Wreck

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  She pulls up to the curb and gets out. Her face is a mix of pissed and worried.

  “Tobin Mariette Oliver, what the hell is your problem? You’ve ignored me or sent me back one-word replies for the last three days. Spill it.” She crosses her arms and glares, like I’m supposed to be intimidated. Normally I’d laugh in her face.

  “My dad has ALS. He’s dying. Actively. Right now.”

  Her mouth drops open.

  “I’m a little preoccupied. Gotta go.” And I start walking again.

  “Tobin!” She slams the door and runs after me, grabbing my arm and turning me around. “Like Mrs. Nealy? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “How do I put that information next to all your Harry Potter references?”

  “If you’d told me what was going on, I wouldn’t have been making Harry Potter references.” She’s hurt. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  I look at the sidewalk, the sky, anywhere but at her. “It’s just not something you can say.”

  “It is something you can ‘just say’ to your best friend.” She grabs my face and turns it to her. “This is serious shit, and I’m here for you.” All of a sudden, she’s hugging me, and my frozen, bottom-of-the-lake heart is beating again, and I am almost almost almost crying, but I hang on to it. I hold in the howl.

  When she lets go, she motions to the Tangerine. “Get in. I’ll take you home.”

  So I do. We don’t say much, but she makes me promise to text her later. She tells me she’ll keep my news a secret until I’m ready to share it.

  Against my better judgment, I let her hug me one more time.

  Walking up our stairs, next to our brand-new ramp, I pull my heart out of my body and chuck it a good ten miles, over my house and deep into the lake again.

  Clunk. Instant popsicle.

  When I open the door, Ike and my father are disco-ing around the living room to some nineties pop tune. They’re both singing “Groove is in the heaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaart . . .”

  My dad is mostly being the guy he used to be, except he looks more fragile. Ike’s seriously busting a move. It’s quite the sight.

  In the middle of a turn, my dad sees me standing there. “Groove is in the heart, Tobin! Come on!” Not like he was a huge dancer, but he boogies over and tries to grab my hand.

  I don’t move. I’m glad I just threw my heart back in.

  “Tobin, you can relax for two minutes. I promise. Come on!” He tries to swing me around, and I don’t go.

  But the song is contagious. Ike’s egging me on, doing stuff I can’t even name.

  My dad starts doing the Twist, sort of, and it’s hilarious. I chuckle. He sees me, and he smiles, reaching out for my hand one more time. And my feet move before I tell them not to.

  I start to get into it, and my dad and I Twist together for a second, then I’m showing off some dance moves I’ve perfected in the Twin Ports Weakly classroom. We all just groove around the living room until the song ends.

  It’s normal. Ish. Same-ish.

  When the song’s over, my dad claps Ike on the back. “That was genius. Thank you. Do you have any Gordon Lightfoot on your phone?”

  Ike laughs. “I specialize in late twentieth-century dance music, not seventies easy listening.” He’s a bit out of breath.

  My dad’s breathing is easy, since he’s still got a marathon runner’s lung capacity, but he sits down on the couch like he’s run one. “Tobin, will you bring me my phone?”

  “Where is it?”

  “On the table.”

  I fetch it, and he pulls up his Gord’s Gold 4 Infinity playlist. This isn’t the first time he’s made me listen to it.

  “All right, you young whippersnappers. Time for some true musical genius. Everyone sit down and be quiet. Second track, Ike.” He hands Ike the phone, then points to him, then to the couch, on the other end from where he’s sitting. I sit in the chair and close my eyes. I know what’s coming.

  Sure enough, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” pours out of Ike’s speaker. My dad sings along softly. I have no idea what Ike’s doing, because I’ve got my eyes closed, but I’m betting he’s trying not to laugh.

  My dad has pretty good taste in most art forms—current and vintage—but he has an unnatural love for Gordon Lightfoot, thanks to this song. On November 9, 1975, my tiny dad was coming home from school, to this house, in fact, and was stopped by the lift bridge. The Edmund Fitzgerald steamed right in front of his face, and he remembers his mom helping him sound out the long name. When it sank the next day near Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario (and Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, because they’re twin ports, just like Duluth and Superior, Wisconsin), my dad took it hard. Way harder than you’d think a little kid might. Of course, everybody was talking about it, since the ship left from here. When the song came out the next year, he listened to it so much that Allison still refuses to hear a note of it. And that song led to his love of Gordon Lightfoot.

