Praise for
WRECK
“Wreck wrecked me. Kirstin Cronn-Mills has a singular way of getting inside characters heads and making their stories come to life. This book will make you cry.”
—Bill Konigsberg, award-winning author of The Music of What Happens
“A provocative, unflinching, and emotionally-complex deep dive into mortality and loss while Tobin and her father grapple with almost unfathomable decisions. A wrenching and empathetic look at the tumultuous waters and seemingly bottomless grief that can interrupt an otherwise placid life.”
—Amanda MacGregor, Teen Librarian Toolbox
“This book has heart and empathy as vast and deep as the Great Lake on which it’s set.”
—Geoff Herbach, award-winning author of Stupid Fast and Hooper
“Kirstin Cronn-Mills has written an elegiac novel about friendship, family, and yes, terminal illness. She asks readers to walk alongside Tobin and her father as they navigate the grief, pain, and white-hot rage of a life ending too soon. Wreck isn’t just good—it’s utterly beautiful.”
—Bryan Bliss, author of We’ll Fly Away
“A realistic take on ALS, caregiving, loss, and loyalty, with an appealing main character.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Copyright © 2019 by Kirstin Cronn-Mills
Photographs copyright © 2019 by Kirstin Cronn-Mills
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].
Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.
Visit our website at www.skyponypress.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This product conforms to CPSIA 2008
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Kate Gartner
Cover photo credit iStock
ISBN: 978-1-5107-3903-1
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3904-8
Printed in the United States of America
This book is for you, Keith Arnold Cronn (1943–2011). I miss and love you every day.
This book is also for you, Grover, after all this time. And always.
NOVEMBER 10
I make the rock cairn at the edge of the water. I picked them specially—flat, stackable—from farther up the shore. These rocks don’t exist in my backyard. Here it’s just sand.
Today is the anniversary of the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, an iron ore freighter that left from here and sank a day later, killing all twenty-nine people on board. Dad would have remembered it like he always did, by playing the famous Gordon Lightfoot song as many times as I am old—eighteen this year. I don’t know if other people in Duluth, or other people who live along Lake Superior, remember this day. But he always did.
So I’m remembering him remembering his favorite ship as he played his favorite song.
The cairn shifts a little as I place the top rock, but it holds. Five in the stack. One for him, one for me, one for Ike. One for the future. One for the past.
I had no idea that pieces of my memories would just . . . drift away. Like the ashes he became. They float off, and you know you’ll never get them back.
Silly little things. Which side of the door he left his running shoes on. Which days he wanted peanut butter on his toast, and which days he wanted rhubarb jam. Stuff I didn’t pay much attention to in the first place—but I should have.
Those things drift out from the shore, and all that’s left is the big stuff. The color of his hair (blondie-brown, a bit of white by the end). The color of his eyes (gorgeous blue, the same shade his lake sometimes is). How he looked when he bounced out the door, on his way to save people. How tired he was when he came home. How he smiled when I told him about my day.
I have the important parts. But the ashes—the daily details—wash away.
It hurts.
Contents
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #1
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #2
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #3
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #4
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #5
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #6
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #7
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #8
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #9
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #10
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #11
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #12
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #13
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #14
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #15
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #16
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #17
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #18
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #19
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #20
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #21
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #22
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #23
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #24
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #1
(in no particular order)
When you’re upset, just imagine a T. rex trying to make a bed.
BEFORE
MARCH 15
The words jump off the page at me: SCHOLARSHIP APPLICATION.
It’s the last ten minutes of the day. I’ve been staring at it in every class.
SCHOLARSHIP APPLICATION.
To my dream college, the Colorado School of Visual Arts. To which I am already admitted. To which, if I don’t get a scholarship or find a sugar daddy, or get struck by an act of God, I’m not going to get to go.
I brought the admissions letter to show Mrs. King, my guidance counselor. She hugged me, which is probably off-limits, but it’s not every day you get into the college you wanted.
Now all I have to do is make a portfolio. Which isn’t tough—yes, it’s tough to make a good portfolio, one that’s organized into a coherent narrative—but it’s not tough to make a lot of photographs. I do that all the time. But the portfolio has to be our origin story. Which I suppose everyone has, but mine is just . . . boring? Dumb? Average?
I was born in Duluth on September 22 seventeen and a half years ago. I’m an only child because my parents didn’t get along, according to my mom. According to my dad, I’m an only child because you should stop when you’ve achieved perfection. I’ve got friends, but I’m also a loner who likes to be quiet and watch the world. I live on a tiny sliver of land sticking out into Lake Superior, and I go to an unremarkable high school. I like the color dark blue, starry nights on the beach, and dreaming about living someplace that’s not so damn cold. I have no superpowers except the ability to take photos, and even those aren’t very good most of the time.
