I started to sob. “People cared…about me…over there,” I said as my cheeks were flooded. “People said…they said I actually inspired them. I wish…”
“What, Jeff?” Mom said, frowning.
“I wish I never came home.”
Her mouth dropped open. Her hand covered her chest. “Did those Communists brainwash you? I knew we shouldn’t have let you go.”
I didn’t respond, and Mom let out a long moan.
No one spoke on the ride home, except for my father, when we passed through the oil fields along La Cienega Boulevard. “You see, Phyllis, all that traffic you were concerned about has cleared.” My sobbing had long stopped. I stared out the window, completely detached, feeling as if I’d left my true family behind.
* * *
•
On Monday afternoon, I showed up in Ms. Hamilton’s English class. I didn’t want to go—I told Mom I was exhausted—but she wouldn’t have it. “You’ve been sleeping all weekend,” she said. “It’s time to go back to school.”
I arrived in the classroom just as the bell rang. Surprisingly, Ms. Hamilton wasn’t there. Cara smiled at me. “Welcome back, Jeff,” she said. “How was your trip?” That immediately prompted a question from Tim, the guy in our class I really hated.
“Oh, right, Jeff’s big trip to the good ol’ USSR,” he said. “How was your meeting with Gorby? Have you saved the world?”
Tim was baiting me, asking his obnoxious questions with the volume of his voice cranked up. Other conversations stopped, and heads turned toward me.
“Oh, yeah,” Anna said, “how was your trip?”
The room went quiet. The eyes on me felt like needles. Everyone was waiting for an answer.
I lowered my head and swallowed. “The meeting didn’t happen,” I finally said.
Tim snickered. Someone gasped. I kept my head down, feeling like a complete fool.
Just then Ms. Hamilton walked in. “Sorry, you guys, my stomach isn’t very happy. Okay, your papers—hand ’em over.” I didn’t remember that we’d had a paper to write, but I thought Ms. Hamilton would have known I couldn’t do it. Still, she stopped in front of me. “I just got back,” I said. She frowned deliberately before continuing around the room.
After class, I walked over to my locker. I had the door open, which blocked my face, and I heard Tim’s voice about ten feet away. “Henigson got dissed by the Gorbster,” he said.
“Ouch” was the response. I didn’t recognize the voice.
Tim continued. “Yup, the dude got burned.”
I slammed my locker door. They spun around and saw me. Thomas, the guy Tim was talking to, sputtered out a hello.
“Oops,” Tim said. I wanted to launch into him with my fist, but I just glared at them both before walking off. I’d only taken a few steps when I heard them cracking up behind me.
* * *
•
That night, just like during the flight home from the Soviet Union, I had trouble sleeping. It had been hard enough saying goodbye to my new friends, both the Americans and the Soviets. But my dad’s reaction, along with the comments of those jerks at school, made me feel like my whole trip was a failure. Before I’d gone overseas, I’d had my wish to hope for, to look forward to. All those times when Dad was angry at me, or when he was distant, I told myself—and Mom told me, too—how proud he’d be when I came home from Moscow.
Now I had nothing.
* * *
•
I managed to make it through the third quarter of my junior year. Toward the end, I still had a couple of papers to turn in to Ms. Hamilton. She’d given me a warning, but I figured she’d hold out until I finished everything. I just needed a few days. I’d definitely have everything to her by the following week, the last of the quarter.
On Saturday, I finished the papers. I went over to Paul’s place and hung out for a few hours. It was good to catch up. When I got home, after stepping out of my car, I saw Mom and Dad sitting at the dinner table. Mom wasn’t in her usual position, looking out toward the hills. She and Dad were both facing the entrance. I got this fluttery feeling, butterflies in my stomach.
Amiga met me at the door, and I leaned down to pet her, glancing into the dining room. There was a stack of mail in front of my parents. Dad had a letter in his hand. I was pretty sure I knew what he was holding.
“Could you come here, Jeff?” Mom said. Her tone was formal.
I stood up and walked in. “What’s up?” I said unnecessarily. On the table, in front of Dad, was an open envelope with Polytechnic School in the top left corner. He was looking at my grades—or grade, as it turned out.
His eyes fixed on mine. “Did you know about this?” he asked, drawing in a breath and controlling his exhale.
“I knew I’d get a grade,” I said, “but I haven’t seen it.”
He passed it to Mom. She handed it to me.
COURSE: English
INSTRUCTOR: Hamilton
GRADE: F
NOTE: Jeff did not turn in required homework this quarter despite multiple requests. I am concerned about him, as this is his only class. I would be happy to discuss his performance and what can be done to improve it.—Grace.
I gave it back to Mom. She held it in front of Dad, but he waved it away. I could see his nostrils flaring.
“You had a single class, Jeff,” he said.
“Yes. That and treatment for brain cancer.”
“That is beside the point.”
