by Erica Boyce
“Ah,” she says. She looks like she understands, but then she says, “You don’t want to jump from one head case to another.”
If only my mom could hear this. I shake my head. “No, you’re two totally different people, regardless of what you’re…dealing with. And maybe that’s the problem.” I force myself to meet her eyes. Her head is tilted a little, out of ideas. “It’s weird, I know,” I say apologetically. “She’s been gone for almost two years now. But I don’t know. I guess I still miss her for some reason. I’m not really over her.”
“Oh,” she says. She hugs her knees tight into her chest for a moment. “Okay.” She springs off the bed and hoists her bag off the floor, already packed. She smiles big, too big, and says, “Should we hit the road? I really want to get home before dark.”
She’s making this easy on me; I know she is. Still, when I stand up to follow her, my stomach drops down around my knees.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Nessa
Throughout the five-hour drive up to Vermont, I ask innocent and generic questions about his family and point out rest stops where we can switch drivers. Daniel barely looks at me, though, and I think maybe it’s because he can see the anger roiling beneath my skin. His answers are minimal, and after each one, I think, Claire is gone, and he’ll still never leave her.
When we finally pull up to my parents’ driveway, I get out of the car without a word, without even stopping to get my bag, and march unseeing up to the house. From behind me, from far away, I hear him shut the car door and walk away, the driveway crunching under his feet.
I throw the door open, and there is Charlie. Pouring coffee into a “#1 Dad” mug. He smiles almost shyly when he sees me.
“What—” I swallow, then start again. “I thought you weren’t coming.” It feels like saying it will erase him right back out of the kitchen.
He shrugs and looks away. “I changed my mind. Where’s your…um…friend? Daniel?”
He’s only teasing, but my throat still closes up, and I shove the door with my hip. “He’s nowhere. Gone.”
He looks surprised, but before he can say anything, I realize why he must be here. “Is Dad—is he—”
“He’s upstairs, sleeping,” he says.
All the air in my lungs unravels.
“Mom went with Zach and Maggie to buy stuff for dinner. If you can believe that.” He keeps his eyes on me as he takes a sip of coffee, but I always knew Mom would love Zach.
“Aunt Maggie’s here?” I say, glancing out the window. Sure enough, there’s a beige sedan with Arizona plates parked next to my parents’ truck, a rental car. I was so distracted on my way in, I hadn’t even seen it.
“Yeah. I think she’s got issues with her husband or something, so she came.”
“That’s good,” I say, barely hearing him. “That’s great. She’ll help Mom.”
“Mm,” Charlie says and falls silent.
“I’m gonna go say hi to Dad,” I say, brushing past him.
“You should know,” he says, spinning to face me and setting his mug on the counter without looking. “He’s not well.”
I stare at him. “Yeah. I know.”
“No, I mean—” He tugs at his hair, leaving it crazy and clumped. “He’s very frail. Mom hasn’t said, but I have to imagine he’s only got a couple weeks left.”
His words will not seep in. It’s like I’ve been shrink-wrapped, packaged into another life where my family has an expiration date that’s always just out of reach, and I wasted weeks chasing down my stubborn brother, who now stands in front of me like it’s nothing. It all finally bubbles up and out of me. “Don’t worry,” I say, “I’ve seen it before. I was here every time the cancer came back, remember? Or you would, if you’d ever come home.”
I don’t have time to watch him react. I take the stairs two at a time, my hand skimming across the wall, the family photos hung in the stairwell passing in a blur. I only slow down when I reach the door of my parents’ room. I pause and shake out my shoulders, like a shiver.
It’s true what I told Charlie. I’ve seen it all before, the wreckage of chemo. The graying skin, the loose clothes, the bald head naked and vulnerable. That doesn’t make it easy, not ever. Bit by bit, I open the door.
