by K. M. Walton
Vance stretches out his legs and asks again to see the new sketch of Dad.
His venom seems at bay and his desire genuine. And he has already seen eighty percent of the book, albeit under dishonest circumstances. One cannot unsee something. I take in a huge breath and reach for my backpack. With trembling hands, I place the book on the coffee table and slide it toward him. “I’d rather not be in the room when you open it. It would be too much for me to handle.”
I stand and walk down the other hall, the hall away from my father’s room.
Vance
One month ago
March had been simultaneously fantastic and shitty. Fantastic in that I officially finished up with Mr. Richards and rehab, like, within a week of each other. Dad took me and Oscar out to dinner in town to celebrate, and we actually had a decent time. My brother wasn’t a moody a-hole, and Dad didn’t get trashed until we got back home. We were winners all around that night.
The winning didn’t last long. Don’t forget, March had also been pretty shitty. I went to my first lacrosse practice and really struggled. My trainer told me to expect it so I didn’t freak then. But when I went to my second, third, fourth, and fifth practice, and it didn’t get any easier?
F R E A K I N G O U T.
It was during my fifth and last practice that I pulled my grafted hamstring, pulled as in I couldn’t stand, and the pain was so effed up that I almost passed out. As soon as I got home, my knee blew up like a balloon and I punched a hole in my bedroom wall. Went straight through the drywall.
Five days passed, and as I crutched through the halls of school—each step very painful—I knew what I had to do. Drexel had to be told about my injury. If I couldn’t make it through high school practices, there was no way in hell I’d be able to play college Level I.
I didn’t ask for anyone’s opinions, even Dad’s, because hearing people try to talk me out of it would only make me sicker about it. Dad told every single person who sat at the bar that his oldest got a full lacrosse scholarship to Drexel University. He would definitely tell me to suck it up and give it a go.
I couldn’t do it.
My knee never regained full extension, and my trainer, while optimistic, was a hard-core realist. He was the one who flat-out said the likelihood of me playing Level I was slim to none. I really thought I could beast through it all and come out stronger than I was before. I thought I could at least play for my high school team.
My hand shook as I dialed Coach’s cell. I thought I’d start with my high school coach and then work my way up to Drexel. “Coach? It’s Vance. Yeah, I’m doing my best to take it easy. I know. But yeah, so the reason I’m calling is to let you know that I can’t finish the season. Yeah, it’s my knee. It, uh, isn’t right. Uh-huh, lots of pain.” After an uncomfortable silence I said, “Coach? You still there? Okay, so that’s it. I’m really sorry. Uh-huh, right. Yeah, I’m calling Drexel next. I know, it’ll be very rough letting that go. Thanks. See you around. Bye.”
Oscar
My legs fall asleep from sitting on the toilet for so long. A bathroom stall is the only place I could think of where I’d have quiet and privacy. No one has come in yet, and I’ve been in here for at least fifteen minutes.
I stand and stretch. Vance has probably seen every sketch by now. Even though I technically didn’t use the bathroom, I still wash my hands. As I round the corner, I smash full force into Jacque Beaufort. I bite my tongue. She squeaks and grabs the metal railing that lines both sides of every hall.
We stand panting for a few seconds. I’m shifting my tongue around in my mouth, trying to make the pain stop. I’m definitely bleeding.
Jacque drops her chin and takes in a few deep breaths through her nose. She stares at the floor and whispers, “Oscar, I’m so sorry about your dad.”
Right away, I wish that she’d looked me in the eye and said that. I wanted to see her face.
Without thinking, without an ounce of hesitation, I reach out and gently lift her chin. Her mouth falls open, and her eyes go wide. It is safe to say that I’ve stunned us both.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’m bleeding.
Maybe it’s because I’m in a grief stupor.
Maybe it’s a residual effect of my brother’s compliment.
I honestly am unsure. But I did it. We are currently staring at each other, and my hand remains underneath her chin. “Could you say that one more time?” I ask.
Her chest rises and falls, and a tear glides down her beautiful face. She nods. “I’m so sorry about your dad.”
I swallow my tinny spit. “My name. You forgot to say my name.” Hearing my name leave her mouth while I’m touching her just might qualify as the most sensual moment of my life to date.
She gently places her hand on my extended forearm. A jolt of God-knows-what goes directly from my arm to my crotch. Every skin cell registers this bombshell touch. Please, not now! I’m afraid to look down.
Jacque draws her bottom lip in before saying, “Oscar, I am incredibly sorry about your dad.”
Why does this overwhelmingly intimate moment have to happen mere hours after the loss of my father? Guilt draws my hand away. I look down. It’s flat. I cross my arms tightly. I fight the urge to pinch underneath my armpits as punishment. The only thing stopping me is the fear of Jacque seeing the ridiculous pain-face I’d make. “Thank you.” I somehow manage a small smile.
Again, I’m rendered speechless at this moment.
Her face wrinkles with concern. “You’re bleeding!”
I swallow and wish I had some water to swish around in my mouth. After swiping my chin, I can see that I’m blood-free. Thank God.
