Cruise Control (9 page)

But she quickly says, “I hate those feelings too, darling. I feel the same things.”

I'm shocked. “You?”

Mom says quietly, “I'm not immune to feeling sad, Paul. I feel heartbroken about your brother sometimes too. I do the best I can, but it's hard. I feel it, Paul, and so does your father.”

My ears burn when she brings up Dad. “Come on! He left us!” I say. “He just ran away and—”

“No,” Mom interrupts. “I sent him away, Paul. I made him leave.”

No one has ever said this before. I always just assumed that Dad ran out on us. I don't know what to say. I stare at her. Finally I mutter, “You told him to leave because he didn't care, right? Because he hated Shawn and he didn't care about him?”

Mom walks over to me. She puts her arm around my shoulders. “You're so strong,” she says softly. “So strong and brave and you try so hard.”

It feels good for Mom to hug me. She says I'm strong, but she's a thousand times stronger than me.

She says, “Your dad left when I told him to go. He couldn't help me care for Shawn the way I needed help. That was my fault as much as his. I needed to take care of Shawn in my own way. Your dad needed me too, but I couldn't give him what he needed; I couldn't take care of Shawn and your father at the same time.”

I say, “You're just making excuses for him. You're just letting him run away from what he was supposed to do.”

Mom pauses. I look at her face and see an expression I've never seen before—a kind of sadness, but not
just
sadness; there's something else there too—a look of acceptance. She stares into my eyes.

“Your dad didn't abandon us. He's done everything he can do to support us—”

I try to interrupt. “But he left!”

Mom says, “Yes, he left, Paul, because I sent him away. He didn't have the strength to help with Shawn. Your dad couldn't handle the heartbreak—every time he looked at your brother, he wept. He couldn't get over it. And now, Paul, you need to face what you have to do.”

“What do you mean?”

Mom pulls me closer to her and kisses my cheek. “You have to lead your life for yourself. Don't let your brother's condition stop you from going after your dreams—otherwise you won't be able to love him. What your brother needs from you, what all of us need from you, is to be everything you can in life—college, athletics, wherever your dreams lead you, you have to go!”

I ask, “But how will you manage without me? I'm the only guy left around here.”

Mom smiles and hugs me again. “I'll manage.”

Suddenly Shawn shifts in his wheelchair. Both Mom and I, by instinct and habit, pause and look at him to make sure he's all right. He moves again and this time makes a little moaning sound, like he's dreaming. He's still asleep. When I look at Mom, we both smile at how well he has us trained.

Mom says, “I need you to be strong and happy, to have the fullest life you can have, just like I needed that from your dad. I want you to be okay, I need you all to be okay, so that I can focus on taking care of Shawn—because he needs me the most. But I love you and I want you to be happy and live your own life. Do you understand?”

Of course I understand; she's saying the thing I've wanted somebody to say to me my whole life. Tears come to my eyes, and my throat tightens. Instead of answering, all I can do is nod.

“Good,” Mom says. She pauses a moment. “Oh yeah, and one more thing.”

I clear my throat and manage to mutter, “What?”

Mom smiles, “For your own peace of mind, and to help you handle some of your anger, you need to make peace with your dad. You think it was easy for him to leave. It wasn't. And it won't be for you either. You need to talk to him.”

T
im Gunther won't be playing with us for a while. Tim-bo's not going to be doing anything. He's in jail.

I haven't talked to him yet, but he called Cindy from jail and told her what happened. Cindy told me.

Tim came home from school yesterday to find his stepdad pissed off as usual, drunk as usual, and sitting on the living room couch like the giant human turd he is, as usual—no big news flashes there. The thing was, though, Tim couldn't find his mom. He called for her, and when she didn't answer, he walked all around through the house, getting more and more worried until he came to the bathroom door, which was locked. Tim yelled for her and his mom finally answered in a real scared-sounding voice.

She wouldn't open the door for a long time. And Tim's stepdad was in the background yelling at Tim, “Just leave the bitch alone.”

Finally Tim got her to open the door and come out. She had two black eyes and the front of her blouse was all bloody and she'd been crying. Tim's stepdad had punched her when she'd refused to give him the keys to his truck.

Tim went back into the living room and beat the crap out of his stepdad.

Cindy wasn't sure whether Tim used any kind of weapon, but when it was over, Tim was standing and his stepdad wasn't. Some kids are already saying that Tim's stepdad has a fractured skull. Of course, some kids also claim that the guy has twenty-three broken ribs, a pretty amazing feat considering that humans have only twenty! Whatever the truth is, the guy was hauled away in an ambulance and Tim in a cop car.

As Cindy told me this, she cried a lot. I didn't know what to say to her, so I didn't say much at all. I know she and Tim care about each other, but since neither of them talks to me about that, what could I say? I patted her on the back and told her everything would be okay, which, of course, is probably bull; I have no idea
how
everything is going to be.

The whole thing is pretty weird. It's weird that Tim would finally unload on his butt-streak residue of a stepdad. Although everybody has limits, Tim's about as mellow as anybody I know. It's also weird how on that night Tim and I got drunk, Tim said he wasn't ever getting out of here. If he can't play in the tournament, in front of college recruiters, his chances of getting a scholarship are almost nil. So maybe he was right. Maybe I was right too; maybe neither of us is getting out. But of all the guys I know, Tim would be the last one I'd ever imagine being stuck here for something like this. I'd be the first.

