just called and said he was in a car accident. They want us there right now!”

  Oscar pushed himself up to sitting. “Oh my God.”

  “Get dressed. Let’s go!”

  I pulled up to the emergency room doors and parked. The security guard stopped us. “Are either of you the patient?”

  “No. Our dad’s in there!” I barked.

  “I’m sorry, guys, but you can’t park there. You’re in the ambulance lane. The ER lot is right over—”

  I cut him off. “Seriously, sir? Our father could be dying right now.” I turned and went through the automatic doors.

  Oscar grabbed my arm. “We can’t block the ambulances, Vance!”

  “I don’t give a shit about ambulances!” I screamed in his face.

  He held out his hand. “Give me the keys.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from bawling right there in front of the guard and dropped the keys into his palm. I turned and darted to the front desk.

  The nurse called someone as soon as I asked where Steve Irving was. A blond, curly-haired woman came through the double doors. She introduced herself as the woman from the phone as we walked double time through the ER. She pulled a curtain back and there he was. My knees buckled. “Oh shit, Dad. What did you do?” He was unconscious. Cuts all over his face, hands, and forearms. He had some type of breathing apparatus with tubes and straps, and he had a baby-blue neck brace on.

  The front desk nurse brought Oscar back. He was panting. “I ran,” he whispered to no one.

  We stood shoulder to shoulder and stared at our broken father.

  One sentence was on repeat in my head: He might die mad at me.

  Oscar

  Ms. Becker shakes a few curls off her face and then takes a deep breath. “Okay. Options. Vance, I assume you’re headed off to college in the fall?”

  My brother and I steal a look before he responds. “Well, it’s complicated,” he says.

  She grins. “Complicated is my specialty.”

  “I have a plan,” he says and then stops.

  Ms. Becker and I wait.

  Vance buries his face in his hands and loses it.

  Ms. Becker and I wait.

  Crying doesn’t faze her. I like that. Truthfully, at this point, crying doesn’t faze me either—even when Vance does it. So we let him get it out. I stare out the window over Ms. Becker’s shoulder, and she begins to fill out papers. It’s all very patient, very civilized.

  He grabs the box of tissues and mops off. “That was one of the last things I said to my dad. I never got to tell h-him…” He’s unable to finish.

  Ms. Becker says, “I know this is rough. Do you need a few more minutes?”

  “No.” Vance blows his nose. “I’m good.”

  “There is no rush. I can wait,” she says.

  He shakes his head. “College. Yeah. Complicated. I lost my full ride to Drexel on account of blowing out my knee. I played lacrosse. My big plan was to commute and take a few classes at Drexel, not go full time, get them under my belt, and then maybe my knee would get stronger, and I don’t know, maybe I could get my scholarship back.” He sighs. “Now that I say it out loud, it sounds pretty stupid. Without the scholarship, Dad said I had to pay for college on my own. I don’t even know what I want to major in. My whole world was lacrosse. It’s all stupid.”

  Ms. Becker tilts her head and smiles. “Stupid? That was the exact path I took after graduating from high school. Applied late, took some classes at West Chester University, got in as a full-time student, had no clue what I wanted to study, remained undecided for a whole year. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Vance. You’ve got a lot on your plate right now.”

  Ever since Vance’s surgery, he’s been different. Not like, whoa, Vance is suddenly volunteering at the homeless shelter and being kind to everyone. It has been a subtle, quiet difference. Actually, he was quieter. His anger still bubbled just below the surface, but it was like his voice and his overt aggression were yanked down a level. I steal side-eyed glances at my brother. I think Ms. Becker is right. Vance has been rough on himself.

  I simply failed to notice.

  A thin string of regret ties around my heart. And tightens.

  Ms. Becker thumbs through Dad’s will. “According to this document, you both have college funds. Looks like each account has one hundred and fifty thousand in it.”

  My eyebrows pinch together. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Each? Why hadn’t Dad told us he’d put away so much? Was he planning on surprising us or something?

  “W-what did you say?” Vance sputters.

  She tucks a curl behind her ear. “I’m guessing from your reactions that you were unaware these accounts existed.”

  “No, we knew about them. I had no idea they contained that much,” Vance says. He turns to me. “Did you know?”

  I mouth, “No.”

  She says, “Well, if I’ve learned anything doing this job for the past ten years, it’s that parents are mysterious creatures. Sometimes in a good way. Sometimes not so much.”

  “This is a good way, right? I mean, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for each of us? That’s unreal. Why didn’t he tell us?” Vance rambles.

  “I’m sure he had his reasons,” she says.

  Vance and I lock eyes, and he repeats, “This is…unreal…”

  “Agreed,” I say.

  Ms. Becker brings our attention back to Vance’s options. “So, you don’t have to be Oscar’s legal guardian. He turns eighteen”—she shuffles through papers—“in November, which is only seven months away. If you decide you want to go away to college, like, full time, Vance, especially now that you can pay for it, we can place Oscar with foster parents.” She turns and looks at me. “I don’t mean to speak of you like you’re not sitting directly in front of me, Oscar. I apologize. This is your life as well.”

