I scream. It’s so loud and long. But the wind carries the sound away.
I do it again. And again. And again.
Then I cry until I can’t catch my breath.
If you add up all the times I was a shitty daughter, then add in the fact that he won’t see me graduate from college, maybe not even high school, and he sure won’t see me get married or have kids or be forty-nine, which is how old he is right now, and square that number by a Lake Superior–sized anger, then divide by an eternity of freezing cold, white-hot sadness, you’d have my insides right now.
When I go back in, I can’t find him, which sends me into a panic, but the car is still here. Then I go upstairs and see his bedroom door is closed. I hear his soft snuffle of a snore. Like nothing’s wrong. Like that sound won’t be gone before I’m twenty-two. Or twenty, for that matter, because that’s only three years from now.
There’s a note in the bathroom.
Pain meds make me tired. Wake me up if you want to. Let’s chat tomorrow. Love you so much. Dad
I can’t feel my face when I brush my teeth. And no matter how many blankets, socks, pajama pants, and sweatshirts I put on, I can’t get warm.
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #3
Learn to change a tire. What if you’re the only one in the car?
DURING
MARCH 17
When I wake up, the sun’s gushing in the window, which means it’s late. Maybe not as late as I think, but late. I check my phone: 7:49. School starts at 8:15.
“DAD!” I shriek it when I fly to the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth. “ARE YOU STILL HERE?”
I hear a chuckle from the kitchen. “Decided to start your day, did you?”
I slam the door.
No shower today. It’s 8:02 when I’m done, and I barrel out of the bathroom toward the kitchen.
“Can you give me a ride, please? I don’t have time to take the bus this morning.” I say it as politely as I can. Three and a half hours of sleep is not enough, minus waking up to write about the dream.
His eyes aren’t smiling, but his mouth is. “Sure thing.” He grabs his keys from the desk, stumbles a little, catches himself on the edge of the table, and stops to settle it all back in place.
I grab a banana and a cookie. “Let’s go.”
Once I’m settled in the car, the events of last night rush at me. I look out the window so Dad can’t see my face.
“I thought we didn’t lie to each other.”
He sighs. “I’m sorry. We don’t. I was just . . . trying to absorb it myself.”
I don’t look at him.
He’s still here, still driving me to school. But there’s a gray haze over us, a big blanket of
NOTHING WILL EVER BE THE SAME
and
I AM GOING TO BE AN ORPHAN NOW
and
WHAT THE HELL DO I DO
and
IF I HAVE TO LIVE WITH ALLISON, I WILL LOSE MY SHIT.
We’re almost there, almost up the hill, when he finally says it. “When you get home, can we talk? I’m so sorry, Tobin.” He winces as he guides the steering wheel with his bad wrist.
“You should drive with your other hand.”
He winces again, but then we’re there. “We need to keep talking. And planning.”
“I’ll take the bus to Trash Box after school. Later.” And I slam my way out of the car, not looking back, hand over the left side of my chest.
No heartbeat. Good. The dream worked.
I’m halfway up the steps of the school when I realize I forgot my camera. Without its comforting weight deep in my backpack, I feel like I’m going to float away.
This day can suck it.
Gracie texts: Want to hang out later?
Sick. I can’t think of anything else to say. Not today. :(
OK. Love you. Feel better quick. xxoo #healingvibes #ifithelps
How do I tell people like Gracie?
The hours are blurry and edgy, all at the same time. I am sharp and rude and snap at Mrs. Longness when she wants to talk about photos for graduation. Nice me has also been dropped over the side of the dream kayak.
After school, I slam my locker hard and turn around to find Sid. His face is clouded.
“I hear you haven’t had a very good day today.”
“Who told you that?” The last thing I need is for people to talk about me. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m crabby.” I’ll have some apology texts to send tomorrow as well as an email to Mrs. Longness.
“Want a ride to Trash Box?”
“As long as we don’t have to talk.”
“Just a ride.” He holds out his hand to me. “This way, crabby girl.”
