Wreck: A Novel

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  By April, the lake doesn’t look so much like it will eat you, but you’ll still freeze to death in less than ten minutes if you go in.

  He breaks the silence. “Time for a dad joke.”

  “Haven’t heard one for a while.”

  “A ham sandwich walks into a bar and orders a beer. The bartender says, ‘Sorry, we don’t serve food here.’”

  I chuckle. “Ham sandwich on a barstool.”

  He grins.

  We sit and watch the lake ripple in the bright sun, trying not to be cold.

  I fumble for a topic. “Do you want anything special at your birthday party?”

  “A big cake in the shape of an ambulance.” Dad looks hopeful.

  “Maybe Allison can figure it out.”

  “Have you started planning with her?”

  “Not yet.” I haven’t told her about the party.

  “You know what else I want?” He’s on a roll now. “Mama Duck.”

  “Six stories of Zen?”

  He nods. “Yup. That’s my Make-A-Wish.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’ll work on that.”

  He chuckles. “You do that, Tobin.” Then he clears his throat. “How you doin’, honey? Really? No bullshit.”

  “Hanging in there.” I keep my voice as normal as possible.

  He puts his hand on my arm. Still strong, still comforting. “Honest, or are you trying to make me feel better?”

  “There is no good answer to ‘how are you?’ when your dad is dying.” It comes out in a rush.

  “I see your point.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. “Maybe this will help?”

  Information for a support group. Family members of people with ALS. I fold it back up and hand it to him. “Nope.”

  “You can’t just keep it all inside.” Such a dad thing to say.

  “I’d be the only teenager there, and it would suck.” I touch my hand to the left side of my chest. Nothing. Good. “You’re still here. I’m all right for a while.”

  He sighs. “It will be impossible to convince you otherwise, won’t it?”

  I’m not talking to anyone about what my guts do every night. Or the fact that I either can’t sleep or want to sleep for twenty-four hours straight. Or the fact that I’ve stopped doing homework. Or anything else.

  “I’m writing you a book.” Proud smile—bigger smile than I’ve seen for a very long time.

  “You are?”

  “It’s called Dad’s Big Book of Advice. All the things I don’t want to forget to tell you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Don’t forget to change the oil in your car. Remember birthdays. Never smoke. Always be careful with your money. Stuff like that. Maybe some funny stuff, too.”

  “You can just tell me those things, can’t you?” This is weird.

  “That way you can refer to them as you need them.” His eyes tear up, but I pretend not to notice. “Dad in a book. Best thing ever.”

  “Yeah.” My voice breaks, even though I don’t want it to, and I look away. “Will it have bad dad jokes?” I feel my heart beating, and I will it with all my force back into Lake Superior. “Am I going to laugh?”

  He nods. “You’ll laugh your ass off.” He wipes away the tears that have escaped. Crying happens two or three times a day now.

  We stare at the lake some more, him lost in his head and me trying not to mind that he’s lost.

  “Do you want to do photographs for my book?”

  I don’t quite register what he says. “For what?”

  “Dad’s Big Book of Advice. It would be even better if you took photos to go with it.”

  It would rip my guts out to do that.

  “I, um . . . I should focus on my portfolio for school. For the scholarship. You’re going to need lots of doctors, and Ike must be expensive. I kind of have to get one.”

  “If you don’t want to, that’s okay.”

  I am such a shitty daughter sometimes. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just . . .” I can’t be a shitty daughter.

  He pats my arm. “Just wanted to check. Help me up, would you?”

  I grab his cane and hand it to him, trying not to be a shitty daughter, so he can stand up. Then I carry the chairs back to the house over one shoulder while he holds on to my other arm. We go really slow.

  “Ike should be here soon, if he’s not already.” My dad isn’t winded, but he’s not breathing as easily as he was a week ago.

  “On a Saturday?”

  “We have to start doing some damn chart to check disease progress.”

  Ike’s been around almost every day, and I’m getting used to seeing his bag of stuff next to the couch and his Bluetooth speaker on the side table.