“Is it, Dad? Have you ever received chemotherapy?”
“I do not dispute the intensity of the treatment you’ve undergone, but it certainly didn’t stop you from traveling halfway around the world.”
“Maybe that’s because the trip meant something to me, Dad.”
“Well, that distraction—”
“Distraction? Is that what my wish was to you?” I was steaming now.
“Not to me. To you. That is precisely why I opposed your pursuing it in the first place.”
“If you knew me at all, you’d know it wasn’t a distraction. It gave me something to live for.” My anger muted my fear. I looked straight into his eyes. “But you don’t care about that, do you? That would require you to actually give a shit about me.”
Mom’s jaw dropped. “Jeff,” she gasped.
Dad shoved back from the table and stood. His fists were clenched. It reminded me of a trip in the family camper when I was eight, when Dad, already in an awful mood, saw my brother punch me. Dad responded by slamming Ted in the gut so hard he couldn’t breathe. It was the only time he ever hit one of us.
“What are you going to do, Dad, beat me?”
He wouldn’t have, but Mom wasn’t going to give him the option. She jumped to her feet.
“Stop!” she shouted. “Both of you, stop!” She wiped away tears.
“I’m sure I won’t be a problem for you much longer.” I stepped back, then turned toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Mom asked.
“For a ride, Mom, okay? I’m going to explode if I don’t get out of this house.”
Dad stood there, but I didn’t look at him. Mom threw up her hands. I don’t think either of them saw me start to cry, but the tears were pouring by the time I reached my car.
I drove to the hills across from ours, parking my car in a spot where I could look back at my own house. The stream of tears slowed, then stopped. When I cracked the windows open for some air, the breeze dried my face.
In the distance, I heard howling, coyotes that had probably succeeded in their hunt. I often listened to them from our back deck. The sounds freaked some people out, but they settled me. The only difficult part was when other sharp pitches pierced through, intermittent yelps and screams from the coyotes’ prey. Sometimes that would send a chill through me.
There was pain in me, so much of it that I felt like stepping out of the car, finding that path, walking along it, offering myself. I imagined my father watching his news program while the coyotes encircled me, sipping his glass of wine as the pack moved in. Their teeth would tear into me, and I’d shriek in pain. Mom would hurry to the back deck, wondering what she’d heard. Dad would grab the remote and turn up the volume. For me, the coyotes would release more pain than they induced.
I stayed in the hills until the howling stopped.
* * *
•
The outside lights were on when I pulled into the driveway. I walked down the steps to find Mom and Amiga waiting by the front door. “Would you like me to warm up a plate for you?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.” I slipped past her, heading toward the stairs.
“Jeff…,” she said. There was neediness in her voice.
I froze in place. “What, Mom?”
“I’m sorry. I almost forgot to tell you that Monique called.”
I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard.
“Seriously?”
“Yes. She said you can call until eleven tonight. She really wants to hear from you.”
I felt like a dirty sheet instantly washed clean.
“Thanks, Mom. Like, really.”
* * *
•
It was so bizarre to be drowning in despair one moment and then, after an interruption, to be flooded with an emotion that felt more like hope. My heart was beating fast when I made it to my couch. It wasn’t just from hurrying downstairs. It was anticipation and nervousness, exactly what I’d felt the first time I called Monique.
She answered on the second ring. “Hey, Mo,” I said.
“I’m so happy you called me back.” Her voice was full of eagerness. “Listen, I owe you a huge apology. I’m so, so sorry for making you feel like you made the wrong wish. That was me imposing my stuff on you. I really feel—”
“May I interrupt?”
She paused. “Yes.”
“You were absolutely right. I mean, I ultimately loved my wish, but I made it for the wrong reasons. I was trying to impress my father. You know, get him to love me, which is crazy. It’s just a really shitty way of living.”
“But I shouldn’t have—”
“Mo, I ain’t done yet.” She drew in a breath. “I owe you an apology, not just for getting angry at you, but for disappearing. Believe it or not, I missed you.”
“I missed you, too, Jeff, for real. Now will you do something for me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Tell me about the trip!”
I gave her a quick summary, considering how late it was, but she barraged me with questions. She wasn’t very different from that journalist back in Leningrad, Mr. Sivach, who had interviewed me. Monique was equally thorough. I felt a little anxious before letting her know that the meeting with Mr. Gorbachev fell through, but she was completely unfazed. We talked about my visit with the Velikhovs and the peace summit. When I was done, I could hear Monique exhale, like she’d been holding her breath. “Your trip sounds absolutely amazing. I’m so proud of you.”
It was like she’d just wrapped me in a blanket and kissed my forehead—instant calm. I decided then to tell her what had happened when I got home, how my dad had asked me the one question and nothing else. “I honestly don’t think that man could care less about me as a person,” I said.
