What Remains True

by Thomas, Janis

  Maybe if I do actually have a heart attack and die right here in front of him, he’ll feel really bad. But I know he already feels really bad. When he leans over and opens the door for me, I see that the crease is still there between his eyes, and his eyes are kind of swollen, and his face is kind of red like he’s been scratching it.

  “Hi, piece of pumpkin pie,” he says. But he doesn’t say it the way he used to, when his face would be all happy and goofy smiling and he looked and sounded like a cartoon character. His words are flat and the car engine muffles them. And when I get in the car, I don’t think he even notices that I’m about to keel over, that I’m sweating and wheezing and all red in the face, which I know I am. He just turns his creased-forehead, itchy face toward the windshield and pulls from the curb without saying anything about me or to me, or anything at all. I hug my backpack to my chest and stare out the windshield, too.

  I want him to ask me how my day was so I can tell him it was the worst day of my life and maybe he’ll feel sorry for me and not make me go back to school tomorrow. But then again, maybe he’ll get all mad and the crease in his forehead’ll get even bigger and he’ll tell me that the worst day of my life should be the day Jonah died and how could I pick any other day than that one because it was the worst day of his and my mom’s life so it should be mine, too. And then I’ll have to start thinking about that day and the things I did that I don’t want to think about, so I try to keep my mouth clamped shut, but I can’t get enough breath through my nose, so I open my mouth, but I try to not make open-mouth-breathing noises, like Darth Vader.

  We’re home in two minutes. Dad pulls into the driveway. He just sits there, not moving at all, just staring at the garage door, like something’s written on it and he’s trying to read it. But obviously there’s nothing written on the garage door. I reach for the car door handle.

  “Eden.” My dad’s voice sounds funny, thick like ketchup, like he’s got something in his throat but can’t get it out. I let my hand sit in midair for a few seconds, waiting to see if Dad’s gonna say anything else.

  He looks at me but looks away really fast, like maybe it hurts his heart to look at me. And I almost want to tell him to look at me because I’m his kid and I’m here even if Jonah isn’t and that I wish Jonah would come back, too, but he’s not coming back and so he and my mom are going to have to start looking at the kid they have left, because if they don’t I’m afraid I’m gonna just disappear.

  “I . . . Eden . . . I don’t . . . ,” he starts to say in that ketchup voice, and I can tell he wants to say something, but it’s making him hurt and that makes me feel like I’m going to start crying and if I start crying, I know that will make him feel worse. And then I get mad because my own dad can’t say anything to me, my dad who’s supposed to be strong and brave and like Iron Man, not just because he kind of looks like Robert Downey Jr. but also because he’s a dad and is supposed to be a little bit of a superhero.

  “I have to go pee,” I say, even though I know he doesn’t like it when I say pee. He likes me to say, “I have to go to the bathroom,” but I kind of don’t care what Dad likes right now, because even though he came and picked me up, which means he must care about me, he doesn’t care enough to talk to me anymore. I grab the door handle and shove the door open, then drag my backpack out of the car and run up to the house. I hurry, but not just because I want my dad to think I really do have to go to the bathroom but because I want to get away from him and his crease and his ketchup voice as fast as I can.

  I drop my backpack just inside the door. I know Aunt Ruth will holler at me, but I don’t care. I run up the stairs two at a time, trip halfway up and bite the tip of my tongue, which really hurts. I feel my lip start to tremble and that choking feeling in my throat, and I pick myself up and keep going. I hear Aunt Ruth calling me from downstairs, but I ignore her and run straight into my bedroom and slam the door. I walk across my room and go into the bathroom, ’cause even though I don’t really have to pee, I need to pretend. So I stand in front of the toilet and count to twenty, then flush.

  The tears start to come. I grab some toilet paper and press them against my eyes, pushing really hard, like maybe that’ll make the tears stop. There’s a knock at my bedroom door. It’s Aunt Ruth or my dad. It won’t be my mom. Her bedroom door is closed, which means she’s sleeping.

  “Eden? Honey?” Aunt Ruth. “It’s me.” Like, duh. Who else would it be? “Can I come in?”

