All That I Can Fix

by Crystal Chan

  I promised her exactly that.

  • • •

  On the way home I stopped by Sam’s favorite place in the woods and tied a message to a tree:

  Nick’s coming home. Miss you, bud.

  I choked up as I was putting up that note. It was harder to write that I missed him than I thought. I was almost not going to write that part, thinking that I might sound like a wimp, but before I could stop myself, I was writing those last three words and getting all choked up about it.

  As I turned to leave, I heard something: shouting. In the distance. I cocked my head; was I going crazy? Was I hearing shit because I wanted to? I’d already checked the woods. Sam wasn’t here.

  Then I heard it again. Shouting. Actually, screaming.

  I turned and sprinted toward the voice across the clearing and veered around a fallen tree that I hadn’t seen before. I kept running, pumping my arms, well off of any path. “Sam?” I shouted, my voice loud and raw and catching. “Sam?” Twigs snapped beneath my feet.

  The screaming grew louder.

  I ran harder, stumbling on some underbrush. I looked around wildly, my ears straining. I had no idea the forest was this big.

  There the shouting was again. I raced toward it, deeper into the forest, stopping when I had to catch my breath, hands on my knees. When I finally stood up, I shouted, “Sam?”

  Off a ways, there was a tent. In the middle of the woods.

  Then I saw him.

  He was on the ground with a fifteen-foot python coiled around his thigh.

  “Get away!” Sam was screaming, trying to pull his leg from the python, and his screaming dissolved into hysterical sobs.

  The python’s body shuddered, and it curled around one of Sam’s hips.

  I ran through the forest and launched myself at them, trying to pry the python off with my hands. Its body was solid iron. I stood up and looked around wildly, grabbed the biggest rock I could find, one that was at least twenty pounds, and slammed it down on the part of the python that wasn’t yet curled around Sam.

  The python yanked its head backward, its mouth open, small fangs exposed.

  Then, before I could do anything, it bit Sam’s stomach.

  Sam screamed, and I slammed that rock onto the lower half of the snake’s body over and over again. That didn’t stop it: The python slithered upward, toward Sam’s other hip. If it crawled a couple more inches to Sam’s stomach, he’d be as good as dead.

  Out of desperation, I spied a good-size branch on the ground; the part where it had broken from the tree was heavily splintered. I ran and got it, then grabbed the python close to the head with one hand and started jamming the splintered branch into its eyes with the other.

  Sam yelped as the python’s body seized tighter. Then it slacked slightly. I kept beating the snake with the splintered branch. “Get out, Sam!” I shouted, and Sam, who had been in a daze watching me, started struggling against the python’s body. I kept hitting the python’s head and Sam kept struggling until he was able to wriggle free—up to the knee, then the ankle, then the foot, and Sam leaped to his feet, out of breath. That was when I threw the stick away, grabbed a large stone, and smashed that python until snake blood oozed on the ground and its body went limp.

  Sam vomited.

  When he turned back around, I said, “Let me see the bite.” His skin was puffy and red. “Can you walk?” I asked.

  Sam nodded.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” I said.

  Sam kicked the python’s body as we left.

  I kicked it too, for good measure.

  “Wait,” Sam said. He went back inside his tent, and when he came out, what he had in his arms made me stop short.

  The question-mark jeans.

  “Sam, you still have your brother’s jeans?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it, not after all that Nick had done to Sam, all the ways that Nick had failed Sam, all the ways that Nick had abandoned him.

  “He’s my brother,” Sam said fiercely.

  I didn’t know what to say. I mean, sure, Nick is Sam’s brother, but he was also a dick. And yet that didn’t make much of a difference to Sam, even to the point where Sam was carrying his brother’s jeans as he ran away. If I were Sam, I would’ve cut Nick off a long time ago, walked away, and never looked back. Yet Sam was carrying them in his freaking arms, wadded up in a question-mark ball. It didn’t matter that Sam couldn’t answer any of the questions that Nick had left him with. The questions didn’t matter as much as the fact that Sam was holding those questions carefully, almost reverently. Somehow, through it all, Nick was still Sam’s hero. A fallen hero, but a hero nonetheless.