  “Did you say foster parents?” Vance asks.

  I answer for her. “She did.”

  “Like, he would have to live with strangers for seven months? In their house?” he clarifies.

  “Yes, that’s how foster care works. But I know of an incredible couple here in Chester County. They live on three acres with a pond and a barn. They are wonderful people. They’ve been foster parents for fifteen years. Kids lucky enough be placed with them keep in touch. They take a Christmas card photo in front of the pond every year with the children they’ve fostered. I think they’re up to twenty, maybe twenty five. And they have space. Right now.”

  Vance

  Three weeks ago

  “Is your mom parking?” Ms. Becker asked.

  Oscar’s eyes bulged. I had to grasp the side of the bed to steady myself. “She’s dead. She died in a car accident,” I said.

  “She was in the car?” she said.

  Oscar said without turning around to look at her, “Our mom died three years ago, ma’am. She’s not parking the car.”

  “Oh, boys. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She slipped behind the curtain and apologized again before walking away.

  Hearing Oscar say it out loud, that Mom died in a car accident, was like one of those cartoon anvils landing on my head: Both parents had horrible car accidents? Was the Universe jabbing at me with its pointy stick? What are you going to do about it, Vance, huh? Huh?

  A young female doctor in a white lab coat pulled back the curtain. Her red hair was back in a ponytail, her very serious face covered in freckles. “Are you his sons?”

  We nodded.

  “Your father is in critical condition. The paramedics on the scene actually brought him back to life. He had stopped breathing.”

  “Is he going to be okay?” I asked.

  S
he pressed her lips together. “We’re doing everything we can to save his life.”

  Just then, Ms. Becker was at her side. She said something to the doctor and then waved us out to the hall. “My office is right over there.” She pointed straight ahead. “We need to talk, and I’d like to do that in private. I promise it won’t take long.”

  “I’m not leaving Dad,” I said.

  “I understand. Then we can talk in there.” She held up the curtain, and the three of us were back at Dad’s side.

  I honestly had no idea what she said. I zoned out as terrifying thought after terrifying thought bounced around inside my skull. My dad had to live. He didn’t have a choice. We needed him; it was that simple. I didn’t get to say good-bye. He was too young to die. We would be orphans.

  And on and on and on.

  Oscar tapped my arm. “Does Dad have a will?”

  I whipped around. “A will? Why?” I screeched.

  Ms. Becker tucked her hair behind her ear. “I understand this is an extremely difficult situation, but it’s an important bit of information for me to know.”

  Her voice was so calm, just like on the phone. Each word she said lowered my anxiety. I took a few deep breaths to clear my head. “He has two—a living will and a regular one. He showed me the sealed envelopes and made me watch where he put them. They’re in the bottom drawer of his dresser underneath his jeans.” I didn’t want to look at Oscar. I couldn’t take his wounded expression. Dad telling me about the wills and showing me where they were kept was one more thing for him to feed the isolation monster living inside him.

  My thoughts and worries swallowed me up. White noise was all that registered. Was the lady talking again? I couldn’t be sure. I stared at my dad.

  “Based on your father’s present condition, a living will is a good thing. It’ll spell out his medical wishes. And, Vance, since you are eighteen, you are legally an adult. You could be appointed as your brother’s guardian in the event of your father’s death, assuming of course other plans aren’t spelled out in his will. However, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  One word pierced through my haze: death. I whipped around. “Did you say death?”

  “Yes, you could be appointed as your brother’s guardian in the event of your father’s death,” she said.

  Kaboom. “What?” I shouted. “You’re talking about his death? What kind of messed-up shit is going on? He’s right there…breathing!”

  She took a step back.

  I flung open the curtain and jogged down the hall.

  Oscar

  Vance, Ms. Becker, and I sit in silence for a few minutes. She doesn’t find the need to fill the quiet moments with chatter or questions—I like that. She lets things unfold as they may without forcing the situation.

  Vance folds his hands in front of him. He looks so serious. “So if I don’t go away to college, then Oscar can stay home?”

  I slowly turn my head to look at my brother. If words could leave my brain and crawl from my ears, these are the words you’d see scuttling down my arms to make themselves part of the world: respect and love. These are not insignificant words. They are colossal. Their weight would crash them through the floor, through the foundation, through the ground. They would be forced to reassemble in the center of the earth.

  That’s how massive these words are that are coming from my head.

  All those nights I’d laid awake wondering if my brother loved me, concluding the answer to be no.

  I was wrong.

  I was as wrong as any brother could be.

  In fact, I was dead wrong.

  Ms. Becker nods. “Yes. But if you do move forward with legal guardianship, we don’t just pat you on the head and tell you to have good lives. There are procedures in place for your protection. There would be biweekly visits from a Children’s Protective Services social worker. He or she would be making sure you guys are handling your new life, that you’re safe and taking care of yourselves properly.”

  “They can come check on us every day if they want to,” Vance says.

