by Lisa Tucker
You got that right, I thought, but later, I felt angry again. What was he doing here if he wasn’t willing or able to act like my father? If he wasn’t willing or able to give me anything?
Mary Beth’s doctor seemed to be wondering the same thing. His name was Dr. Edgar P. Dunham. He was like a hundred and he wasn’t even a shrink, but he was the only doctor in the county who agreed to come to our house.
The new tough me got things done more easily. A doctor we needed and a doctor we would have, even if it took a thousand phone calls.
Dr. Dunham examined my sister, and pronounced her physically fine, but undoubtedly depressed. He thought we should take her to a hospital, but when he found out we didn’t have insurance, he didn’t push it. Tainer Memorial was too small to have a psychiatric ward anyway. The only choices were expensive private places or the state hospital, which wasn’t so great. He agreed to check on my sister next week and the week after, as long as necessary, as long as we paid him forty-five dollars up front, each time. Juanita said it wasn’t worth it, but I told him to keep coming. He gave us a prescription for a medicine which he said wouldn’t work for weeks but might eventually. He also gave us free samples of protein drinks and vitamins, to keep Mary Beth from losing any more weight.
Of course it didn’t hurt that he was so impressed with yours truly. He treated me like a fellow doctor, shaking my hand when he arrived and making notes as I described my sister’s situation. Dad he mostly ignored, though he did raise his eyebrows whenever Dad started in on his glasses or his fingers or whatever object unfortunate enough for him to happen upon.
“Doesn’t he work?” Dr. Dunham asked once. We were standing in the living room. Dad was trying to wipe a spot off the couch with a wet, disintegrating Kleenex.
I shook my head. Dad had cut out several want ads from the Tainer Shopping News, but so far, he’d only managed to tape them to the mirror over my dresser while he considered which one to pursue. Most of them were ridiculous anyway. How could Dad get a job delivering flowers when his driver’s license had expired years ago? Or work at the counter of the bookstore when he found answering our phone impossible?
“Can you get that?” I would yell, if I was in the bathroom or up to my elbows in cracker crumbs and chicken. And he would move toward the phone, but then something always happened that kept him from picking up the receiver. Once or twice, I asked him for an explanation, but he was so embarrassed I gave up in a hurry. After a while, I stopped asking him to answer the phone, even if he was sitting right next to it.
Sometimes I thought of him like a ghost: taking up the whole room, making it impossible to think of anything else, yet unable to be touched or reached or even talked to. Other times, I was sure he was the one being haunted, and I felt pity, sure, but also disgust, like you do when someone vomits in public.
I was working hard to get over my guilt. After all, Dr. Dunham had the same reaction to my father I had. So maybe it wasn’t such a bad feeling. Maybe it was even the natural response. At least that’s what I was trying to convince myself—until the day my dad finally got to me.
It was a few weeks before Christmas, a Sunday. Mary Beth had been in bed for exactly five weeks; Dad had been here for three. I had Tommy’s letter to Santa tucked in my purse and I was headed to the mall. Darlene was over to babysit—and to find out what was going on with me, but I told her I didn’t have time to talk. I’d just given her instructions about Tommy’s lunch and put on my coat and gloves when Dad came out of my room and shyly asked if he could go with me.
He’d never done this before, but Juanita had always been here before. Darlene was loud and giggly and a stranger to him. I said okay, but I couldn’t help letting out a sigh. I hadn’t done any shopping yet and I wanted to get it all over today. I didn’t need him shuffling along behind me.
On the way to the mall, neither of us said a word. It was drizzling and the roads were slick; I had to concentrate. When we pulled into the parking lot, he didn’t object when I suggested splitting up. “It’ll be more efficient,” I said, and he nodded when I told him to get the E.T. poster Tommy wanted as I stuck a ten-dollar bill in his hand.
I didn’t expect him to succeed, but I was going to the toy store. The poster place was on the other end of the strip. By the time he tried and failed and regretted it, I could have a cart full of toys bought. And sure, I had another reason I suggested we shop separately. It was ugly, but the tough me didn’t even flinch at the knowledge that I was capable of such a low-down thought. I didn’t want anyone to see us together. I didn’t want to deal with the stares from clerks or other customers if he started in with his fidgeting.