And there he is. He’s lying on his back on the bed, three or four quilts layered over him. His mouth is open a little, and his breath whistles out between his teeth. His cheeks are hollowed out. His hands look bony and frail where they lie on top of the blankets, no longer the strong hands that fixed combines and showed me how to work the tractor gearshift. I squint, struggling to reconcile this man, dull and flat, with what Charlie’d heard him say. All of my dad’s confusion and unwillingness cracking us all apart. For a reeling minute, I want to grab his shoulders and shake him, hard.
He lets out a painful-sounding wheeze, and the moment passes. I wait for a second before bending over to kiss his head, the skin stretched taut across his skull. I half hope he’ll stay asleep.
His eyes open, blurry before they find my face. “Nessa,” he croaks.
Before I start to panic, he clears his throat, and he sounds like himself again. “Don’t worry,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. “I’ve still got my voice. And hey, I get to keep my hair this time.” He raises one hand, shaking a little, and runs it over the few wisps covering the top of his head.
A laugh pops out of my mouth. It’s like the laugh opens the gates, and I hide my face in my hands. Yes, it’s the same as every other time, except his jaw is no longer set to fight, and there’s something in his eyes that I can’t bring myself to understand.
“Come on now,” he says.
I hear the covers shuffle as he tries to get out of bed.
“Listen to me,” he says sternly. “I may look like hell, but I’m still your dad, and I still tell you when you get to cry. Is that clear?”
I laugh again in one shuddering gust. I draw my hands away from my face and wipe them down the front of my shirt, then give him one sharp salute.
He nods. “Good. Now, how was Georgia?”
My mouth open and closes, empty, as I scramble back to the excuses we gave him. Before I can say anything, he smiles slyly, and I know he knows. “The same,” I say, smiling back.
“Great,” he says. “Glad the crisis was averted. Now, go away and make sure they’re making me a nice, meaty lasagna for dinner,” he says, waving me out the door.
“Will do,” I say, but he’s already leaning his head back against the pillows and closing his eyes.
I take the stairs down an inch at a time. I can tell nobody’s back from the grocery store yet, and I don’t have it in me to apologize to Charlie. He’s at the kitchen table, staring down at his coffee, the mug almost full. I sit down across from him. He looks up at me, scowling.
“I think Mom had an affair,” he says. “Or maybe cheated just once or something. I don’t know.”
My hands come up to grip the edge of the table, looking for something, anything to hold onto. “What?”
“It was a long time ago, I think. That’s what it sounded like anyway.”
“How did you—”
“They were talking about it in their room last night.” One corner of his mouth lifts, and in a flash, I’m fourteen again, huddled in my bed, listening to the precise cadence of the music Charlie blasted at the end of a bad day, every drumbeat and word, like it was playing in my own room.
“Holy hell,” I say, resting my head between my hands on the table. Its edge digs into my forehead. “Poor Dad.”
“He seemed okay. I think he made his peace with it a while ago.”
“Should we be mad at Mom?” I ask, because, I don’t know, it seems like maybe we should. I look at him, my temple pressed to the coolness of the table.
He swallows. “I think she’s probably mad enough at he
rself,” he says.
I lift my head up and sit back in the chair. “You’re right,” I say.
He takes a sip from his mug, then makes a face when he realizes it’s not hot anymore. He pushes it away and places his hands on the place mat. “What actually happened with Daniel? Did he decide to ditch the crop circle, or…?”
“No, he’ll be back. Or maybe not. Who knows?” I look away. “We hooked up.” The words feel cheap in my mouth, amateurish, but they’re the ones we used in high school, and it’s a force of habit with Charlie. The surprise touches his face just a second too late, and I roll my eyes. “I know, I know. You guys thought we were together all along. I’m pretty sure this entire town does, too. We spread a lie about where we were going and why so Dad wouldn’t find out we were trying to get you,” I explain, and he smiles.
“Anyway, we were just friends, until last night, at least.” I pick at my place mat, peeling the lamination away from its face. “It turns out he’s still hung up on someone else.”