  When the song is over, I open my eyes, and I’m right—Ike’s trying not to laugh. He looks almost exactly like Rich in this moment. “Care to explain the Gordon Lightfoot love?”

  My dad sighs. “It’s a long story, full of heartache, intrigue, and even more seventies music. Another day.”

  Now Ike really does laugh. “I don’t mind Gordon Lightfoot. But does Tobin?”

  I roll my eyes.

  Dad rolls his eyes back at me. “She’s more than familiar with my Gordon Lightfoot adoration, and she begs to differ. But she puts up with me. We can’t really boogie to it, but we could slow dance, if you want, Ike.” He grins.

  Ike grins back. “As long as you don’t make me lead.”

  “Deal.” Dad moves his leg up and down, almost testing it. “I want to keep my muscles going until the very second they can’t.”

  I frown. “You’ve got more muscles than most people. It’ll be a while.”

  Ike nods. “Dance parties as often as we can. There’s research that says exercise might slow down the disease progression.” He pats his gut. “I need to move myself. Too much mazapan.”

  “What’s that?” I’ve never heard of such a thing.

  “The sweetest, most delicious Mexican candy you’ve ever had. It’s just peanuts and powdered sugar, but it’s incredible.”

  “Sounds kinda dull.”

  “I’ll bring you some. You’ll be sorry you ever said that.” Ike smiles at me.

  My dad sticks his legs out in front of him and stares at them. “This is . . . surreal.” He closes his eyes. “I’ve been an athlete since I was little.”

  We have photos of Dad competing in 5Ks when he was in elementary school and surfing up by Two Harbors in a little tiny wet suit. My grandma was lucky the lake didn’t eat him.

  Ike reaches over and slaps his knee. “As long as we can, we keep moving.”

  Dad studies his left leg, like he’s never seen it, like it hasn’t been dangling off his torso for forty-nine years.

  Ike hooks his phone back up, and the playlist of dance tunes starts again. But that moment has passed. I feel the ice creep back into my chest.

  “Know what I want?” My dad suddenly sounds strong. Definite.

  “A glass of water? Gonna get one for me, too.” Ike gets up off the couch and heads toward the kitchen.

  “A party.” Dad looks at me. “A fiftieth birthday party. I’ve never had a big one, so the time is now.”

  My mind is suddenly full of cakes and people and streamers and a guy in a wheelchair. “I have no clue how to make that happen.”

  “But we’ll figure it out, won’t we, Tobin?” Ike brings my dad a glass of water. Dad gulps it down like he hasn’t had any for days while we have a mind meld. My eyes say, I cannot do this. I’m a kid and I’m clueless. Ike’s eyes say, Relax and we’ll work it out.

  Dad’s getting excited. “I want it at the Beach House, too.” That’s a shelter house east of here, on the lake, with a party room along with the usual lifeguard stuff. “All sorts of people and lots of foo
d and cake. No presents. Just a big party.”

  “You got it, boss.” Ike looks at me like I’m falling down on the job. Say something, his eyes ask me.

  “Okay, Dad.” I frown.

  Ike smiles, like he’s got a secret. That secret better be party-planning skills.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #5

  Nap → instant reset button. Take one anytime you can.

  APRIL 2

  1 A.M.

  There’s a text from Gracie, from 11:49 p.m. Back when I was asleep.

  Can you talk? Are you doing OK? #worriedaboutyou

  I don’t text back. Aside from the fact that she’s probably asleep now, I never know what to say to “Are you doing okay?” Sure. I’m walking, talking, and breathing. I’m going to work and doing homework. Is my heart working? No. Am I petrified about the future? Yes. So does all that add up to okay? I have no idea.

  My dad is sawing logs when I tiptoe past his room. I’m so lucky the stairs don’t creak. He sleeps more than he did, but his sleep isn’t good. Sometimes I hear him thrashing around. Sometimes he yells, so I get up to check, but he’s still asleep.