“I’m not interested in holding your hand, thank you.”
It comes out ruder than I mean it to, and Sid’s face shows me. “Sorry. Just . . . not in the mood. No disrespect.”
“All okay.” He walks ahead of me.
Today’s soundtrack is Raiders of the Lost Ark, I think.
“Is this a young Harrison Ford running around in his fedora?” It’s one of my dad’s favorite movies, which is the only reason I know.
“It’s not my favorite, but it’s good. Adventurous. Not enough strings in the opening theme, but good brass. And the strings get more involved as the song goes along.”
“Lots of horns in there.” I can’t think of anything else to say. Then we’re there. “Sid, you are really kind to give me a ride. Thanks.”
Before I can jump out, he puts his hand on my arm. “You look so sad.”
I put my hand over the spot where my heart should be. Still nothing. “It’s a long story, and I’ve got to work.” I bolt out the door as fast as I can.
“I’ll text you.” He says it before I can slam the door. And he will. Because he’s a nice guy. Sid’s niceness is the same.
The bell dings when I open the door, and I wait for Allison to jump me. She’ll want to talk. But she’s not there. At least, she’s not up front. And that’s really good.
My list is right where it always is.
TODAY FOR TOBIN TO DO.
1. Sort magazines—keep architectural and home/garden.
2. Talk to me about how I can help.
Number 2 is a hell no.
I start on the stack of magazines that she’s left on front of the counter—there might be a hundred of them. It’s kind of soothing. I’d swear I closed my eyes for just a second, classical music floating through the store and soothing my jagged edges, but I wake up when the magazines fall out of my hands.
“Shit!”
“Hey now, Tobin. Enough of that.” A quiet voice with a smile in it comes from behind me.
I whirl around, and it’s my uncle Paul. He lives above the store, just like he has since 1984 or something.
“Um, yeah. Not very with it today.”
He has a gentle face, and he’s looking at me now with an expression you might use to tame a feral cat. “Things all right, Tobin? Most people don’t fall asleep standing up.”
“How did you . . . how long have you been in here?”
“Not long.” He smiles, very kindly. “Long enough to see you fall asleep standing up.” A rear stairway in the back room goes up to his place, but when he comes and goes, we don’t always see him. “Allison ran to your house for a moment, so she asked me to watch for you. And I was in the back, looking through some new treasures, and wasn’t paying attention.” Paul moves toward the back room door. “I’ll be heading up now. Let me know if you need me. I know this is a long road coming up.”
My head snaps up. “She told you?”
He nods. “Your dad did. This is the time for a village, Tobin, and I’m one of your villagers. Can’t do much anymore, but I can watch a store. I can tell you not to swear when you drop your magazines.”
“How come everybody knew but me?” My anger is fast.
“Your dad didn’t want you to worry. No parent wants to burden their kid.” His eyes are conc
erned. “I’m always here, even when you’re pissed.”
“Yeah, well . . . thanks.”
He’s hard to stay mad at. I give him a quick peck on the cheek, then shove the throw away magazines in one heap with my foot so I can stack the saleable ones on the counter in a neat pile.
If I had a heart, Paul would make it feel better. He’s like that. He’s the same.
“Tobin?” As soon as the back door slams behind her, Allison is calling for me.
“Right here. Organizing magazines. Chatting with Paul.”
Paul lifts his hand to me, and I return the wave. He disappears into the back, and I hear he and Allison say a couple words, though they’re talking too low for me to make out the words.
Allison comes out to the store. “How are you feeling, Tobin?”
She doesn’t even pause for me to answer, just envelops me in a hug that makes me accidentally knock a glass bowl off a shelf when she pins my arm to my side. I feel it go and brace for the crash.
But she doesn’t move. She just keeps hugging me and petting my hair. Awkward. “It’s gonna be tough for a long time. But we’re all in this together. I’m here to help with everything.” One more pet of my hair and she lets go. The sound of the breaking glass finally registers in her brain. “Oh dear. Guess we need to clean that up. Luckily it’s not worth much.”
