DREAMS of 18

by A. Kent, Saffron

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think…

  I’d think he can’t see me cry. That it’s painful for him, my crying.

  That in itself makes me stop crying. That in itself makes me more worried about him and I can’t help but ask, “Mr. Edwards, are you okay?”

  My question jolts him and he lets the bottle go. He almost jerks his hand off of it and steps back.

  And then he practically runs out of the cabin, leaving me a mess of confusion.

  Two years and ten months ago when I moved to Connecticut, someone stabbed me in the chest with a knife.

  Or at least, it feels like it.

  It feels like someone stabbed me in the chest, right where my heart is, and now I’m stuck with it. That knife for the rest of my life.

  And sometimes, that knife twists.

  It twists and it digs into the wound and everything is so fucking painful that I can’t see straight.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

  All I can do is feel.

  I feel and feel and feel until it becomes a living thing that presses into my very skin from the inside out.

  It used to happen every time I saw her.

  Every time she’d walk down the street, the knife would twist and I’d have to bite down on my teeth to stave off the pain. Or every time she climbed up to her roof to watch the moon, or when I saw her around the school, bobbing her head to the music or smiling at something she’d read. Every time I heard her voice, her laughter…

  I hated it.

  I hated the effect she had on me – something unprecedented, something that never happened before and something completely inappropriate – so much so that countless times I imagined going up to her parents and telling them to fucking lock her up in a room or something.

  She’s a menace. A terrible thing.

  But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that my pain reaches catastrophic levels when she cries. The knife twists and twists and doesn’t stop at her tears.

  I’ve treated her badly, yes. I’ve tried to scare her but it messes with me when she cries.

  I saw her one day, crying in her backyard, by the pool. I’d just gotten home from work and there she was. She isn’t a crier. So that sight was doubly shocking. I saw her through my windshield and even though I was too far away to tell, I knew she wasn’t making any noise. I knew her tears were thick and silent.

  And I felt this pain in my chest, all of a sudden. The tremendous pain of that knife twisting.

  I would’ve jumped out of my truck and gone to her. I would’ve talked to her that day, asked her who the fuck hurt her, who made her cry.

  But then, I was saved.

  I was saved from rushing over to the teenage girl next door whom I shouldn’t have been watching in the first place. I shouldn’t have been looking at or thinking about.

  So when Brian walked out of our house, I remained stuck to my seat. I saw him crossing over to her and sitting beside her. He wiped her tears and made her stop crying.

  He even made her laugh.

  That eased some of the pressure. That laughter.

  And then, I sped off in my truck. Because why the fuck did I care if she laughed or cried?

  Why the fuck do I even care now?

  Tears don’t mean anything to me. I’ve made students cry. I won’t deny it. I won’t even make excuses for it. If it gets results on the field, then I’m all for it.

  Yes, my son, when he was little, used to cry and it would pain me. But he’s my son, I’m supposed to protect him.

  I’m not supposed to think about her tears though. Her tears shouldn’t have this strange effect on me.

  A few drops of them from her eyes and I haven’t touched my bottle all day. A few drops of them and I’m sitting here in my truck, staring down at the black screen of my phone, all ready to call my son.

  I’m ready to call Brian when I haven’t talked to him in months.

  But I need to call him. I need to ask him what the hell is he doing? What is he thinking punishing her like this?

  I thought he was punishing me – for good reason – but I didn’t know that he was punishing her, as well. They’ve always been inseparable and I thought nothing, not even this, would come between them.

  Apparently, I was wrong.

  Apparently, I need to do what I haven’t done in months. I need to call my son and have a talk with him.

  It’s making me antsy, however. It’s making me shake and sweat, as if my bones are running dry and they’re rattling against each other.

  My throat’s on fire, begging for one drop of alcohol, just one.

  I even tell myself that no one is going to know. I beg myself to take a sip and when I almost throw away my phone and my good intentions and reach for that secret bottle I keep in the glove box, I hit dial.

  I’m not sure if he’ll pick up. In fact, I’m pretty sure he won’t, but tonight, I’m not going to stop until he does.

  I’m not going to stop until he does what I want him to do.

  I’m ready to leave him a voicemail when I hear a click and his voice. “Hello?”

  I grip the wheel tightly when I hear him. He sounds hesitant, unsure.

  It throws me back in time, reminding me of when he was a kid. He’d come to my room in the middle of the night because he heard a noise or had a nightmare. And he’d tell me with this small, anxious voice, Dad, there’s someone in my closet.

  He’d look at me with those big hazel eyes similar to mine and I could see complete trust in them. Trust that now that I’ve told my dad, everything is going to be fine. He’ll take care of everything.

  “Dad?” he says again when I remain silent.

  I unclench my jaw and make it move. “Brian, hey, kiddo.”

  I close my eyes at kiddo.

  It’s been ages since I called him that. He hates it so I’d use it to piss him off when he was being a smartass or to embarrass him in front of his friends.

  “Hey,” he greets me.

  I don’t know what to say after this. I’m completely drawing a blank.