“Well, he frankly does sound like—and I’m going to need to request an absolution from the Pope for this—a total pain in the ass.”
I snorted out a laugh. “I’d say that’s a fair description.”
“But can I tell you something without you freaking out on me?”
“Yes. I mean, like, really you can.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure your dad loves you.”
I felt my whole face tighten. That sounded pretty far-fetched.
“Sure,” I said, rolling my eyes.
Monique heard the sarcasm in my voice. “I’m serious. I think he loves you. Not only that, I think he wants the best for you. Wanna know how I know that?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Because your dad is basically my dad’s long-lost twin brother.”
I definitely wasn’t expecting that. It was funny, but she wasn’t making a joke. I was instantly curious. “Tell me more.”
“Our dads love us. If they didn’t, do you really think they’d show up at the hospital, or come to our big medical appointments, or ask about school or simply how we’re doing? They wouldn’t care one bit. But my dad does all those things, and from everything you’ve ever told me, your dad does, too. Is that right?”
I was dumbfounded. I blinked several times. “Well, yeah.”
“Right. But that doesn’t mean they get us—you know, and understand what we’re really feeling, or what we love, or what scares us. Like, I would give my dad a hundred dollars if he could name a single band I’m into. And that’s to say nothing about the million priorities he’s got for me that might not jibe with mine. Anyway, I love him, and I know he loves me, but I live for myself.”
I was silent. Could something that felt so complicated—my relationship with my dad—be as simple as Monique was making it sound? And that last thing she’d said, about living for herself, was that some kind of prescription I could fill for my own life?
“Jeff, are you still there?”
“I’m here. I think you pretty much instantaneously vaporized three gazillion tons of my stress. Do you take credit cards or would you prefer cash?”
Monique laughed. “Adulation and praise will suffice. And chocolate.”
Monique’s words sank in deep. I realized that if I was going to live my own life, I needed to get out of my father’s house. That meant clearing things up with Ms. Hamilton, my only teacher, and then, as quickly as possible, getting caught up on all the classes I’d missed.
After stopping by the college advisor’s office, where I picked up an information package about a summer program at Boston College, I walked over to the English building. Ms. Hamilton was chatting with a fellow teacher, but she waved me in when she saw me. “Hi, Jeff,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Well, um,” I started sheepishly. Luckily, her colleague picked up on it and said she had to run. When we had the room to ourselves, I continued. “Look, Ms. Hamilton, I want to apologize to you for being a complete moron last quarter.”
“You weren’t a moron. Maybe just a little stubborn about not asking for help.”
“I was an idiot. I just want you to know I’m going to make it up to you. I was going through some hard stuff, but I promise you I’m really going to focus this quarter.”
“I’ve never seen a student face challenges like yours. And I felt awful about failing you. But I can’t treat you any differently, and I don’t think you’d want me to.”
“You’re exactly right, Ms. Hamilton. I wouldn’t want to be treated differently. And I don’t want you feeling bad, either. You’re a really good teacher.”
She smiled at that, and for the first time since I entered the room, she seemed to relax. “Thanks, Jeff.”
“I mean it. I hated English until you showed up. Now it’s my favorite class.”
“Come on, it’s your only class.”
“Fair enough. But I could hate my only class, right?”
Ms. Hamilton laughed.
“By the way, I realized I made the wrong conclusion about East of Eden.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, you know that part where the Chinese philosophers are
debating the meaning of the Hebrew word timshel?”
“Of course.”
“I totally got it was related to the whole fate-versus-free-will thing. We discussed that last year in Mrs. McKendrick’s class, after reading Macbeth.”
“So what did you misunderstand?”
“More the application of it in my actual life. You know my whole wish and trip to the Soviet Union? I definitely chose that. But the actual reason I chose it was to please my dad, the same way Cal in East of Eden is always trying to impress his dad.”
“Very interesting. So what’s the lesson?”
“Maybe that we’re not truly living freely if the choices we make are to please someone else. We’ve got to live for ourselves.”
“Wow, it sounds like my dear friend Mr. Steinbeck has had an effect on you.”
“I can’t give all the credit to Steinbeck. This girl—she’s just a friend of mine—gave me that last part. But it was definitely a good book. Thanks for recommending it.”
“You’re welcome.”
I put my backpack on and moved toward the door. She waved her fingers, but then I had a quick thought. “One last thing, Ms. Hamilton.”
“Sure, what’s that?”
“If you want me to get the rest of my work in on time, please don’t give me another extra thick, super-compelling book!”
She snorted out a laugh and I left her office.
On my way to the parking lot, I ran into Paul. He had a huge smile on his face. He usually did, but it was bigger than normal. “What’s up with you?”
“Truth you won’t say anything?”
“Truth.”
“I asked Esther to prom.”
I’d completely forgotten about prom.
“And she said yes!”
“Dude, that’s awesome.”
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