  There are very few street lights out our way, but our back steps are familiar enough. Tonight, the moon is half full, and it’s making the lake glitter.

  I start walking east. The light diamonds ripple while the water sounds soothe my anxiety.

  The Beach House is maybe two miles from here. How soon do you have to start planning a birthday party?

  Sid’s light is on, so I sneak a little closer. When I do, I realize the window’s open and he’s playing in his room. It’s pretty quiet, because it’s so late, but he sounds like he’s in the middle of an orchestra. He’s not making any mistakes, either, because I can’t tell where he stops and the recording starts.

  I text him, even though I probably won’t get a response: You could be a professional, you know.

  All of a sudden, the music stops. My phone vibrates. Where are you?

  Look out your window. When his head appears, I wave.

  “What the hell, Tobin?” He sounds more pissed than pleased.

  “You sound great.”

  “You shouldn’t be standing down there listening to me.” I can’t see his face because of the light behind his head, but he sounds just like he did when we used to tell him that the Jaws shark was real and lived in the lake. He loved the music to Jaws when he was about ten.

  “Why not? Someday you’ll be playing for thousands.”

  “That day is not today. What are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I was walking, and I heard you. So I listened.”

  “Stay there.” And his head disappears from his window.

  I wait for him, wishing I had grabbed a heavier jacket. And socks. My moccasins are lined with alpaca fur—all the rage at Twin Ports Academy, straight from the Mall of America, even though I had to bribe Gracie to bring a pair back to me—but even alpaca fur isn’t enough right now.

  “Sneaky you, Tobin.”

  I jump when he talks. “Not really. Just out walking.”

  He looks at the ground. “Are you going to be mad at Gracie if she told me what’s going on with your dad?” He clears his throat. “I remember Mrs. Nealy, too.” It’s hard to hear him, because he’s so quiet.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t texted you. I’ve been . . . hiding.” I keep my voice down, too.

  “You know we can help you if you need it.” The moonlight is glinting off the edge of his glasses.

  “No disrespect, but everybody says that. And I have no idea what kind of help I need.”

  “Well . . .” He thinks. “I can always come over and watch your dad, if you want. When he gets . . . further along. My mom used to do that for Mrs. Nealy, be there when her husband went to the store. Maybe your dad will like it better if I bring my violin?”

  “He’d love it if you played all the Star Wars stuff. I hope it won’t get to that point, where someone has to stay with him.”

  Once it’s out of my mouth, I realize I’m an idiot.

  Sid looks down again. “I think it always gets that bad—Mrs. Nealy bad.”

  My stomach lurches. “Can we not talk about this right now?”

  “Okay.” Sid looks at his watch. “You know it’s 1:30, right? And we have school soon? Like in seven hours?”

  “You weren’t supposed to see that text and come out here.”

  “I saw my phone light up. C’mere.” He grabs my hand and pulls me into a hug.

  I’ve never been hugged by Sid Smithson before. He’s not particularly meaty, but he’s a good hugger. Just for a second, I let it be nice. But I pull away before I can feel my heart start to beat again. “Thanks for the offer.”

  “I’ll play for him any day.”

  I wave, and Sid does the same, then he disappears around the corner of his house. I trudge back through the sand. Two houses before mine, in the one spot where there’s a yard light, there’s a kayak leaned up next to a garage, and it says PUSSYDESTROYER69 on its side. I mentally put a frame of dick pics around it. Keepin’ it classy on Park Point.

  When I make it back inside, Dad’s awake.

  “Where were you?” I hear him call from his room when I come up the stairs.

  “Grabbed a banana and sat on the back steps. Couldn’t sleep.” I stop in the doorway to his room. The only light is the glow from his Kindle screen.

  “You’ve got school tomorrow.”

  “Going back to bed now.”

  He holds out his arms to me. “Hug?”

  I squeeze once, quick, and bolt.

  One middle-of-the-night hug with a guy at the beginning of his life. One with a man who’s at the end of his.