  There’s no way to stop her, even if I wanted to, because we don’t have locks on our doors. I wish we did, not just so I could keep her out, but because if we did, maybe Jonah would still be alive.

  I will not think about that, I will not think about that, I will not think about that!

  Aunt Ruth opens the door and pokes her pointy nose into my room. Her hair is pulled back in a bun, like I used to have to wear for ballet, only mine had to be really neat and Aunt Ruth’s is all messy with strands of hair falling out of it. Her hair is mostly reddish brown but has lots of streaks of gray in it. My mom used to whisper to my dad, when she didn’t think I could hear, that it was no wonder Aunt Ruth couldn’t find someone when she didn’t care enough to color her hair anymore. Which is kind of funny that my mom said that, I guess, because now Mom doesn’t care about anything.

  Aunt Ruth holds my backpack out to me, and I think she’s going to say something cross, like “Don’t leave this downstairs,” but she doesn’t. Maybe it’s because she sees I’m crying or maybe it’s because she’s not feeling well. Her face, now that I look at her, is really kind of white, like more white than usual, and there are circles under her eyes. Not as big or dark as my mom’s. My mom’s look like someone punched her, like on the Popeye cartoons. But Aunt Ruth’s are still dark.

  “I thought you might need this for homework,” she says.

  I nod and take the backpack from her. I don’t tell her thank you like I should, but I’m afraid to talk, afraid I’ll have a ketchup voice like my dad.

  And plus, I’m still mad at her for making me go to school.

  “How was it at school today?” she asks.

  And now I don’t care if I have ketchup voice or not, because she needs to know what she did to me. “It was terrible and awful and horrible and the worst—” I stop myself before I say the rest. “It was the worst.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, and she looks like she actually means it. She shakes her head sadly. “I’m sure it will get easier.”

  “No, it won’t. I hate it there. Why did you make me go? It’s not fair.”

  “Eden. You have to go to school. It’s the law. You were out for three weeks. The school district sent a letter to us and to the state.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I know.”

  “Dori Wilson and her sister are homeschooled,” I tell her. I only know that means they don’t have to leave their house if they don’t want to. And that sounds just okeydoke with me. “Why can’t I be homeschooled?”

  She smiles, but it’s not really a smile, I can tell. “Because your mother or father or I would have to homeschool you, and none of us are in a position to do that right now. Maybe when your mom gets better, you can talk to her about that.”

  Is she ever going to get better? I want to ask the question, but I’m kind of afraid of the answer, so I hold it on my tongue.

  “I have to go home for a little while,” she says, and my heart pounds really hard in my chest, like when I was running. Aunt Ruth can be strict, and she sent me back to school, which was really mean, but she’s the only one around here who talks to me. Mostly about chores and how much TV I can watch and that kind of thing, but it’s better than nothing.

  “Don’t worry,” she says, reaching out and touching my cheek, like she can tell what I’m thinking. “I won’t be gone long.” She pulls her fingers away from my face, and I watch as she starts to rub her right wrist with her left hand, and her face scrunches up the way Jonah’s used to when Mom put alcohol on his s
craped knee. “There’s a very nice sandwich in the fridge for you in case you get hungry. You can have a bag of chips and some milk with it, okay?”

  I nod, feeling the choky feeling in my throat again.

  I don’t want to be alone in this house, with my mom and her shiny eyes and my dad and his creased forehead. Every minute that goes by feels like hours. Aunt Ruth says she won’t be gone long. But it might as well be forever.

  FIFTEEN

  SAMUEL

  After Ruth leaves, I pour myself another Maker’s Mark, two fingers this time. The first belt hit me hard, especially since I hadn’t eaten lunch, and I probably shouldn’t have driven to pick Eden up. But it was only two blocks, thank God.

  When Eden got into the car, I knew she was upset. Her face was red and she was huffing and puffing, and her eyes had that haunted look that all of us have. I didn’t ask her if she was okay. I should have. But I just couldn’t. She would have needed me to make things better for her, and I can’t right now. So I pretended not to notice her distress. Then when we got home, when I pulled into the driveway, I tried to talk to her. And again, I couldn’t. My throat closed up and I was afraid I’d start blubbering, like I did at the park today. I couldn’t let that happen, not in front of my ten-year-old daughter.