  Ms. Becker raises one eyebrow and smiles. “Listen, you don’t have to make this decision today, Vance. I can give—”

  Vance interrupts her. “Decision’s made. He’s not going off to live on a farm with twenty-five kids. Pond or no friggin’ pond. And he’s not going to be on a stranger’s Christmas card. He’s going to live in our house, sleep in his bed, watch his TV.” He turns to me. “You cool with that?”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s kind of a ridiculous question.” As soon as I say it, I want to take it back. My stomach coils. I actually don’t know what to say here.

  Vance slowly nods and kind of looks through me. I’m not sure if he heard my smart-mouthed response. There’s something going on inside his head. “We had an ultimatum, didn’t we? Go our separate ways, do our own thing…” His jaw tightens, and he rubs the back of his neck. “We owe it to Mom and Dad to take care of each other.”

  My mouth falls open.

  What kind of day am I living? Nothing feels normal.

  “Right?” Vance asks me. “They’re expecting us to. I can feel it.”

  Ms. Becker’s eyes light up. “Death can sometimes kill a family.” Her head bobs. “Other times a rebirth occurs. Like now. It’s special to see—and one of the reasons I love my job.”

  Vance gives her a little smile, nods, and turns to me. “We can’t mess up anymore, Oscar. With each other. We have to make this work.”

  An actual warm feeling flushes throughout my body. Is this what happiness feels like? Love maybe? Understanding? Who knows. My words are melting before they form, the temperature of this joy too hot. But I want my brother to know I’ve heard him, that I agree, so I lock eyes and nod. Over and over and over.

  Vance

  Ten days ago

  Dad actually woke up the day after I’d freaked on the social worker. The doctor said he was lucky to be alive. She also made it very clear that his liver was very fragile, and if he drank, he’d die. That simple.

  When we got home from school, our routine was to go check on Dad upstairs.

  Dad raised a beer can in the air from his bed. “Cheers!” He guzzled a long sip and then wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

  “Again?” Oscar whispered.

  “This has to stop, Dad. Beer is just as bad as the hard stuff! Look at your skin. It’s the color of piss! You can’t do this every day. You heard the doctor.” I scolded him like a child.

  “It’s none of your damned business! Neither one of you,” Dad shouted from his bed. Oscar and I stood at the foot. We were scared, but we’d never admit that to each other. I just knew we were. I could tell by the look in my brother’s eyes. And I hadn’t slept through the night since Dad was released from the hospital.

  Oscar took a big breath. “The doctor was pretty adamant, Dad. She said no matter what you drink, you run the risk of complete liver failure. You were sitting up. You were awake. We all heard her say it. If you drink, you die.” He sounded a little whiny. I knew it would set Dad off.

  Dad was wasted—his sixth day in a row pounding beer. Empty cans littered the floor. I kicked one across the room, and it crashed against his dresser. “So you want to die? Is that it?” I turned on my heels and walked down the hall. Truly, I didn’t want to hear his answer. It would be some drunk lie. Alcohol liked to eat the truth. It stuffed itself on honesty until it couldn’t hold any more.

  And then it puked all over your legs.

  Down in the kitchen, I slammed as many cabinets as I could. It was very satisfying.

  “I’m getting rid of all the alcohol in the house,” Oscar announced as soon as he came down.

  I gripped the counter and closed my eyes. We both knew Dad had friends, ways, and schemes to get more alcohol. Sure, we could pour every drop in the backyard, but he�
��d get more. The only bone he broke—miraculously—was his nose, so there was nothing stopping him from slowly walking down the stairs, getting into his car (even though his license was suspended), and driving to the bar—the bar he owned, the bar currently stocked with enough alcohol to get a neighborhood trashed—and drinking as much as he wanted.

  He needed to be locked in a safe place. “He needs to be in rehab.”

  Oscar actually laughed for, like, a minute.

  I fought the urge to tackle him to the floor. “You’re laughing, you dick?”

  He coughed and calmed down. “I can already tell you how that’ll go, which I’m sure you don’t need to hear. He’s your father too.”

  “Oh, so your big idea is to piss him off by pouring out his bottles?”

  The thought of losing him shoved its way inside my head again. As soon as he woke up in the hospital and stabilized, the reality of him dying drifted far, far away. He was alive and alert. He was talking and laughing. He wasn’t dying.

  But then his doctor came in and wanted to talk. Her talk was crystal clear: you drink, your already weak liver crashes and burns—but she said it with fancy medical words like cirrhosis and scar tissue. I went home that night and googled everything I could on liver failure. I’d tossed and turned till morning.

  Dad’s liver doctor appointment was tomorrow after school. What did he think that guy was going say to him? “So I see from your blood work and the lemony-yellow tone to your skin that you’ve been trashed. Well done, sir.” No, the doctor was going to freak.

  “That’s it!” I shouted to myself. “The doctor can admit him to rehab! Doctors can do that. Like, just send people straight there if they need it.”

  Oscar’s face pinched and he shook his head. “No, that’s not how it works. Dad’s an adult.”

  “I wasn’t asking your friggin’ opinion!” I smacked the cabinet door as hard as I could. Twice. My palm stung so I clenched and released a few times.

  And then I whacked it again, and again, and again.