  I swallowed back a lump in my throat.

  • • •

  It was a long way out of the forest, and Sam’s leg was wobbly. We walked slowly, even though I wanted to run out of there. But I kept my pace slow for the kid.

  “That was crazy,” Sam whispered.

  “One more inch and—”

  “I know.”

  “You’re a little fucker for running away,” I said.

  Sam nodded. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “So you’ve been staying out here?”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. He sighed. “I brought a sleeping bag and everything. I just didn’t think the python would be out here with me.”

  “How did it get you?” I asked.

  “I was taking a nap. That’s when it started curling around my leg.” He paused. “I didn’t know pythons could travel that far. I mean, Jello’s house is a ways away.”

  I shook my head. “Maybe someone found it and didn’t want to call it in, threw it in the woods.”

  “That would be dumb,” Sam said fiercely.

  “That’s what Jello was going to do.”

  Sam was silent. We kept walking. Sam walked with a heavy limp.

  “I looked by the place where we hung out before,” I said.

  “I knew you would,” Sam said.

  “Food?” I prompted. The ground was soft beneath my feet.

  “That’s been running out,” he said guiltily.

  I nodded, a bit worried. He did look thinner.

  “I’ve been stealing stuff from Marren’s Corner Store,” Sam continued, running his hand over the top of a bush as we passed by.

  I snorted. “Who doesn’t?”

  Sam looked at me, surprised. I’d never told him I stole from Marren’s.

  He paused. “Thank you, Ronney.”

  I shook my head. “You’re a crazy fuckwad idiot,” I said, but I smiled with my eyes.

  Sam smiled back. “You say ‘crazy’ a lot, you know that?”

  At the question, an image of Dad popped into my head: Dad aiming a gun at himself. Suddenly my chest felt like it was caving in on me, and I didn’t know what to do, had no idea how to respond to that, and so to avoid Sam seeing my face, that’s when I gave Sam the hug I had wanted to give since I saw him. That kid buried his head in my chest as if he were in the middle of a great storm and was afraid of getting ripped out of my arms. I didn’t say anything and neither did he, but I could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, and after a while the word “crazy” started to fade away and I could hear other sounds, like the wind rustling the leaves of the trees and a shotgun going off in the distance. And since Sam probably hadn’t seen any of our signs yet, that was when I told him about Nick.

  • • •

  While we were headed back from the woods, I texted George.

  I FOUND SAM! AND I NEVER USE SMILEY FACES!

  THAT’S GREAT, RONNEY!!! Is he okay?

  Yes, mostly. He got bit by the python, but he should be fine.

  By the WHAT??? Well, that’s fantastic he’s okay!…I’d invite you over for a hug but my eyes are almost swollen shut. I look awful.

  From crying?

  Yeah. My world is falling apart, Ronney. What am I going to do about my Twenty Steps to Be an Architect? I was on step fourteen!!!

  Where are you?


  At home.

  Where’s Jello?

  At his home. He doesn’t want to talk to me.

  What?!!!

  Don’t ask.

  I dropped Sam off at his house because he didn’t want me to go inside. He said he wanted time with his parents, which made sense. But I made sure he went in. Both of his parents’ cars were in the driveway, and I made Sam promise me that he’d get his snakebite treated, pronto. Then I biked my ass to Jello’s, dropped into his room, and found him dicking around with photos on his computer.

  “Why aren’t you with George?” I asked. I stared at him. “She’s freaking out.”

  Jello looked miserable. “Yeah, I was texting her for a little while but had to do something else.”

  “Like what? Play with photos?”

  “I just . . . What am I supposed to do? George is hysterical, crying all the time.” Jello rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t help her.”

  “You can be there for her.”

  “But how?”