  My alarm and 7:30 come way, way, way too early.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #6

  Real men squint, but smart people actually protect their eyes with sunglasses.

  By the time we get to April 21, which is today, it’s almost-but-not-quite pretending to be warm. We can pretend spring is coming, and that it might not snow again, but we all know that’s not true. Today it’s fifty-five degrees and sunny, and it’s Saturday, so the nice weather isn’t wasted on a school day.

  I’m sitting on the dune in our backyard, trying to figure out how to pose the first few photos of my origin story. The box of action figures is next to me, and I’ve drawn a face on a pea pod, cribbed from the fridge and wrapped in a scrap of ribbon for Mystique to hold, like it’s me. Mystique can be my mom. Professor Xavier, out of his wheelchair, can be my dad. Lando is Paul.

  I tried taping cards together to make a house—better symbolism—but it’s hard as hell to make a card house with the slippery kind of cards. So I swiped a cardboard box from the back of Trash Box and did some cutting and drawing. It’s big, maybe a foot and a half tall. Mystique and Xavier are standing outside the card mansion, looking like they want to fight, since that’s what action figures do, but they have this baby pea pod to take care of.

  Of the twenty photos I take, maybe five are useful. But that’s five more than I had.

  Then I arrange one with Lando, Mystique, Pea Pod, and Professor X, like it’s a portrait in a studio, but with beach grass and a sand dune as a background.

  Little Rey will come in handy, because she can be the transition between Pea Pod and Big Rey, who’s gonna be the now-me. Little Rey will learn to fight from Mystique and Lando, and she can sit at the feet of Professor X and get her mutant learning on.

  I move the house so it’s on top of the sand dune, so you can see Lake Superior in the background, and snap some shots.

  I like it. A lot.

  “Tobin! Where are you?”

  I raise my hand up and wave it. The roll of the dunes can hide you pretty well.

  “Can I come out there?” It’s my dad, yelling from the house.

  His voice doesn’t sound quite like his.

  I don’t want him to come out here.

  I see my heart on the bottom of the lake, a
nd it’s a big black ice cube. You can’t even tell it’s a heart if you don’t know what it is. A fish noses it—a huge fish—but then swims away.

  Right after my mom moved to Paris, which was also in April, we used to sit out here on the dune and stare at the lake and the ships when they came by. I alternated between sad five-year-old, angry five-year-old, and regular five-year-old, sometimes in the space of thirty seconds, and my dad would tell me stories about the lake, and fish, and seagulls, and whatever else he could think of to get my mind off things.

  I remember him saying it was okay to be sad and angry, because feelings aren’t facts. Feelings just are. Feel them and let them go, so you can deal with what’s in front of you.

  It was pretty heavy for a five-year-old, but evidently it stuck.

  Here’s my seventeen-year-old conclusion: feelings can suck it. Right now and forevermore.

  When I’ve got a few more shots, I sit up and watch my dad walk out to me.

  In the last two days, my dad’s used a cane enough for it to really qualify as a full-time thing, and his progress is pretty slow. He sways and pitches like the ground is actively moving as he walks. His face is set in stone concentration, because he has to watch his feet as if they might escape.

  He looks rickety. And he doesn’t walk, exactly, anymore. He rickets.

  At least the cast on his wrist is gone. He’s down to a brace.

  I grab the Star Wars X-Men Fam and their house and jog to him. “It’s too far. Let’s just go back to the house.”

  He motions me back to the dune. “I am not an invalid. Six months ago, I ran a marathon.” He glares.

  “Then give me a sec.” I dash back to the house, fast as I can go, throw down my stuff, grab two fold-up chairs, and hustle back out to the dune, passing my dad before I get there, because he’s not going any faster than he was before.

  Dad laughs. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you run since eighth grade.”

  “Probably even before that.” I’m winded when I stop.

  He makes it to me while I’m setting up the chairs on the highest dune in our backyard, facing the lake. The wind is still damn cold, and even though I’ve got on a couple layers of fleece, I’m shivering. Dad’s got on a fleece pullover, a sweatshirt under that, gloves, and a hat. I get the impression it’s harder to hold on to body heat. He wears his hat in the house sometimes.