I did feel a momentary catch when I turned around right before I went into the toy store, and saw him trying to make his way through the crowd. He was moving slowly, but he was standing up very straight, like he was trying to summon up all his courage. From a distance, his blue suit looked as dignified as it had on the first day at the bus station, rather than the mess I knew it was. He only had three outfits, and the suit had been worn every third day since he arrived.
It was maybe two and a half hours later by the time I was done. The toy store had been mobbed and I was stressed out from navigating the cart down the aisles, not to mention the enormous checkout line. Tommy didn’t want a Cabbage Patch Kids doll like all the rest of the kids in America, but he did want a Sit’n Spin and a Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine, and a bunch of rip Cord cars and all the Masters of the Universe action figures. I’d ended up spending eighty-nine dollars, when I only planned to spend sixty. I still had the tree to buy, and replacement lights for the front window, and presents for Dad and Juanita. This whole Christmas business was wrecking my budget.
I wasn’t thinking about him at all. It took me a minute to realize the people in front of JC Penney were standing in a circle for a reason, and the reason wasn’t a Santa Claus ringing a Salvation Army bell. The looks on their faces were horrified but also curious, like at any freak show.
I hurried over and saw him collapsed on the sidewalk. He’d slipped on the ice, but there was something else, too, something the curious/horrified spectators were trying, and failing, to get out of him. Their questions were innocent enough. “Is something wrong?” “Can we help you?” “Can we call someone?” “Do you need a doctor?” “The police?” But their voices were more loud than comforting, because they were carefully keeping their distance from the Crazy Man.
He was sitting in a slush puddle, his face all cold white panic. His eyes looked both weirdly empty and overwhelmed by something no one else could see. And he was holding his hand against his mouth, as if pushing back a cry.
I shoved my way through the circle, dropped my bags on the ground, and knelt next to him. Whatever embarrassment I had was replaced by a sudden, fierce anger. I hated them all for staring at him. I hated them all, even if I didn’t love him.
He didn’t appear to be hurt. The crowd had already noticed that. Of course that made them all the more interested—and all the more sure he was crazy.
“You can go now,” I said loudly, looking around the circle. There weren’t really that many people. Eight or nine adults, a handful of kids. I turned back to Dad and told him we needed to get home. He dropped his hand from his mouth but he didn’t speak or move.
“He sure looks strange.” The speaker was a big woman with tight brown curls peeking out under an ugly orange hat. I recognized her from somewhere, but I couldn’t think where. She knew who I was though, and she also knew Mary Beth. I heard her whispering to the woman next to her and I caught my sister’s name—and Holly Kramer’s.
“Let’s go,” I whispered, putting my hand on Dad’s shoulder. The ground was soaking through the knees of my pants. He had to be freezing in that puddle with only the thin suit jacket.
When he still didn’t move, an older, red-faced man in a parka said he was going to call an ambulance. I thought of what the siren would do to Dad. He hated loud noises. He jumped at the beep of the Phonema
te.
“That isn’t necessary,” I said, tugging at Dad’s arm. He looked so folded up and scared. I thought I could pull him to his feet, but he didn’t budge. “Can’t you try?” I stammered. “Please, Dad. Please try.”
As his eyes darted around the circle, it struck me he already was trying. He wanted desperately to move, but he was as frozen with fear as if he were surrounded by a pack of wild animals. He hated crowds anyway. I’d heard him tell Juanita how impressive it was she could work in a restaurant. All those noises, all those people. All those demands.
And asking them to leave didn’t work. Sure, some people did, but others only stepped back a few feet, and soon enough, more curious onlookers arrived. If they were gossiping, I couldn’t listen. Dad was visibly trembling. And before long, he was moaning, a sound so soft it seemed involuntary: not from him, but from his throat. And the hardest part of all, he was clinging to my hand like a frightened toddler, making it impossible for me to stay separate. Making his pain mine.