Jacque turns and runs away.
Now this feels like a normal situation to me.
Vance
One month ago
“This is the kind of thing you discuss with a parent, Vance. For God’s sake!” my father yelled from behind the bar. We were alone. Joey and Bill weren’t there yet, and Oscar had to stay after school to finish some project. I’d planned to drop the bomb when it was just the two of us.
I knew he’d flip out when I told him about Drexel, but not this bad. For a minute there, I thought he might finally hit me. I was too nervous to sit down so I decided to pace.
“So now what, genius?” he shouted. “It’s too late to apply somewhere else!”
My feet took me to the other end of the bar.
“You just, poof, gave up a full ride,” he snapped. “So you had a few rough practices. That doesn’t mean you give up everything you’ve worked for! Without even talking with your father.”
A few rough practices? Was he really that clueless? And last time I checked, it was my knee, not his. Was he the one who had to look himself in the mirror and know, deep down in his gut, that he’d ruined his life? Did he have to do that?
He could walk and run and jump without pain. Without wincing and grinding his teeth. He didn’t have a gnawing fear that wrapped itself around his confidence, squeezing the life out of it until it was nothing but an empty shell—fear of reinjury.
Fear of the volcanic pain.
Dad smacked the bar. “Will you stand still and stop walking around like an idiot?”
I turned to face him. “Don’t you think I’d have taken the scholarship if I could? Do you seriously think I wanted to stop playing lacrosse?” I pounded my chest a few times. “Can you see me, Dad? I fucked up everything, just like you said!”
Dad’s shoulders slumped. He was panting and white as a ghost. Holy shit, was he having a heart attack? “Are you all right?” I marched behind the bar. He waved me off and went into his office. Of course I followed him. “Dad! Stop.”
He sat at his desk and glared at me. The color was back in his cheeks.
“I did what I had to do. I didn’t have a choice,” I said. Saying it out loud confirmed my decision.
My knee would never be the same.
His lips formed a thin line, and he shook his head. “I am your damn father, Vance. I deserved to be told. Now get out and stack the cases.”
Before closing his door, I turned and said, “Just so you know, I have a plan, Dad.”
Oscar
Jacque Beaufort and I just shared an actual moment.
My body unfreezes from shock and I start moving, while Jacque bolts toward me holding a water bottle out in front of her. She comes to a stop, grabs my hand, and places the cold bottle in it. If the sparks I feel were true electricity, we’d both be smoldering piles of flesh on the carpet.
“For your m-mouth,” she pants.
I look down and she’s still touching me.
She jerks her hand away. “Sorry.”
“Thank you.” I have never looked at another human being with more intensity than I’m doing right now. Red-hot laser beams must be shooting from my eyes.
“You’re welcome.” A nervous smile dances across her face. “Do you guys need anything? Can I get either of you anything?”
I shake my head and try my best to catch my breath. I’m not entirely certain this whole thing isn’t taking place in an alternate universe, and the real me is still sitting on that toilet waiting for the right time to emerge and face the dark clouds.
“I think someone may be here to see you and Vance,” she says. “I saw him talking to a woman in the Common Room. Do you have a curly-haired aunt?”
The social worker.
I don’t want to move from this spot. Moving means facing my father’s death head on.
Before I can answer her, Jacque says, “I wish I could say something to make you feel better. I’m so sorry. I know I already said that, but I mean it.”
We stare, our gazes locked.
She breaks the silence. “I gotta go. The nurses get mad if I’m in one place for too long.” She rocks on her heels once before walking away.
“Thank you,” I say after she’s gone, wishing I’d said it to her face. I twist open the water and guzzle half of it. The cold feels glorious on my tongue. As soon as I swallow, the stinging registers in my brain. “Owww.”
A terrible yet simple thought forms: My father will never sip cool water again.
Sorrow erupts in my heart, melting me from the inside.
Vance
Three weeks ago
Dad still hadn’t asked about my plan. He was too busy being pissed off at me. We hadn’t had a decent exchange since I told him about Drexel. It was mostly him barking orders at me at the bar or asking me to pass something to him at the dinner table. For the first time in my life, it was like he had nothing to talk about with me.
Dad and I were never at a loss for words. That was Oscar’s territory. There could be no doubt that we were tight. There was a connection. We had stuff in common. How long was he going to drag this shit out?
You can’t just unravel a father-son relationship.
Right?
I’d tried putting on his favorite songs, getting dinner started before he got home, asking questions about the date he went on, the new beer tap at the bar, the friggin’ weather. Nothing worked.
We’d just finished another uncomfortable dinner. My steak burrito sat like a boulder in my gut. He disappeared into the living room, and then while Oscar and I were cleaning up the dishes, he came in and announced, “I’m going out for a drink. Don’t wait up.”
He slammed the front door and sped down the street.
Oscar said, “Why didn’t you just talk to him first? Before you called Drexel.”
I spun around. “It’s none of your business!” My brother was right. I should’ve told Dad. I messed up. Of course I’d never admit that to Oscar.