  “How are you, Dad?”

  Apparently, he’s more articulate than me. Good thing.

  I’ve always failed at this emotional crap.

  “I…” I clear my throat and loosen my grip on the wheel. “I’m good. Yeah. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, too.”

  “Do you need anything?” I ask, slipping into the role that I know: of a provider. “Any money or something… something like that?”

  “No, Dad. I’m okay. Yeah.”

  “Okay. Good.” I swallow. “Good.”

  I’m parked on the side of the road, thinking about how we got here. How we got to this fucked up place where we can’t talk to each other.

  We’ve always been able to do that before. He’d always tell me everything and I’d listen. Of course, I knew he had his secrets; he’s a teenage boy. He’s going to have secrets from me but I knew what was going on in his life.

  It’s always been us against the world.

  How did I become my own father? Drunk and absent.

  After growing up with him, I never even wanted a relationship, let alone a kid.

  But I had one.

  And when I held Brian in my arms for the first time, every little bit of softness and vulnerability inside me in the shape of a tiny human being, I made him a promise.

  I promised that I’d always be there for him. That even though Cynthia – his mother – had left him, I’d always put him first.

  So what happened?

  “Where are you right now?” I ask after a few beats.

  “Uh, California. We’re gonna stay here for a few weeks and then head back east.”

  I nod, staring into the darkening sky. “How…” I scratch my forehead. “How has it been so far?”

  “Good, yeah. It’s been a ton of fun.”

  “I’m glad.”

&nbs
p; “I actually have some photos on Facebook. I wanted to, uh, send them to you but…”

  I chuckle, feeling an ache in my chest. “Yeah, I guess I better get on Facebook like the rest of the world, huh.”

  This ache is different than the knife.

  The knife is vicious, edgy, deadly even.

  This is the ache for my child. My son.

  He chuckles back; it’s awkward like everything between us now. “Yeah. You’re several decades behind, Dad.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “So what’s up, Dad?” he asks abruptly.

  You can’t do this to Brian. I’m not going to watch while you hurt yourself and him more…

  Her voice echoes in the dark of the cab and I push the words out, “Listen, Bri, I know we haven’t talked in a while. But I want you to do something for me, all right?”

  I can sense him getting serious, paying his entire attention to me. “Okay.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I want you to call her.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to call her and I want you to talk to her.”

  “Are you… Are you talking about… Vi?”

  Brian calls her that.

  In fact, everyone around her calls her Vi.

  But she’s never been Vi to me. To me, she’s always been Violet. The bright color with a dominant wavelength at the end of the spectrum.

  The color I never paid attention to until I saw her.

  The knife is twisting in my chest again, gaping the wound open. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. You need to call her. I know you haven’t in a while. But I want you to do this for me, okay? Just call her.”

  “Why?”

  I grit my teeth. “Because it’s the right thing to do. Because… whatever happened shouldn’t come between you two.”

  “Oh, you mean the fact that she kissed my dad?”

  It hits me right in the gut, his words, and I flinch. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s over. You need to talk to her. You…”

  “Me what, Dad?”

  I rub my forehead. “You need to stop punishing her, okay? She made a mistake. It was a mistake.”

  Those words sound bitter, fucked-up on my tongue and I curse myself in my head for feeling this way.

  Stupid, drunken mistake.

  His breathing has gone heavy. Agitated.

  “How do you know?” he asks. “How do you know it was a mistake? She tell you that?”

  I go silent, words clamming up in my throat.

  But Brian breaks the tense silence. “How is it that you call me after months, Dad, and you ask me to talk to her?”

  I bump my head against the headrest. I haven’t been keeping in touch. That’s true. Initially, that’s what he wanted. We’d occasionally text but that was all. I offered to visit him once, but he refused.

  And I’m ashamed to say that I was relieved.

  I didn’t know how to talk to him. Every time I thought about picking up the phone and calling him, his words from that night would run through my mind. All of them true, all of them making me even more ashamed and guilty. Disgusted with myself.

  So I drank and drank until I forgot them. Until I forgot her.

  But I should’ve tried harder.

  I should’ve gotten my shit together and behaved like a responsible parent. At the very least, I would’ve known what he’s been doing to her.

  How he’s been punishing her all this time and I’ve been so checked out from the world that I had zero clue about it.

  “I know I haven’t been the best of dads. I haven’t been keeping in touch and –”

  “But have you been keeping in touch with her, Dad?” His voice sounds angry now.

  Just like that, I get a flashback from ten months ago.

  Do you like her, Dad? Is that what’s going on? You want her? You want my best friend? Answer me.

  Maybe I should’ve given him the answer he wanted.

  Fisting my hand, I say, “Just fucking call her.”

  “You have, haven’t you?” He scoffs again. “Is that how you know that she made a mistake? What, do you call her? Do you talk to her on the phone? Text with her? She tells you things?”