“What an idiot.” His mouth is set and straight when I look up, but then he says, “I knew I never liked him.” He winks, and it’s so like Dad, I can’t speak. He takes both my wrists and draws them toward him. Most of the Band-Aids are falling off, the adhesive blackened and weak. I know how it looks. The skin is shiny and raw as meat, blotchy and ugly. I know he wants to tell me about proper wound care or ask me about my Luvox doses. He looks up at me, working his mouth around the words. The door opens.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Molly
For a moment, I am lost when I see Nessa and Charlie at the table, sharing a cup of coffee. I knew she was coming, of course, that she would be here any day. Still, in all the times I had imagined them here together, I’d pictured them as teenagers, huddled over their homework or laughing at something we said when they thought we weren’t looking. Now, finally, they’re here, and they’re full-grown adults.
“Hey, Mom,” Nessa says with a wooden smile. She hides her hands under the table, but not before I see the bandages and pink skin crisscrossing her palms.
“Oh, sweets,” I say weakly. At that moment, the screen door smacks open, and Zach and Maggie come bustling in behind me with the rest of the groceries.
“Aunt Maggie!” Nessa squeals.
Maggie drops her bags on the counter with a thunk and flings her arms around my daughter, so easily. “Hey, kiddo,” Maggie says into her hair.
“Charlie was just telling me about your husband,” Nessa says, backing up. “How awful.”
Trust Nessa to cut right to the bone of the matter. Charlie stares out the window, studying something. Maggie lays her hand on Nessa’s cheek like she’s a child. Instead of squirming away, Nessa smiles right back.
Zach clears his throat, still standing behind me, and says, “Charlie, want to help me put away these groceries?”
Charlie stands, not meeting my eye, and the two of them move around me in a well-practiced dance, opening cupboards and passing boxes. I feel abruptly out of place, obsolete.
I slip up the stairs and to our room. Sam lies on his side, staring at the door, or rather through it, and he is so motionless, my heart gallops. At last, he opens his arms wide, and I lie down next to him, my back pressed up against his chest, nestled and safe. I cup one hand around his elbow and whisper, “Our kids are home.”
“I know,” he says, his words muffled in my neck. “Things must be getting really bad.” There is laughter in his voice, but also not.
I stare at a line of pink flowers running up the wallpaper we glued all those years ago, tracing my eyes from floor to ceiling, over and over again until it blurs.
* * *
Dinner tonight is a sloppy square of lasagna that drips red sauce on its way to our mouths. Maggie insisted on making it herself, and although the pasta is a little crunchy around the edges, Sam makes appreciative sounds at the back of his throat while he chews.
When we are done eating, I collect the dishes once again, plates clacking against each other in the quiet.
Maggie watches me and says, “I think I’m going to take a little night drive.”
“I’ll come with you,” Zach says quickly, and the escape is so obvious that none of the four of us bother to reply. Nessa’s eyes dart between Charlie and Sam, but Charlie just stares at Zach, and I turn my back to the pleading in Charlie’s eyes.
Maggie and Zach hustle out the door while I stack the dishes in the sink. I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel, drying each individual finger and rubbing the sheen back into my wedding ring. In the living room, Charlie and Sam sit on opposite ends of the couch.
“Where’s Nessa?” I ask, dread rising in my stomach.
“She’s taking a shower,” Sam says. He motions toward the couch.
I take my spot between my husband and my son. “It’s so good to have the two of you home. The three of you, really. Zach seems lovely.” I pat his hand carefully, and I’m rewarded with an equally careful smile.
“We just wish we’d had a chance to meet him sooner,” Sam says.
I close my eyes but can still see Charlie stiffen.
“Or seen more of you, really. But the eleventh hour is just fine, too.” Sam’s voice is airy and leavened, but I wince all the same. He never could quite tell when his jokes were a touch too bitter.
Upstairs, there’s a heave and a clank as the hot water moves sluggishly through the pipes. All three of us glance warily at the ceiling, our worst-case Nessa scenario binding us.
Charlie turns to face Sam. “Just so we’re clear,” he says evenly, “I’m here for her.” He jabs one finger upward. “I know you all disapprove of me. I know my husband and my job don’t fit into your perfect vision for this family. Soon enough, I’ll be gone again, and you’ll be free to imagine whatever you like about my life.” He stands, shaking my hand off his arm, and escapes up the stairs.