  Once we make it into the house, Ike takes Dad’s phone from him and puts on Gordon Lightfoot. Wise move on his part. While Ike tests my dad’s functions, he tells us the max score is 40, and the function test measures everything from speech to movement to salivation—ew—to handwriting. Dad gets a 33.

  Ike is pleased, and he makes some notes in a big three-ring binder of paper. “Good stuff, Steve. Now I gotta do those bitches of dishes.”

  My dad laughs. “Rich always says that, too, in the break room—‘Who’s gonna wash these bitches of dishes?’ But I don’t think it’s in your job description.”

  “It’s allowed. Elena taught me well, even though, as the baby, I tended to get out of most chores.” Ike points at me. “I know you were working on your portfolio today.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” It doesn’t stop me from blushing again. Elena is his mom, and she’s super sweet. She’s a nurse at Gracie’s school. She sent us the world’s best enchiladas right after Dad told me about his diagnosis. If Ike can cook like she can, then he should do that instead of dishes.

  Ike’s long gone, and Dad’s asleep on the couch. There’s another notebook on the table. I risk it.

  MEREDITH’S GRANDMA’S WILD RICE SOUP

  1½ c. cream

  3c. cooked wild rice

  A cookbook? A very Minnesota cookbook, if it has wild rice.

  I page through, and there are at least twenty recipes in there, all of them dated before I was born, all of them in his handwriting. No way am I letting this go. I spirit it up to my room and tuck it into a desk drawer, then come back down and rummage under the stairs until I find one with a long list in it—baby names? character names?—and nothing else. I leave it on the table. Maybe he won’t open it before he puts it back in a box.

  Now I have recipes to help me remember him, along with my great-grandma. And my mom.

  Text message from Gracie, about 1 a.m.: You up?

  Of course.

  Things OK? Haven’t chatted much lately. :(#GracieandSilentTobin

  Life is stressful. But Ike did the dishes today. #downwithchores

  Ike who? No male escapes Gracie’s scrutiny.

  Rich’s son—Dad’s ambulance partner Rich.

  She sends a photo of Ike in his fatigues she must have found online: This guy?

  Yes.

  You’re so lucky!!!!!!!! #hothothot #squadgoals

  In the picture, he’s tall and built, tawny-tan skin with dark hair and eyes, not smiling because soldiers don’t smile, but handsome and hunky. Gracie would think he’s the strong, silent type, even though in reality he talks a lot and is maybe the cheeriest, nicest guy I know.

  You probably can’t be that guy when you’re deployed.

  Gotta go.

  I put my phone on my desk, wrap up in a blanket, and close my eyes.

  Ike is here to help my father die more slowly.

  How is that lucky?

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #7

  Do what you want to do, not what others want you to do.

  MAY 1

  Yesterday at Trash Box I told Allison about Dad’s birthday request. She picked up the phone and reserved the Beach House thirty seconds after I told her. She says she knows caterers and people who can make a cake in the shape of an
ambulance, and we can talk more about the other details when school is out. Getting the place is the most important thing.

  Party skills: she’s got ’em. Thank god.

  When she was up front and I was sorting dishes in the back room, I stared at Mama Duck. Then I googled her, and it turns out she’s from Duluth—who knew? A homegrown six-story Zen duck. So I sent an email.

  What could it hurt?

  People have the end-of the-year freakouts at school. Gracie is texting me every twenty minutes about which test she thinks she’s going to flunk next. I’ve already been called in to see Mrs. Brooks, our assistant principal, since my grades are so horrible. That conversation went something like this.

  Mrs. B: I hear your dad has ALS.

  Me: How did you hear that?

  Mrs. B: We’re willing to be moderately easy on you this semester. ALS is a very difficult diagnosis.

  Me: Um.

  Mrs. B: [looking at the ceiling, trying not to act like I’ve really screwed myself] We don’t want you to completely wreck your GPA, though we know you have to be very distracted. We want to make things easier. It’s really for all of us.