  I say in a stern voice, sterner than I want it to be, “Brian, do the right thing. I thought you guys were okay. I thought you’d talked things out and everything was fine now. But it isn’t. And not to mention, you’re dating her sister. Fucking do the right thing, Bri, all right? Call her and talk to her. The rest doesn’t matter.”

  His laughter is scathing, laced with anger. “Like you could talk, Dad. You could talk about doing the right thing. You betray me. You want the girl that I wanted, and now you’re asking me to patch things up. Just like that. What does that mean?”

  I grit my teeth again. I clench my eyes shut and dig my fist on my thigh. “It means you call her. That’s what it means. Period. You wanted to ask her out, right? She was your best friend. Is this how you treat her? I told you she made a mistake. It’s time to move on, okay? You want to hate me, go right ahead. I should’ve been a better father. I should’ve known your feelings about her but I didn’t. I fucked up. You can hate me all you want but you’re calling her. You’re calling her and you’re apologizing. I didn’t say anything about Fiona before because I knew you were angry. I knew you were hurting. I knew you needed your space but this has gone on long enough, you understand? You punishing her and not talking to her has gone on long enough. I’m not going to ask you again. You know you’ve hurt her. You know that. So just make this right.”

  “You know what, Dad, I gotta go. I can’t do this right now.”

  He hangs up then, and I throw my phone across the seat.

  I bury my hands in my hair and make a fist and pull. Then, I smack the wheel over and over.

  Do you like her, Dad? You want her?

  I wish I had lied.

  I wish I had said no to that question ten months ago.

  I wish I didn’t want my son’s best friend – the girl he secretly liked.

  Detoxing is so not fun.

  I know.

  I’ve gone through it myself. When they put me in Heartstone, they gave me all kinds of medications, cocktails of medications. They all had side effects. Some worked, some didn’t. So they’d wean me off and I’d go through withdrawals. I’d go through the shaking, the shivering, the night sweats, night chills, vomiting and all the fun stuff.

  Four days ago, I cried in front of him for the first time and he left. Hours later, he came back from wherever he’d gone. The entire time I’d been alone in the cabin waiting for him, I’d cleaned up a little. I threw away the trash, did the dishes, wiped down the kitchen counters. The basic stuff.

  He took it in with a blank face and a silence that I had to break.

  “I just, uh, tried to make it better…” I trailed off when he shifted his eyes over to me before adding on a whisper, “For you.”

  He stared at me with an intensity that burned my skin and made it bloom a pretty red color. An intensity that I’m still feeling four days later.

  I thought he’d say something, something rude or scathing or something about where he went and what he did. Why he practically ran away when he saw my tears.

  Because I still think he ran away. I still have this feeling that he couldn’t see me cry.

  Which has to be the most ridiculous thing in this whole world, right?

  Why would he care? He hates me.

  Anyway, all he did was walk toward me with a purpose until I became breathless and he handed me a bottle of Jack Daniels.

  That’s it. That’s all. A bottle of Jack Daniels and nothing else.

  But I knew.

  I knew he’d agreed to my plans. He’d agreed to quit.

  I smiled that day.

  But I’m not smiling now. It has not been pretty.

  I knew that, though.

  I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty and I thought I was prep
ared for it. But you’re never prepared when it comes to seeing someone else live through the pain of detox. Someone you care about so deeply that their every discomfort makes you feel useless.

  First of all, there are the headaches.

  God, his headaches.

  It’s like I can feel them myself. I can feel his temples pounding. I can feel the heat and the pulse of his pain at the base of my own skull. His eyes water when it gets too bad. They get red-rimmed, bright in a way that I know comes from exhaustion.

  It would’ve been okay if he just got the headaches, though.

  But it’s never just the one thing, is it? It’s never just the headaches. It comes with waves of nausea.

  Yeah, nausea is even worse.

  It burns your gut and your chest and your throat. It makes you sweat and shake and sometimes, with all your gagging and retching, nothing comes out. Because you’ve already expelled everything.

  I’ve been through this. But Jesus Christ, did I sound so agonized? Did I sound like someone was torturing me, strangling my windpipe and I was hoping and praying that I’d die?

  I don’t think so. I don’t think I was as tortured as he is.

  Through the bathroom door, I keep telling him that it’s going to be okay. That it’s going to pass and he’s going to be fine.

  But he never utters a word. He never complains about any of it.

  Although he does ask me this one thing, when I tell him to drink more fluids and count out the multi-vitamins that I had my pen pal, Billy, buy for him so he can keep up his strength.

  He trains his eyes on me, his hazel-colored, chameleon eyes, as he gulps down the pills with the juice. “How do you know so much about this?”

  “You mean, alcohol and all this?”

  “All of this. Yeah.”

  Now I feel like throwing up. I feel my stomach churn.

  “Google.” My heart starts to hammer when he doesn’t buy it. I can see it in his speculative gaze. “And because I come from a family of closet alcoholics.”

  That seems to satisfy him. “Your mom.”

  Phew.

  Good.

  “Yeah.”

  He scoffs. Like he doesn’t approve of it. Like he doesn’t approve of my mom drinking and I feel so guilty about lying to him.