I have zero idea how to translate these facts into photographs.
My phone buzzes right as I’m walking to my locker. I throw the miscellaneous school crap into my locker after I fold up my application and stick it in my back pocket. Then I head toward the bus stop, pulling out my phone.
Come to the hospital after school.
I go to a different bus stop. It’s such a pain i
n the ass to only have one car.
Nobody wants to get a text that says come to the hospital after school. But maybe it’s less scary if your dad is a paramedic.
My dad’s origin story is much less boring than mine.
He was born in Duluth, Minnesota, as the fifteenth-ish generation descended from the voyageur Daniel Olivier and his badass wife, Mariette, both in the fur trapping party of the guy who founded Duluth: Daniel Greysolon, Sieur du Lhut. My dad grew up knowing his family had lived in the area for 340 years, give or take, which is longer than the United States has existed. He got through high school as the class clown and had a million girlfriends, because he wrote them all poems. Then he got a hotshot scholarship to study English at Columbia, so he moved to New York City, finished college, published two books, then couldn’t get editors to like any more. He got sick of the big city, moved back to Duluth, and put his boundless energy into running marathons and helping others. On the day he finished paramedic training, he met a cute girl five years younger than he was. They got married and had a baby, then she moved to Paris for work and never came home. He kept writing in notebooks that stacked up under the stairs. His superpower is peeling people off roads and tree trunks, as well as out of wrecked cars. He took care of the little girl the mom left behind, who grew into a quiet-but-sassy, cautious, boring, artistic teenager who tries not to be crabby.
He’s gonna tell me that it will be impossible to make a living with my work. Look what happened to him. And I’m going to tell him that I at least get to try, just like he did.
I get off the bus and head to the emergency department, expecting my dad to meet me at the door. His rig is parked there, but I don’t see him. So I start with Alice, the receptionist. She and my dad used to date when I was in elementary school. She’s pretty, with big eyes and gray streaks in her dark hair.
“Hey, Alice.”
She looks up and smiles when she sees it’s me. She was always nice. “Hey, Tobin. Whatcha doin’ here?”
“Got a text from my dad. Know where he is?”
“Uh, nope. Just got here.” She looks behind me toward the door. “He’s not with his rig?”
“Doesn’t seem to be.”
A nurse in dark-blue scrubs with a very serious face comes out to hand her a folder. Alice turns to him. “Have you seen Stephen Oliver?”
The nurse points inside. “He’s in here.” Then he goes back into the emergency department.
“Hmm.” Alice looks at her computer, and a cloud crosses her face. “He’s in room twenty-two, just around the corner and to the right.”
“He’s helping someone in room twenty-two?”
She writes down “22” on a slip of paper. “No.” She reads the screen. “He’s a patient.”
I take the paper from her as my scalp bursts into tingles. “Thanks.”
“I’m sure he’s fine—or he will be, anyway.” She smiles. “He’s your happy-go-lucky dad. Nice to see you, Tobin.”
“Yeah, uh . . . you, too.” I practically run around the corner.
My dad is the one who fixes people who are hurt. Not the one who’s hurt.
My aunt Allison sees me first, because Dad’s messing with his phone. “Hi, sweetheart.” She reaches for me, but she can see I really don’t want to be hugged. “Thanks for coming.”
“What happened?” I try for a smile, but my tingly scalp is now leaping off my head.
Dad can see I’m trying to be cool but failing. “Just a broken wrist, honey. Nothing more than that.”
Allison reaches out to stop him, but Dad evades her and gets off the bed. When he reaches me, I let him hug me with one arm, and I hug him with both my arms, tighter than I mean to. He groans because I bump his left arm with the broken wrist, but I hug him even tighter.
I do not like this picture, but I take in the details, because that’s what I do. He does not belong on a gurney, in the middle of medical supplies and equipment. He’s the helper, not the guy being helped.
He tries to smooth things over. “I fell down a flight of stairs at work, right around two. School was almost out, and I didn’t want to bother you until you were free. Better now?” He pulls back to look at my face, and I can see the concern in his eyes, even with the pain. “It’s not horrible. I won’t need surgery.”
“Get back on the bed. I can’t imagine the doctor will like it if you’re running around.”
Allison reaches out for him again. “It wouldn’t be helpful if you fell, especially before your cast is on.”
“You two are pains in the butt.” But Dad goes to the bed and climbs back up. It’s obvious he’s hurting. A lot.
A small dark-haired woman about Allison’s age, also wearing dark-blue scrubs, comes in with a metal rolling table. On it are a bunch of packages that look like they contain bandages. “Cast time, dude.” She bustles around and gathers a few more things before she brings the table over to Dad’s bedside. “With what’s coming up, we need to keep this sucker superstrong.”