“I’ll get it. My fault.” I move to find the broom, which is usually behind the counter.
“Tobin?”
Allison wants me to talk, cry, or do something more than get the broom and dustpan. In a flash, I see my heart at the bottom of Superior. It’s a black, frozen blob. You can’t even tell it’s a heart.
“Not today.”
“You have to talk about this.”
“No, actually, I don’t.” And I walk by her, back to where the glass is in chunks on the floor. At least the thin, gross carpet kept it from shattering into a million pieces.
My dad is asleep on the couch when I come in. I don’t bother him.
He has scattered notebooks all over the table. Ones that have lived in boxes under our stairs for as long as I can remember. Ones I have been forbidden to look at. Ones my dad said he’d turn into his next book.
I pick one up and peek inside. Poems.
After I’ve baked a frozen pizza, I stand and stare. Stephen Oliver isn’t a sleep-on-the-couch kind of human.
I nudge him on the foot. “Dad. Time for supper.”
Nothing.
“Dad?”
He’s dead.
“DAD!”
The shriek wakes him up. “Huh? What? What’s wrong, Tobin?” He literally—literally—jumps from horizontal to standing in the span of two seconds. He wobbles, but he stays up. “What’s the emergency?”
I burst out laughing, which annoys him. He looks at his watch. “Is it really six-thirty? I laid down at four.”
“Supper’s ready. Come on.” All of a sudden, I feel thumping in my chest. That display of paramedic bravado was so like him.
It turns out to be a bad idea, a beating heart in my body again. Dad keeps trying to joke and be funny, and he asks me about my day, which I barely remember because I’m so tired, but feelings crash over me in alternate waves of love and fear. All I can do is think about how terrible he looked, asleep on the couch. Pale. Thinner than normal, and he’s already a thin guy.
I want to brand him on my mind, so I don’t forget this mostly-healthy dad, this happy-right-now dad. This sort-of-the-same dad.
Once I get the leftovers put away, Dad motions me back to the table.
“I need to do homework. Lots of it.”
He gives me the fish eye. “You don’t do homework on Friday night. And I haven’t told you my best joke for today. I looked up a bunch while you were at school.”
“One more. But that’s it.” I try to look stern.
“Did you know that the fattest knight of the Round Table was Sir Cumference? He acquired his size from eating too much pi.” And he loses it. L oses it. He can’t stop laughing, and his laughter makes me laugh.
“Okay, that wasn’t horrible.”
“Do you know why nobody could hear the pterodactyl in the bathroom?” He’s still chuckling.
“No idea. Why?”
“Because the P was silent!” And he’s off again, in gales of laughter.
I move toward the stairs. “I’ve got to work on my origin story for the scholarship, so I really am going to do homework tonight instead of tomorrow and Sunday.”
He shakes his head, still smiling. “No, you’re not. You just don’t want to talk to me.”
“Really, and then I was going to go to bed.”
“Really you aren’t going anywhere.” He’s stern, and he points to the chair. “Sit down.”
The doorbell rings, which never happens. The only people who come here are people who knock and walk right in.
Dad stands and moves slowly toward the front door. There are voices in the living room, but my eyelids are doing that thing again, so I sit and put my head down on the table. They’ll wake me when they need me.
Which is right now.
“Tobin!” Dad kicks my chair, which is a little more like him. “Wake up and see who’s here.”
I pull my head off the table with a giant effort to see a really big guy who looks familiar. Once I manage to focus my brain, I realize it’s Ike Navarro. Ike is Rich’s son—my dad’s rig partner Rich—and the last I knew, he was in Afghanistan.
“Hi, uh, Ike. Hi. A little tired, sorry.”
He smiles like it’s perfectly okay that people put their heads on the table and sleep there. “I hear the last twenty-four hours have been a bit stressful.”
Dad clears his throat. “Ike is my new PCA.”
“PCA?” I have no idea what that stands for.
“Personal care assistant. Person to help your dad out.” Ike answers for him.