I turn to Sam, ready to berate him for pushing our son away again. Before I can say anything, I see it: Sam is even smaller than usual, deflated. His eyes are wide and lost. His hands are clenched like mine, gripped tight around a family we can’t seem to keep.
Not now. Not this time. I am standing, taking the stairs two at a time in a way I haven’t in years. Charlie is about to close the door to his room, and he recoils when I slip in after him.
“Listen to me,” I say, my hands cuffing his forearms. His face hardens, but I press on. “Of course we want you close to us. Of course we do. But Zach seems truly wonderful. I’m so proud of you, Charlie. We both are.”
He refuses to look at me. His neck has folded, his chin tucked into his chest, and his hair falls exactly how I used to comb it every morning. He doesn’t believe me. I realize with a sinking shame that I haven’t given him any reason to.
“Come,” I say on an impulse and tug him down the hall to our bedroom. I kneel beside Sam’s side of the bed, wrinkling my nose at the musty smell of our sheets and peering past the clods of dust. Charlie inches back toward the door, his arms crossed in front of him.
“Look,” I say and reach out with the top book in the stack I’m holding.
He extends one hand to take it, an involuntary motion, and I pile the books one by one in his arms. What Coming Out Means. Beyond Sexual Orientation. Helping Your Child. Some of them have cracked spines and softened corners, dog-eared pages and penciled underlining, and some are still crisp and new.
Charlie stares down at them. He turns one over, his eyes moving across the back.
“They’re all his,” I say quietly, just a bit more than a whisper, and he nods. “We’re trying,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. “I know it’s not enough. But he’s dying. Your father is dying. No matter what I do, no matter what we try, he is tired, and he is drifting away. I’m sorry for how much we failed you, but I cannot let you drift away, too. I will not.” I repeat myself to cover the traces of my fea
r.
He bends down and places the stack at his feet, then splays it out with one hand, a fan with all the titles showing. “You’re right,” he says, looking up at me with eyes so angry, I shy away. “It’s not enough.” His shoulders begin to shake.
I kneel down to meet him, and he turns his face away, and it is red and clenched and wet. I realize with a start that I haven’t seen him cry since elementary school, but my instinct is the same.
I reach out and carefully, gingerly hold his shoulders. They hiccup away from me a little, but he does not get up, so I lean in closer, tipping onto my toes, and draw my arms around him. He moves in toward me, a counterweight, and lays his face against my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, tucking him further into my arms. “It’ll be okay.” When he was younger, he used to ask me how I knew that, begging me to map out his exact path to okay.
I am glad he doesn’t ask me now.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Daniel
On the next clear night, with the moon a big, white plate in the sky, I stand at the mouth of Nessa’s driveway and stare down at the house. When we got back a couple of days ago, she didn’t say a word to me, just closed the car door and then the front door, two walls to keep me out. There was a car parked next to their truck with out-of-state plates, and I figured it was Charlie’s. Maybe she was right now discovering that I’d told him, finding new reasons to hate me.
I thought about not coming back. Just for a second. The Shannons were so pleased when I walked in the door, Connie smiling conspiratorially at me, and I thought it might be easy, finishing up their harvest and then moving on, finding another number fifteen. And whatever excuse Molly gave Connie for the draft plans, she must’ve accepted it, because she never said a word about it. Nobody gave me a second glance around town. The secret was safe. I could start fresh somewhere else.
But I couldn’t sleep. And the other circlers kept calling me—first one Mason twin, then the other, then Becca—leaving no messages when I sent them straight to voicemail. I couldn’t be responsible for them and the infighting in their group, not now. Still, their names on my phone reminded me of what I was neglecting. I’d lie awake in the Shannons’ guest bed, staring at the ceiling and running my hands over the blanket’s ruffled edge. And when I tried to eat, there was a sour taste in my mouth, and the cereal and sandwiches felt like sludge going down. The Shannons stared at me, chewing slowly.