“What’s coming up?” My scalp starts tingling again.
“Molly, not now.” Dad’s eyes shoot her some daggers, which I don’t miss.
She looks at me, then at Dad. “How’s the discomfort? We’ve got lots of room in your pain management, if you’re hurting.” She bustles in the awkward silence, taking rolls of casting material out of their packages. “Rate it from one to ten.”
“Obviously you two know each other?” I glare at Dad.
“Tobin, this is Molly. She was an emergency department nurse, but now she’s in orthopedics. We used to work together a lot. Molly, this is my daughter, Tobin. And to answer your question, the pain’s a five, except when Tobin bumps me.” He smiles, but I don’t.
“A pleasure to meet you, Tobin.” Molly also smiles in my direction, though she’s busy with what’s in her basin. “Your dad’s one of the best paramedics out there. Shame it’s not going to be the same.”
“What’s not the same?” Now my whole body’s tingling.
Allison stands up and takes Molly by the elbow. “How about you come with me for a second?” She propels Molly out of the room, shutting the curtain as she goes. Like curtains keep out a lot.
“What does she mean, it’s not going to be the same?” I fix Dad with a look.
Dad sighs. “We can talk after this, Tobin, okay? It’s a long conversation, and it doesn’t make sense to start it now. How about a dad joke?”
“No thanks.” My insides are twisting like snakes.
He grins, trying to get me to smile back. “Too late. Two guys walked into a bar. The third one ducked.” He laughs at himself.
“Ha ha ha.” I give him a look. He quiets down. I don’t say anything more, just look out the window. You can see a sliver of lake from here, between a couple buildings. Lake Superior is the centerpiece of this town—Duluth, Minnesota, wouldn’t be anything without it.
What’s not the same?
The words become a border around each object I look at, like some novelty photo frame in a gift store window: WHATSNOTTHESAME. Bent into a square around Molly’s basin for whatever liquid she needs to make the cast work. Curved into an oval around scissors and instruments on the second shelf of the cart. Angled into a rectangle around the colored bins on the wall, labeled with anything else an ED room might need.
“Tobin?”
Teenagers keep secrets, not parents. But I don’t have any—no older boyfriends, no weed in the closet, not even midnight candy bars under my bed. Seventeen years old and boring as dirt.
If I move a single hair, I will lose it.
“Honey, look at me. We’ll work it out, all right?”
“We’ll see.” I keep my eyes fixed on that single sliver of lake. I am not good at this. My dad is the one who mends other people and cares about them. Not the one who needs to be mended and cared for.
The curtain clatters open again and it’s my dad’s ambulance partner, Rich. His face is smiling, but his eyes aren’t.
“Medic 3464! W
hat’s the dealio? I hear there was a crash and burn. Better you than the whole rig.” Rich is a big guy with a big heart and a big mouth who’s never been quiet a day in his life. He was the best at throwing kids into the lake during barbecues on the dunes behind our house. The number of their rig is 3464.
Dad sighs. “No big deal, Medic 3464. Puts me off my game for a few days.”
“But you’ll be back when the cast comes off, right?” Rich pats my dad’s foot like Dad might be losing it soon.
Dad glances at me, and Rich follows the glance. Then Dad answers. “Things are still up in the air.”
“Oh. Okay.” Rich closes off his face. “You know I’m here if you need me.” And he disappears.
Allison and Molly come back in, and both of them immediately start chatting: hasn’t the sun been nice, we’ll have some strong April storms, when will they get Highway 2 into Wisconsin repaired, and on and on and on.
I don’t say a word. To anyone. My dad joins in the chatter, keeping his eye on me and grimacing when Molly handles his wrist with a little too much force. Allison watches me, too.
I grab my camera out of my backpack, just for a place to put all the freakout I feel inside me.
His fingers jutting out from the cast.
Molly’s hands on his cast-up wrist.
His feet, with shoes, on the bed.
A close-up of one foot. They all stare at me as I take that one.
Molly makes the cast too tight the first time, so Dad’s hand turns purple and she has to cut off the whole thing and start again. By the time it’s all over, nobody’s in a good mood. Dad says his pain is up to a seven. I’m hungry. Allison can’t stop tapping her foot. Finally, after the doctor discharges him—after a lengthy conversation about an accident victim Dad brought in last week—it’s 7:30 and we can get out of there.
Allison drives us home in our car after we go to Walgreens for Dad’s pain pills. She walked to the hospital from Canal Park, and she says she’ll walk home, which isn’t hard, because she lives about eight blocks from us. She escorts Dad up the front stairs, holding his elbow so he doesn’t stumble. He’s pretty high, actually. I’m behind, feeling really glad I put a roast in the slow cooker before school.
Wreck Page 1