  “How?” I asked. I wanted to say, You caress her gorgeous hair and sit with the crap, with the questions, with the awful moments as they pass by. But then I realized that he’d never had to sit with the crap, or the questions, or the awful moments, because, for Jello, they had never passed by.

  He just didn’t have it in him.

  “You . . . ,” I said, pacing, “sit next to her. Tell her you’re there for her. Hold her, goddammit.”

  Jello looked uncertain. “But my photos—”

  “Fuck the photos!” I shouted, and grabbed his shirt. Jello cowered like I was going to hit him again for real.

  I released his shirt and watched him adjust it back into place. “George is more important than your photos, Jello.”

  “I know that, but . . .”

  “I know it all sucks, but just because it sucks doesn’t mean you turn into a loser and hide in the basement. Now get out of here and go to her house, or I swear I’ll hit you for real. Be the boyfriend, dammit,” I said, and I stumbled over the last words.

  He mumbled some semblance of thanks as he wheeled over to her house.

  When I got home, Mina shouted hello to me from her bedroom. I shouted a hello back, then turned around and texted George.

  Jello’s on his way.

  I can’t believe he just left me.

  He’s coming.

  He said he needed to work on his photos. L

  He can be a jackwad, but he’s coming.

  Are you going to come too?

  If he can’t make it for whatever reason—

  That was when Mom got back from work. I’d slipped my shoes off in the middle of the kitchen floor and turned on the TV while I was texting George. Mom looked down, saw my shoes, and walked by. Then she backtracked, walked right up to me, and looked me in the eye.

  I started first. “Mom, I found—”

  “I’m worried about Mina,” she said.

  “Duh,” I said. “But—”

  “What do you mean, ‘duh’? I’m really worried about her.”

  “But, Mom, I found—”

  “Will you stop thinking about yourself for once?” Mom exploded. Her black hair quivered, she was so upset. “When will you actually listen to me? I’m telling you, I’m worried about Mina.”

  I paused. This exploding Mom was rare. Very rare. As in, it-never-happens rare. I gave up. “What did Mina do?” I asked.

  “I got a call from her teacher. She hit one of her classmates.”

  My eyebrows popped up. “For real?” I asked. I wanted to say, Atta-girl, but I had the feeling it wasn’t the best time to cheer her on. “Mina’s in her room if you want to talk to her.”

  “Not yet. After dinner,” she said.

  “Was it bad?” I asked.

  “She gave him a black eye.”

  My eyebrows lifted. “Niiiice.” I couldn’t help it.

  That was when Mom started crying.

  “This is so hard,” she sobbed. “This is just so, so hard.”

  I didn’t know if she was talking about Mina or Dad or life in general. A part of me wanted to give Mom a hug, tell her it’s going to be okay, and that I’ll help her. But I just couldn’t. Instead, I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do with my hands.

  “Gee,” I said. That was the best I could muster.

  She wiped her nose. “I’m sorry, Ronney,” she said. “I guess I need some time to cool down, get my thoughts together.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “Maybe I’ll go for a drive,” she said distractedly.

  “Be careful,” I said, and pulled up a chair at the kitchen table.

  Mom left through the back way, by the patio door.

  George texted me.

  What, you left me too?

  No, no, I just got sidetracked.

  What do I do if there’s no plan? If there’s no Twenty Steps?

  I was in the middle of responding when Dan the News Man came on the TV screen in the kitchen, jabbering about a tiger sighting in town maybe a half hour ago.

  I wanted to say, Another day in Makersville.

  “Ronney?” Dad called.

  I ignored him. I went back to my phone and to George.

  It’ll be okay. Not sure how, but it’ll be okay.

  I’m a failure, Ronney. I failed so bad. I failed. Oh God.

  I’m still here for you. You don’t have to be perfect. It’s okay to fail. Life goes on.

  I have boogers on my hands.

  “Ronney?” Dad said. He was coming down the hallway.

  That’s nasty, but funny, too bad you can’t wash the phone.

  Haha.