  Me: All of us?

  Mrs. B: Nobody wants to flunk a girl whose dad is dying.

  Me: . . .

  In my head, I took a photo of Mrs. B, sitting sternly at her desk, hands folded in front of her, with the words DAMMITDAMMITDAMMIT framing her portrait.

  I was so hoping nobody would notice.

  Then I had to get my ass in gear and do homework for two weeks nonstop after teachers forgave a few assignments. Now I’ll probably end up with Cs across the board. For a couple weeks, I was a straight-F student. Dad would lose his mind in an instant if he knew.

  Which he’s already doing, it turns out.

  Ike gave me a pamphlet a few days ago, called “Pseudobulbar Affect,” and it explains why my dad is always crying, aside from the fact that everything is tragic. Sometimes the neurons in your head that control emotions go to hell when you have ALS, so a person can have exaggerated crying, laughing, or smiling spells.

  A laughing or smiling spell would be great about now.

  Tonight, Ike is doing Dad’s function test, and he’s down to a 31. Walking is steady, so to speak, since he’s not very steady, but eating is getting harder, as is writing by hand. Dad’s lawyer, Mark, came by a week ago. I looked at the signature when he was done. I would swear someone else had written it. The changes aren’t huge, but they’re there.

  Dad has to cry and hold my hand for a while when Ike tells him his score. He does that a lot, hold my hand, and usually it helps him stop crying. Ike’s job is to pat his back.

  Dad eventually grabs a tissue from the side table. Ike’s taken to leaving boxes of Kleenex everywhere. “Well. Think this spell is over.” Ike told Dad what’s going on with the neurons, which helped Dad feel a little less self-conscious. “Resume normal conversation.”

  I try to look like I’m okay with what just happened. “You can hold my hand as long as you need to.” Even though I want to run. “Is it time for a dad joke?”

  His smile is watery. “What did the buffalo say when his kid went off to college?”

  “No idea.” He told me this joke two days ago.

  “Bison! Isn’t that a great pun?” He’s laughing, and then he’s laughing and laughing like it’s a Robin Williams marathon on Comedy Central. He can’t stop. His eyes are a little panicked, and he squeezes my hand again. Hard.

  Ike touches Dad’s hand. “Steve, maybe you could think about something serious for a minute. Though I know it’s a good joke.”

  He takes a deep breath, trying to get himself under control while still chuckling. “I’m working on it.”

  He squeezes my hand one more time and lets it go. I try not to let him see, but I massage my fingers.

  “Do you and Ike have a second?” Dad blows his nose. “I want to talk with you about something.”

  Ike shrugs. “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

  “My homework is done.” Mostly.

  “Stay here then. I’ll be right back.” He grabs his cane and hoists himself off the couch, then walks with careful, measured steps toward the back door and the junk room/mud room/humongous closet that holds that back door. We’ve never known what the house builder intended that room for, but there’s space for a washer and dryer, and extra boots, hats, and outside stuff, along with all the other random junk. We call it the Everything Room.

  “Do you know what he’s doing?” Ike’s eyebrows are raised.

  “Not a clue.”

  Ike gets out his three-ring notebook and makes a couple notes on a different page than where he records Dad’s scores. “Is your dad a secretive guy? Was he before the diagnosis?”

  “Nope.”

  “Hmm.” He jots another couple things.

  Dad comes out of the Everything Room with a small box, held with care in his hand with the brace, the one that’s not holding his cane. He motions Ike and me to the kitchen table, and he puts the box in the middle. His hands are visibly shaking, harder than normal.

  “What’s that?” I pick up the box. It’s been opened and taped back up. There’s a logo of mountains on it with a few birds flying over them. The box says CHOICE MEDICAL SUPPLIES, and underneath it says SUMINISTROS MÉDICOS DE ELECCIÓN. And that’s it.

  Dad hands Ike a piece of paper that’s been folded up. “You can read Spanish? I know you speak it with your folks.”