  I am a terrible father now. I used to be a good father. Not the best, certainly not Father of the Year, but good. I always prided myself on that fact. I never worked weekends so that we could have family time, and I was available most evenings to help with homework and read stories and play with Matchbox cars and Barbies, even though it was difficult for me to satisfactorily make the Barbie voice for Eden. I was always there for my children.

  Now, I have only one child. My insides twist at this realization. I’ve had it many times over the last month—I have only one child—and it always takes me by surprise. The wound is torn open, and the pain is fresh and immense.

  I wonder if I will ever be a good father again, the father Eden deserves.

  Maybe soon. Maybe, if I can just pull myself out from under the weight of grief. Fucking treacherous grief that colors everything a bright shade of rage. Rage that my son was taken from me. It’s difficult to see the light at the end of the tunnel, to imagine that there will ever be a time I’m not consumed with grief and rage.

  Time heals everything, Tuesday, Thursday . . .

  Rachel sang that song on our second date. We were at a Japanese restaurant that had a karaoke lounge in the back. Rachel’s confidence was bolstered by sake and Sapporo, as was her voice, and although the notes didn’t come out perfectly—she is no Céline Dion—she was wonderful, emotional, committed, and won the first prize, a free shot of Jägermeister, which I used to my full advantage later that night when I carried her to her bedroom.

  Time heals everything, this day, next day. If I’m patient the hurt will end and one fine morning, my heart will mend.

  One fine morning. I pray for that one fine morning.

  Eden is in her room doing her homework, according to Ruth. I haven’t checked in on her, but I tell myself I don’t need to. Eden is very responsible when it comes to school. She likes to do well. She likes to get good grades and impress her teachers. I wonder how Jonah would have done in school. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten the best grades, but he probably would have been the most popular kid; he would have had countless friends, would have been good at sports, and his teachers would have loved him even if he didn’t quite excel academically because he was so damn charming and had dimples so deep you could almost see the back of his head through them.

  Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

  I grab the glass of bourbon and step outside into the backyard. Shadow follows me and immediately goes to his bed, does a quick circle, and lies down. I pat his head and briefly scratch under his chin, and he looks up at me adoringly with his brown eyes, as though I’ve just bestowed upon him the greatest gift in the canine kingdom.

  I drop my hand to my side, then reach into my pants pocket and absently trace the shape of Rachel’s pill bottle. Ruth had passed the pills to me, unceremoniously and without a word, before she left. Now, they sit heavily in my pocket. I move along the wall of the house to the stacked brick barbecue. I kneel down and open the metal door to the storage cupboard and feel my way past the sodas and waters and beer. My hand closes around the pack of cigarettes, and I pull it out. I take one of the cigarettes out, light it with the lighter hidden in the pack, then tuck it away, back behind all of the drinks. I move to the very corner of the property, where the trash and recycling bins sit, and smoke the cigarette in between sips of bourbon.

  I quit smoking for Rachel. It was my one really bad habit, and she disapproved mightily, telling me flat out that she could never spend her life with a smoker. So I gave it up. For her. Because I wanted her that badly, loved her enough to commit my life and my lungs to her. But now she is unwilling to do anything for me, unwilling to be present, which in some ways I’m glad for, but in other ways not so much. So I stand here and smoke, enjoying every draw.

  When I’m down to the filter, I stub it out on the corner of the concrete, then toss it in the trash bin. Rachel won’t find it. Rachel doesn’t take out the trash anymore or do anything anymore. And if Ruth finds it, well, fuck her.

  I go back into the kitchen, Shadow at my heels. I look at the dog. He seems thin, and I wonder when he ate last.

  “I’m sorry, boy,” I tell him, and his ears perk up and he pads over to my side and leans his full body weight against my leg. I pat him on his back three times—thump thump thump—then cross to his dish and fill it with food. He rushes to the bowl as if he hasn’t eaten for a decade and noisily inhales the kibble.