  “Ronney.” Dad was looking at me now from the entryway to the kitchen. He ran his hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

  “Because,” I said, still looking down at my phone, “you would only ask if I’m here, which you can certainly see that I am. What’s the point of responding?”

  Dad ran his hand through his hair again. “That’s not why I was calling you,” he said.

  I looked up. “Fat chance of that. Anyway, you were in your bedroom while Mom was out here crying just a couple minutes ago.”

  “She was?”

  “You expect us to respond to you, but then you turn a mysteriously thick, deaf ear to everyone in this house.” I was getting heated up, despite myself.

  “That’s not true,” Dad said.

  “Like when Mom was crying,” I said. “Why the hell didn’t you hear her? Why didn’t you call for her when she was crying?”

  Dad’s face twisted up. I couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or guilt or anger, but it was still a big score for the R-Man.

  My phone buzzed. George just texted me. I wanted to see what she said, but I had Dad in front of me, which annoyed me further.

  “I couldn’t hear Mom crying,” Dad said, his voice tense.

  “Well, I couldn’t hear you, either,” I said.

  “I don’t like your attitude,” Dad said.

  I feigned shock as I glanced from my phone and stood up. “Why, look at that. That’s something a father would say. I’m sorry, I don’t know what that’s like, to be the son of a real father; it’ll take me a moment to adjust.”

  “So adjust,” Dad said flatly.

  I addressed an imaginary audience. “All right, folks, suddenly having a father is harder to adjust to than one thinks. This might take a little more than a moment,” I announced. I turned back to him. “I must say, I don’t know that being a father suits you.” I gave him a look. “Maybe you’ve outgrown it, Dad.”

  Dad ran his hand through his hair for a third time.

  Touchdown. I tried to hide a smile. Then I glanced back down at my phone to see what George had said.

  That’s when Dad came over and snatched my cell phone from my hands.

  I stared at him. “Give it back,” I said, in shock.

  He held on to it. “Pick up your shoes from the kitchen floor.�
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  I kept staring at him. “What?” I said, though I’d heard perfectly well what he said.

  “You heard me. Pick up your shoes from the kitchen floor,” he repeated, slowly, like I was stupid. He pointed to my shoes. “Be like any normal human being and put them where they belong.”

  I looked at him. “Are you serious?”

  Dad gave a little laugh. “Do I look serious?”

  That pissed me off. “So you think you can drop in on my life whenever you want and tell me what to do? What about all those times we needed you and you had checked out? Huh?”

  Dad was grim. “Those times are over.”

  I stood up from my chair. “Well, isn’t it marvelous that you changed from Clark Kent to Superman. I’m thrilled.”

  “Pick up your shoes,” Dad said.

  “Too bad no one needs saving,” I said.

  “Really.” Dad laughed again. “I don’t care what your opinion is. Pick them up.”

  Fuck, I was hot. The temperature in that kitchen must have exploded or something. I stomped over to my shoes, picked them up, and threw them onto the shoe pile with a flourish.

  “Content, Superman?” I said.

  Dad walked back to his bedroom.

  I followed him down the corridor. “You think you can do that, huh? Show up, be all tough, and then retreat back to your safe little cave whenever you want to? Well, let me tell you the truth, Dad Who Makes Son Put Away Shoes: We fucking floundered because you left us, and I needed to do the shit that you wouldn’t. So go ahead, be all proud that you—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Dad said. “I’m still the father of this household.”

  “Could have fooled me,” I said.

  Dad spun around and grabbed my arm surprisingly hard. “You will not talk to me like that,” he said.

  I tried to yank my arm away but couldn’t. “Let me go,” I said, and my voice cracked.

  Dad did, but I suddenly felt all claustrophobic in the hallway, my back almost against the wall. Still, my mouth kept going. “What were we supposed to do? Huh? Twiddle our thumbs for two years while you got your shit together?” I waved my arm in the air. “Sorry. I got news for you: Life goes on.”