My brain goes tilt, like the tiredest pinball machine in the world, and everything freezes inside again.
Dad tries for cheerful. “I don’t really need Ike now, but I will. You have school and getting ready for college, and Ike was a medic in the army. I figured it would be better if we had someone we knew. Someone we like.” He flashes Ike a grin, and Ike flashes one in return. When he does that, Ike looks just like Rich.
“I see.” I’m surprised I can’t see my breath, I’m so frosty.
Ike tries to make it light. “Nothing radical’s going to happen right now. I just came over to say hey. I don’t think I’ve seen you since you were twelve or so.”
A memory surfaces: We’re in my back yard. I’m probably twelve or thirteen, and Gracie and I are looking sideways at Ike, who’s a graduated senior on his way to boot camp. We think he’s dreamy. The Ike in my kitchen is still damn good-looking, with his amazingly lovely brown skin, jet-black hair, and deep dark eyes, but he’s . . . weary. A little bit beat up. Like sadness is permanently attached to him.
The chair scrapes as I push it back. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to the details, if you’ll excuse me. I’m really, really tired.”
“But you haven’t heard my best Stephen Hawking jokes yet.” Ike smiles at me. “Stephen Hawking survived longer with ALS than any other person on the planet, so he’s our guide now.” His eyes are twinkling.
My dad’s intrigued. “Like What Would Stephen Hawking Do? WWSHD?”
Ike smiles. “Exactly. When you’re in a jam, you just ask the question, and the answer will appear.”
“Hmm.” My dad’s processing this idea.
Ike holds out his hand to Dad. “Can I see your wrist? How’s it doing so far?”
While they chat, my eyes stray to the wall next to the refrigerator, where we have a big bulletin board with my dad’s race stuff on it. Old bib numbers, finisher medals, race maps. He’s been running marathons for about twenty years, so the board can’t hold everything, but it’s still crowded, with both recent and old stuff.
There’s nothing under the huge push pi
n with the white label attached, saying SEND ME IN SO I CAN RUN. No more registration forms. I wondered where they were.
Not the same.
Tilt.
I stand. “Good night, Ike. Nice to see you again. Good night, Dad.” I can’t contemplate Stephen Hawking, Dad’s wrist, or the absence of registration forms right now.
“Can’t we talk a little more?” My dad is desperate. Ike can tell it’s not a good time.
“I just . . . need to sleep.” I walk out, leaving them to stare after me.
“Nice to see you, too, Tobin.” Ike’s voice holds a note of apology.
Up the stairs, hit the bathroom to brush my teeth and pee, hit the closet for an extra quilt, then I wrap myself in five blankets and lose myself in oblivion.
I wake up from a dream about action figures. Rey was pushing Professor X in his wheelchair. I hop out of bed in my frigid room, grab the shoebox, and put it on my desk, so I’ll see it. Then I race back to bed, because I’m shivering and my toes are going to break off if I stay outside the covers much longer.
When I was a kid, I used to pose them in all sorts of ways out on the sand dunes, so they could blast the crap out of everything in sight and build houses out of leaves and sticks. Then they’d conquer rock piles and swim in the lake. They were one big Star Wars X-Men fam.
The secret to my scholarship is probably in that box.
I add another quilt and go back to sleep. In my next dream, Lando is having flying races with Iron Man, and my dad is down below them, screaming “Help her! Help her!”
This time I wake up with wet cheeks.
Dad’s Big Book of Advice #4
Never go to bed angry. Stay up and work it out.
SATURDAY
I stay in bed.
SUNDAY
My dad won’t let me stay in bed.
I sit at the kitchen table, do homework, and refuse to look at him.
MONDAY
I get home, and there are seven men working in my yard. Building a ramp. Not that he needs it right now, Ike says, but he will. Better that it’s ready.
I am never going to be ready.
THURSDAY
This very old, very orange car comes up the street toward me as I lurch over the lift bridge. Gracie, in her ’92 Dodge Neon we call Tangerine, probably looking for me so she can yell at me for blowing off her texts for three days.
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