It flashed across my mind that this might be all family means, after all. Knowing who belongs to you, and who you belong to.
By the time help finally arrived, my brain had gone numb from all the faces looking at us, and my own voice repeating, “It’s okay,” when I could do nothing to make it true. It took me a minute to realize someone was pulling Dad’s other arm, but when I felt him lift, I used my shoulder and back to push him up on my side. And then we were standing, and the crowd was going away.
Because Mike was telling them to go away. He was holding up my dad and telling everyone else to move along now, like he was a cop instead of a high school kid.
He’d appeared out of nowhere. He didn’t have any bags or even a coat. Later, I would find out that he was helping out in his grandfather’s hardware store a few doors down. He heard the customers talking about what was going on outside. He saw his grandfather go out to look—and he heard his grandfather say it served our family right.
“I have the truck.” Mike was panting a little. Dad was still unsteady on his feet. I was trying, but I wasn’t keeping up with my side. “Do you want me to drive you home?”
I nodded, knowing I was abandoning the Ford, but afraid if I said no, Mike would abandon us. All I wanted was to get Dad back to our place. I could walk back to get the Ford if necessary.
I grabbed the toy bags and adjusted my shoulder underneath Dad’s arm. The mall parking lot seemed enormous as the three of us hobbled along, getting in the way of cars, trying to negotiate past other shoppers. It would have been easier to leave us on the sidewalk and bring the truck around, but I didn’t think of that. I couldn’t think; I couldn’t do anything but follow Mike.
By the time we got to the truck, a full twenty rows back, the plastic handles from the toy bags had left red streaks in my palm and my other arm was twitching from holding up Dad. Mike opened the passenger door and eased Dad into the seat. Then he stuck out his hand and I gave him mine before realizing he wanted the packages. He was going to put them in the metal storage box in the back of the truck.
I felt my face go bright red, but he didn’t let go. It was awkward, but he managed to put the bags in the storage box with one hand and keep his other hand clutched in mine. His palm felt sweaty and warm. He looked bigger than he did at school, and much bigger than he had at Juanita’s party. He looked older, too, but that didn’t surprise me.
I slid in the middle of the front seat. When he had the truck started and in gear, he reached for my hand again, and held it tight in the space between our legs. After a moment, I took a breath and glanced at Dad.
“He’s my father,” I told Mike. “He came back home.”
“That’s good,” Mike said. His voice was matter-of-fact, not a trace of sarcasm. I felt so relieved, tears came to my eyes.
Dad must have been relieved, too. Later, he would tell me he was sorry (over and over), but now he leaned back against the seat and let out a deep sigh. We weren’t even halfway home when I glanced at him and saw his mouth half open, his eyes just fluttering closed.
Juanita was getting out of her Plymouth when Mike pulled up in front of our house. She offered to help Dad inside, but he didn’t seem to need much help. Whatever was wrong with him had passed. He’d woken up with a start, apparently well aware of what had just happened—and thoroughly embarrassed.
We all stood on the sidewalk for an awkward moment. His eyes were looking at the ground as he thanked Mike for helping him. His voice was shy when he added that he appreciated what I’d done, too.
“No problem,” I said and smiled, though I was feeling a little shy myself. Mike was moving back to the truck, ready to take me to the mall. He’d heard me tell Juanita I’d left the Ford behind. He’d probably heard me whisper it was a long story after I introduced them, and her eyebrows darted up at the name Kramer.
We were pulling away from the house and I was watching Dad and Juanita go up the porch steps when Mike said, “Is he going to be all right?”
“I think so,” I said slowly. “He has some problems. I really shouldn’t have left him alone.”
“I’m glad I was there to help.”
“Me, too.” I looked out the window as we moved out of our neighborhood and on to Elm. It wasn’t drizzling anymore but the sky looked dark and swollen and strangely still, the way it always does when it’s about to snow. Finally I said, “I was really surprised to see you.”
My voice was as light as I could manage, but still he knew what I was getting at. He admitted he had been keeping his distance, and took a breath. “I hope you understand why.”