He tossed his head side to side. “There’s so much anger inside you. So much,” he said under his breath. He balled his fists and his voice rose. “But guess what? We’re all Dad has left! Have you forgotten that fact? Huh? And while the two of you try to out-selfish each other, neither of you have given an ounce of thought to the reality that we—the three of us—are a family, and families are supposed to be there for each other, look out for each other, not keep secrets like dropping full scholarships from each other.
“Families should feel like safety and home and love. Not this family though. Oh no, here we have anger and insults and lies and pain. That’s what we have. So how can you expect Dad to react any other way to your little bombshell? He’s not capable, Vance! We’re about as messed up as any family can be.” Oscar’s chest heaved.
I’d never seen him so fired up. I’d never heard him say so many sentences in a row.
Every word he said was true. We were a mess. “What is today, all gang up on Vance day?”
“Oh, that’s right. The world revolves around Vance. I forgot.” Oscar slammed the frying pan into the cabinet.
“You know what? In Oscarland, with its fancy classical music and secret drawings and constant ‘no one understands me’ bullshit, the world revolves around you! How many times did you drive me to physical therapy? Twenty? Thirty? A friggin’ million? And during those drives, how many times did you ask about my pain? About my progress? About me? I know how many times! Zero! Not once. You were too busy being lost in sad little Oscarland. Well, guess what, asshole, you’re no picnic for a brother either!”
If only I had my phone on me to capture the look on Oscar’s stupid face. It was a mixture of constipation and amazement. We stared at each other for what felt like years. We’d said more to each other in the past two minutes than we had in the past two years. The kitchen was full of words.
Oscar’s eyes got glassy. “Oscarland? That’s what you call my life? Like it’s an amusement park. You and Dad, all you do is make assumptions about me. I’m weird because I like classical music. I’m weird because I’m not into sports. I’m weird because I’m quiet. You don’t know me. Neither does Dad.”
My brother gave me no chance to respond before he stomped up to his room. Good. I wouldn’t have had a response anyway because he was right.
Oscar
I head to the Common Room. It is Ms. Becker, the social worker. When I approach, she requests that Vance and I sit with our backs to the hallway. When Vance asks her why, she says facing the window is less distracting. I close my eyes. She doesn’t want us to catch a glimpse of them wheeling our father’s body out. I get it.
She reaches into her briefcase and pulls out a folder. It has our last name across the tab. Vance digs through his backpack and lifts out a legal-sized, white envelope and places it in front of him. “His will.” He slides it across the table.
Ms. Becker doesn’t look down; she looks at us. “First, let me say I am very, very sorry for your loss, boys. I know meeting with me is the last thing you want to do, but I’ve found that the quicker I get things started on my end, the better it is for my clients. I’m your advocate, and it’s my job to make sure the right decisions are made concerning your futures.”
“I don’t want to talk about my future! I can’t think about that right now,” Vance barks.
Ms. Becker nods, unfazed. “You’re absolutely right, Vance. Let me back up. Let’s start with your father.” She pulls papers from the envelope and lays them out. Neither Vance nor I have actually seen Dad’s will. What if he says we have to move to Alaska with our grandparents or ship off to Singapore with Aunt Renee? Ms. Becker carefully scours the document, and I am about to shatter with a hideous mixture of heartache and anxiety. My fingers tingle and my stomach tightens.
“Your father requested a private service and burial. That takes a tremendous amount of pressure off you guys. I will definitely help you navigate through the process, and if you like, I can be your liaison with the funeral director.”
We nod, almost in unison.
She stares down at the will. “He left everything to you both, fif
ty-fifty. And he clearly had faith in you, Vance. He spells out very clearly that you are to get custody of Oscar in the event of his death.”
The world shifts around me. Or maybe I moved. I am blurred. Vance will have custody of me? We can’t even discuss what’s for dinner without animosity. And he will be in charge?
Vance fidgets in his seat. “Does that mean—” He stops.
Ms. Becker looks him square in the eye. “It means that until Oscar turns eighteen in November, you will be his legal guardian.”
We are stunned. We are silent. We are frozen.
“However, Vance, you do have some choices. And I’d be happy to go through them in a few days, maybe after the funeral?”
Despite feeling slightly numb at the moment, I want to hear Vance’s choices. “Go over them now,” I say. “Please.”
Her eyes dart from mine to Vance’s. “Are you sure?”
My brother turns to me. “I’m ready.”
Vance
Three weeks ago
My cell rang, waking me up. It was three in the morning. “Hello?”
“Hello?” a female voice said.
“Who’s this?”
“This is Ms. Becker, hospital social worker at West Chester Hospital. Your father has been in a car accident, and we’re trying to stabilize him. Is there any way you can come to the hospital?”
The lady’s voice was so calm. There was no panic or sense of urgency. I sat up, and when I tried to speak, only a croak came out. I cleared my throat. “Wait, wait. Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious. May I ask how old you are?”
Air shot from my nose. “Eighteen. Is he gonna be all right?”
“You and your family drive safely. Come to the main ER desk, and I’ll take you—”
I hung up on her and raced into Oscar’s room. “Oscar?” I shook him wildly.