  I polish off the bourbon, consider pouring myself another two fingers, then think better of it. I wash the glass and dry it with the dish towel and put it back in the cupboard, erasing the evidence of my sin even though I shouldn’t have to in my own house. I run my fingers past my nose, return to the sink and wash the cigarette stink off my hands, then wash my face for good measure, using the dish soap, which is probably terrible for facial skin, but who gives a fuck, really? Then I bury my head in the dish towel and try to keep myself from crying.

  When the emotion, strong and pungent, passes, I leave Shadow to his emphatic feasting. I climb the stairs to the second floor and wander down the hall to Eden’s room, carefully averting my gaze from the door on the right, which is closed and has been for weeks.

  I knock softly on the door, then push it open. Eden is seated at her desk, her back to me, hunched over a notebook.

  “Do you need any help?” I ask and am relieved that my voice sounds normal and that I manage to get the entire sentence out without choking on a word. She snaps her head in my direction, and her look of surprise is like a slap to my face, as though she can’t believe I’m actually talking to her. I force myself to look at her, not turn away or drop my eyes, even though it takes all of my willpower to do so.

  I watch as her lips turn up slightly at the edges.

  “It’s just Language Arts,” she says. “I got it.”

  I nod and try to smile at her, my lovely daughter who deserves a father who can speak to her more freely than I can.

  “Good. Let me know if you need me.”

  “Okay, Daddy. Thanks.”

  My heart squeezes in my chest. Eden hasn’t called me Daddy for two, maybe three years. I can’t bear it. I pull the door closed and wander down the hall to my bedroom.

  The curtains are closed, but I can make out the outline of my wife’s body in the bed. She lies on her side facing the window, away from me, and I’m not sure if she is sleeping or awake. I move around the bed and see that her mouth is open. I hear the familiar sound of her sleep breathing, which is like a snore, but not rough-edged or annoying like I know mine must be. I sit on the edge of the bed, perched and ready to escape should she start to stir.

  In sleep, in the darkened room, Rachel looks like the woman I married, if a bit thinner. The curve and
hollow of her cheekbones, the strong chin and perfectly arched brows, the slender neck, the sea of strawberry-blonde hair that my fingers used to grasp like a lifeline when we made love. When she is awake, she is a gross caricature of the woman she used to be, with the bruised circles under her eyes and the vacant stare and the slouched posture as though her grief is a constant pressure on her shoulders, pushing her down and down and down. But now, as she sleeps, I see the woman I fell in love with, and I have the urge to reach out and stroke the skin of her arm, to curl up beside her and spoon her and pull down her sweatpants and push myself inside her and lose myself to her sweetness.

  “You smell like cigarettes.” I jerk with surprise at the sound of her voice.

  I don’t know how to respond, so I say nothing. She rolls over onto her stomach, pulling the stuffed monkey with her, kicks out her leg, and falls asleep again. I consider taking the stuffed animal from her grasp—it’s time she let go of that goddamned thing—but I don’t want to wake her again. I watch her for another moment, then quietly leave the room.

  SIXTEEN

  RACHEL

  I was having a dream. Jonah was there. I couldn’t see him, but I felt him, like he was hovering somewhere nearby. I was in a long tunnel, and I didn’t know which way to go. I was stuck, my feet in water that wasn’t really water—it was like soup, thick and heavy and pulling at my shoes. And then I saw the green glow of light from one end of the tunnel and the soup became water and I could move, and I did, toward the green light.

  Green was Jonah’s favorite color.

  I’m awake now. I wish I was still asleep. Not that it’s better there. Sometimes the nightmares come. The chasing-Jonah nightmares where he’s just out of my grasp and I’m running after him and I can almost feel the fabric of his shirt on my fingertips, but he always pulls away at the very last second, and the dream always ends with an echoing thump, and I wake myself out of it before I see what the thump means, even though I already know what it means. But at least in the nightmare, Jonah is alive, smiling and pumping his legs and giggling until the very last second.