I gulped hard and stared straight at the dashboard. “Not really.”
“I couldn’t face you.” The truck swerved a little as we turned on an icy patch. Mike waited a moment. “I knew your sister had—”
“It’s not true. I don’t know what they told you, but my sister tried to help your mom. That’s all.”
“I know.” His voice was so soft I had to strain to hear him. “What I was gonna say is I knew your sister had told you what happened to my mom. Even at the party…I thought about it later and realized you already knew why Mom was depressed.”
The car next to us was going too fast. When the light turned red, it didn’t stop before spinning out, skidding into our lane. Mike had to jam on the brakes but he didn’t honk. Neither of us said anything for several minutes. I wanted to hold his hand again, but he was clutching the steering wheel so tight his knuckles looked trapped in his skin.
“You know what’s really stupid?” Mike shook his head. “They think I don’t know. They think I was outside with my sisters when Mom told them. But I was in the hall. I heard her voice. And I heard that son of a bitch laugh and tell her she was a slut in high school, and she was just misremembering who she slept with.”
“God.”
“Since that day, I’ve heard those words a thousand times.” He smirked. “That skill of mine.”
“How horrible.”
“And guess what my dad did? Nothing. He didn’t defend her. He stood there and listened to Grandpa call Mom a slut and he didn’t say a word.” Mike exhaled. “None of them can face it, but I can. I know Mom was telling the truth.”
We were already at the mall. He pulled into the parking lot, then drove behind the stores, past a row of big white delivery trucks, to the nest of leafless trees on the hill behind the mall before he stopped.
“Can you believe I still work for that asshole?” He turned to look at me. “I told Dad I was quitting and he begged me not to. He said we need the money for the hospital.”
His jaw was clenched but his eyes were full of pain. I found myself thinking back to the night of Juanita’s party. How he’d held his mom’s elbow as he walked her to the door. How he’d told her it would be all right, and if it wasn’t, he would take her back home.
“Oh, Mike,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, but his voice was cracking. “My family is over
now.”
He started crying then: a strangled, desperate sound that was so heartbroken I had to swallow hard to keep from breaking down myself. I took off my seat belt and scooted next to him. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, but then he put his arms around me and pulled me so close I could feel his chest shaking against mine.
I wanted to say something to comfort him, but I knew all the usual things would only make it worse. It wasn’t okay. His mom might not get well soon—or ever. And his family really might be destroyed by this. So might mine.
“It really sucks,” I finally said.
“True,” he said. After a moment, he leaned back and looked at me. “It really sucks,” he repeated, and sniffed hard.
The snow was coming now. He kept his arm around me and we sat quietly for what felt like a long time, watching the fat flakes melt into tiny streams on the warm windshield. Finally, he said he had to go back to work, and then put the truck in gear and pulled to the front of the mall.
I had already turned to go when he put his hand on my shoulder. “Thanks, Leeann,” he said, and leaned over and kissed me.
As he disappeared into the crowd heading toward the stores, I realized the snow was falling more quickly than I’d thought. The parking lot had changed. The cars had been streaked with mud, but now they were clean little hills of white.
I took off in the direction where I’d parked the Ford. The walk was against the wind, but the flakes were soft as feathers as they fell on my cheeks and eyelashes. It was so perfect, I thought maybe it was a sign. His mom would get better. Mary Beth would, too. He’d get to quit working for his grandfather. We’d both get to look back on this time as long and horrible, but not the forever it felt like now.
I was sitting in a line of traffic, waiting to get out of the mall. I hadn’t forgotten about my father, but I wasn’t really thinking about him when I noticed the little white square stuck down between the Ford’s passenger seat and the emergency brake. I managed to unearth it, and discovered a piece of notebook paper, folded repeatedly until it wasn’t much bigger than a postage stamp. Before I even unfolded it, I knew it would be one of Dad’s lists. Even though he was obsessive about making them, he was always losing them, probably because most of his pockets had holes. (When I was in a mean mood, I would wonder why he didn’t put sewing up his raggedy old trousers on one of those lists.)