W
e're done with practices for the rest of the week. No more shoot-arounds, no more scrimmages against one another. It's down to the wire now. This coming week is the trip to Spokane and the tournament. Losing Tim is bad, but the team has done a good job not getting distracted, and everyone knows that losing him means we've got to ratchet our games up a notch. Nobody says something else that we all know too: that without Tim, I'm going to have to be the best I've ever been.

No Shoreline High School team has ever won state before. The best anybody ever did was make the semifinals, and that was like a thousand years ago. So the pressure is on. Even I feel it. Before our last game with Kennedy I had a weird kind of calmness, but now, with the tourney approaching, I feel like I'm being stuck with a hundred little needles every time I think about it.

I'm out in front of the house shooting some practice shots by myself. Nothing wants to go in. I'm shooting simple little ten-footers and six-footers and even layins. Every shot I put up rims out.

And who should drive up before I can figure out what I'm doing wrong with my shot? My dad, of course.

I haven't seen him or spoken to him since the day we had the argument in the driveway. Even though Mom told me to talk to him, I still don't want to, and why does it have to be right now? Whatever Mom said about sending him away, Dad still bailed on us; nothing he can say to me will change that.

I try to ignore him and just keep shooting the ball, but out of the corner of my eye I see him park his car, get out, and start walking toward me. Damn.

“Pauly,” he calls out.

I ignore him.

“Pauly—” he says again, and realizing I can't escape, I take the ball and set it on the ground. I look at him.

“I—” he starts, but I interrupt.

“Nobody calls me that.”

“What?”

I say, “You heard me. Nobody calls me that. It's Paul, not Pauly.”

Dad takes a deep breath, like a sigh, and says, “But I've always called you Pauly.”

“Right,” I say, and just stare at him.

He takes another breath and says, “Okay, Paul. Paul, can I talk to you for a minute?”

I answer, “No … definitely not, no.”

Dad says, “Come on, Paul. I promise, it'll just take a minute, okay?”

I think, Shit, shit, shit, but I hear myself say, “Whatever …”

As Dad walks over and sits on the porch steps, he turns off his cell phone. He
never
turns it off, so this talk must mean something to him. He waits for me to come sit down. I don't want to, I really don't, but somehow my feet carry me to the porch.

Dad says, “Listen, I'm sorry about being such an asshole the other day.”

I think, The other day? What about
every day?!

It's like he's reading my mind. “I'm sorry for all the times I've acted shitty. I'm a human being, Paul, and sometimes not a very good one.”

I don't know what to say—he's
never
apologized to me before. I sit quiet. I wish he'd just leave.

“Paul,” Dad says gently, his voice almost a whisper, “I know this is hard for you, sitting here with me. I'm asking you to just give me a couple minutes to try and explain—”

I don't know what he's talking about. I ask, “Explain what?”

Dad pauses a second and looks me in the eye. “I never abandoned you or your brother. I know that to you my leaving felt like abandonment, but the truth is I think about you guys every day,
every day
—trying to figure out how to help, how best to take care of Shawn and all of you.”

I feel my face get red, not really anger as much as some weird kind of confusion. “You still left, Dad. You still walked out. You may think about us but you're not
here
.”

Dad looks me in the eye. “I know, Paul. I'm sorry. I mean that—I'm truly sorry. I was a mess before your mother sent me away. I'm better now, but back then, I was just so tired all the time—”

I interrupt. “Mom sent you away, but did that mean you had to go?”

Dad says, “I'm not blaming her, Paul. She's great. But she and I talked a lot after we realized how bad Shawn's problems were, and your mom knew even before I did that we couldn't handle it in the same ways. This isn't an excuse, Paul—I left because of my cowardice and my weakness. But your mom knew that I needed to go, that she couldn't take care of both Shawn and me.”

Dad pauses a second, then says, “Paul, I haven't abandoned this family. I haven't abandoned your brother, believe me; I love him every bit as much as I love you and your sister. I'm constantly thinking about what I can do, what I should do, what I might have to do to take care of him. But whatever I do with Shawn, he's
not
your responsibility.”

I think, Of course you'd say that! But I remember that Mom said this too. I feel a rush of emotion, a weird mix of sadness and happiness. I don't know what to say, but somehow, listening to Dad's words, I feel a huge weight lift off me. Dad is speaking straight into my heart, and his words take away a terrible pressure.

Dad puts his arm around me and pulls me close to him. I haven't touched him or been touched by him in too many years to remember, not since I was little and he used to lift me up and swing me around and carry me upstairs to bed and tuck me in and kiss me good night and say, “See you in the morning, Pauly—I love you.” And in his arms again now, I close my eyes and all those little-kid feelings of safety wash back over me again.

We sit quietly for a while.

Finally I look at Dad and say, “I don't know what to do, Dad....What should I do?”

Dad answers right away. “For yourself, start making plans for college.” He pauses a second. “For me? Well, you know what I want. You know what I always want.”

Yeah, I know, and I have to admit, it actually feels okay to hug him back. Even though it's been a long time, it still feels familiar.

Dad says, “Whatever you decide to do, Paul, I'll support you one hundred percent. You're old enough to know what's best for yourself. But remember, whatever happens, Shawn is your mother's and
my
responsibility, not yours. All you have to do is try to love him as best you can.”

I can't forgive my dad; it's too confusing. It's too much to think about, too much to feel. All these years I've been mad at Dad, but mostly I realize that I've been mad at myself, mad and ashamed at how I felt about my brother. My dad just did what I've wished I could do a thousand times—he ran away from Shawn. I can't forgive my dad, but I understand him better. It's me I don't understand; how I can love my brother so much one minute and then, the next minute …