  “Yes.” Ike takes the paper, reads it, looks at my dad, looks at me, and hands the paper back to Dad. “That’s all that’s in there?”

  My dad nods, closes his eyes, and nods again.

  “Did you order it online?”

  He nods again.

  “Judging from the packaging, I’m right, but I just want to check: you didn’t get it from someone here in America, which would be illegal?”

  Dad shakes his head no.

  “Okay then, but I’m not helping you.” Ike sits down at the table, clasps his hands together, and looks at my dad. “I’m not capable.”

  “Excuse me?” My voice is higher and more scared than I want it to be. “What’s going on?”

  “That box is from Mexico, Tobin, and it contains a drug called pentobarbital. It’s his news to tell you what he’s going to do with it.” Ike’s face and voice are calm, but there’s something underneath it. “You probably want to sit down.”

  I sit. “What’s pentobarbital?”

  Dad clears his throat. “It’s a drug people use to induce unconsciousness and stop their hearts.”

  “But your heart’s going to stop too soon as it is.”

  Silence.

  “Isn’t it?”

  My dad reaches across the table and grabs my hand again, the one that’s still a bit sore from earlier, when he was in tears, which are flowing again. “The drugs are to help me.”

  “Help you what?”

  “Decide when I want to be done with this illness, instead of letting the illness make the decision.”

  There are whistles in my ears. Traffic cop whistles and slide whistles and teakettle whistles.

  “I’ve seen a lot of death, honey. Eventually there won’t be anything left to save. CPR won’t work on someone whose breathing muscles are shot to hell. You can’t jumpstart my legs with defibrillator paddles. So . . .” He takes a deep breath. “This way I can choose when to be finished.”

  I can’t hear anything. “Choose what? When?” He’s miles away, behind the whistling and noise.

  “Not soon.” He points at the box. “Later in the year. I’ll take some Zofran first, so I don’t throw it up, then I’ll drink the pentobarbital. Then I’ll lose consciousness. Then my heart will stop.”

  Ike touches his hand. “I’m not sure Tobin needs the practical explanation right now.”

  The whistles screech on, but now there are rumbles, like landslides. Is the world splitting open?

  “If this was a disability, I’d be fine. I could live t
he rest of my life doing wheelchair marathons, or whatever. That’s totally workable.” He looks at me and Ike. “But this bullshit disease is devastation. I’m so angry and sad I can barely see straight. So, when it’s time, I’ll stop the destruction.”

  Ike is still calm. “I will not help you. It’s against everything I believe.”

  I stand and walk out the back door. I can’t hear a thing, and I can’t feel my body, but I push myself to move.

  “Tobin?”

  I keep going.

  You’d think the temperature would get warmer out here, but it doesn’t seem to.

  I imagine my heart on the bottom of the lake, still black, still frozen, but smaller. Two months has eroded its size. Fish still nudge it from time to time.

  My hands are blocks of unmoving ice.

  He can’t do this to me.

  “Tobin?” It’s Ike. “Your dad doesn’t want to come out here in the dark, in case he trips. And he wants to talk to you a little bit more.”

  “Nothing else to say.” I can barely get it out.

  “He says there is. Could you be kind to him?”

  I’m silent.

  “I know this is impossible. Death always is. Please come back in.”

  I turn around. It’s almost dark, but I can see Ike pretty well. He’s got a fleece jacket for me.

  I take it from him, putting it on as I follow him back into the house. The sand shifts under our feet. There’s no way I’d want Dad walking out here in the dark.

  He’s still sitting at the table, and he’s been crying, because his eyes are bright red and puffy.

  “Tobin, I’m so very sorry.” He reaches up to hug me as I stand there.

  I bend down into the hug, even though every instinct in me is to head back out the door.

  He pulls away and looks into my eyes. “I know I’m cheating you of more time. But I can’t bear the thought of losing myself so completely.”

  I try to think of something to say to his hurt, agonized face, but my brain is stalled out.