Tailspin (Better Than You) (4 page)

I don’t understand what this has to do with Dad, but I don’t dare interrupt him. He’s lost now, his eyes glazed over and watching something that I can’t see; don’t want to see. “There was blood…it was everywhere. She died in my arms. And while I’m holding her, the driver gets out, stumbles out of his car and pukes on the floor. Then you know what he does?” I stay silent, knowing it was a rhetorical question. “He tells me, ‘It’s not my fault. He kicked me out.’ And so I say, ‘Who?” and he slurs, ‘That mudderfucker over at that Friendsh Plashe.’ And then he couldn’t talk anymore, because I kicked the shit outta him until the cops showed up. The end.”

The pieces slowly start to come together, but I don’t want to believe them. Can’t believe them. “It wasn’t his fault,” I say slowly.

“Yes it fucking was!” He’s up again, the chair pushed to its side and the gun in my face. His outburst are giving me whiplash. “If he hadn’t of kicked out that drunk fucker than Lilah would still be alive!”

“So what now?” I ask. “Do you feel better knowing that he’s dead?”

Gunboy shakes his head and scrubs his face with his free hand. “No. I don’t.” And then he walks over to the bar, turning his back on me in the process. I reach into my pocket and dial 911, knowing it’s probably already been done. I set the volume as low as it will go and return it back to my pocket. Gunboy pours himself a glass of Glenlivet and shoots it back in one quick motion.

“You know, you haven’t hurt anybody. No one besides me and those girls know you’re here, and we can just all pretend this never happened. It isn’t too late to walk away.”

“It’s always too late to walk away.”

“Would Lilah want this for you? You said she was happy and carefree. Would she want you to be stuck like this?”

Moisture gathers in his eyes and he looks away from me. “It doesn’t matter anymore. She’s gone, man. She’s fucking gone.”

“I know. And so is my dad and there’s nothing we can about it. This,” I gesture to the space between us, “won’t change anything.”

He takes a deep breath and raises both hands to cradle his head. The scream he lets out is bone chilling, a sound I will never forget, but in that moment the front door opens in a flurry of wind and wood splintering and chaos ensues. I’m tackled to the ground, gunboy is tackled to the ground, orders are yelled and boots are clomping and then I’m being pulled up to a standing position and facing a giant of a man clad in dark green and black.

“You alright, son?” Mitch, or Chief as they call him, claps my shoulder. I nod. “Ever think about a job in law enforcement?” He asks. When he doesn’t so much as smile, I realize he’s serious. Instead of answering, I walk away, outside to where the salty air fills my nose and clears my head and the sound of the ocean drowns out the desperate scream of a lost man.

Mitch finds me again, I don’t know how much later, and stands next to me, not saying anything but watching the water do its ceaseless dance. Finally he speaks up, his baritone voice loud and clear. “Your dad would want you to be happy, Nate.” After I don’t respond, he continues. “Come work with us. He always wanted that for you.”

I shake my head, not to disagree with him but to clear away the memories of Dad that are bombarding my mind. Dad in his uniform, in the days before the bar. Dad and Mitch playing softball. Dad and Mitch teaching me to throw a football. Dad only quit being a cop because it was too dangerous, but he never quit loving it and shoving it down my throat. The thing is, it doesn’t look so bad anymore. “I don’t know, Mitch. I have Emily and Joshua. The very reason he quit in the first place.”

“It’s just an option, son. There’s always a spot for you on my team.” He squeezes my shoulder once and then walks away, leaving me to wonder what’s the right thing to do.

~~

I’ve called Emily and the house a million times, but no one has answered. Panic and fear claw at my insides, shredding me apart from within. The car is barely in the driveway before I’m out and running; up the steps, through the front door, screeching to a stop in front of a teary-eyed Emily and a wide-eyed Joshua.

“Nathan,” Emily whispers, chin quivering and tears rolling down her cheeks. Before she says anything else, before either of them can bless me with the sounds of their voices, I pull them into me and hang on tight. Emily clings to my shirt and Joshua wraps his thin arms around my waist. I can’t breathe, but I don’t move. I don’t dare ruin this moment where I’ve finally got them back. I don’t know how long it will last and I’m not about to fuck it up.

“We thought…we thought you were-”

“Shhh,” I cut Emily off, refusing to let her go there. “I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I don’t know what I’m apologizing for, except that I’m hoping it’s enough to encompass everything and that they’ll understand. I’m sorry that they’ve lost their parents; I’m sorry that they’re stuck with me; I’m sorry that I don’t know what to say or what to do or how to be; I’m sorry that I haven’t tried harder.

“How’d you guys get home?” I ask because I can’t help myself. Did they walk? Did they take public transportation? What if something had happened to them-

“Cora gave us a ride. When Joshua’s school called and said you never came, I knew something was wrong. We got him and came straight home.”

“I called. I called a million times, Em.”

She shakes her head against my chest. “I was scared. I thought that
they
were calling, to tell me something bad. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to know. I figured they’d come here anyway and then I’d know for sure.” She takes a deep breath. “What happened, Nathan?”

Even before I stepped foot into the house, I knew I wouldn’t tell them the truth. It would break them; make Emily question everything about Dad and his goodness. Even though it isn’t really his fault, I questioned him, too. I can feel the guilt of that eating away at what’s left of my sanity. “I’ll tell you another day, Em. Just not right now.”

It’s a lie. I don’t ever intend on telling either of them about the gunboy or his story, how he unleashed his madness in one single scream and how it feels like it poured into me; deep into my soul and stained it darker.

“Who’s hungry?” I ask, trying desperately to distract myself from letting the madness take over. When I’m by myself, I can poke at it, decide how much of a threat it is, but right now I have to be strong.

An hour later it’s just Joshua and I, sitting in front of the TV eating salty Chinese food. Emily went to Cora’s to study, after a lot of pushing, and now I’m beginning to think it was a bad idea to be left alone with the silent punishment of Joshua. When I hear a voice close to me, much clearer and more real than the voices from the TV, I begin to wonder if maybe I’m already going insane. But as I look over to my left and at Joshua, I see him watching me closely, tears in his bright blue eyes. And then the most miraculous thing happens. His mouth opens and words pour out; four little words that have been running through my mind since the night Mom and Dad died.

“It’s all my fault.”

I look at him for what feels like hours. I memorize every part of his face; blue eyes, small, bird-like lips so red that some might think he wears chapstick, cheeks still puffy with baby fat, and pointy chin. So much like Mom. Just like me, yet he’s a stranger. When was the last time I looked at him? What words have I spoken to him recently? When I can’t recall an answer, I know that the statement he previously made is all my own. Still, I don’t know what to say.

“They were in a rush because of me. It’s all my fault,” he says, the words barely above a whisper, his voice hoarse with inactivity.

I have to take a deep breath to keep from letting the madness take over. It swirls on the outskirts of my mind, black and powerful and enticing. “Joshua,” deep breath, “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I cried. I made you bring them home. I was a baby.”

The carton of fried rice is no longer in my hands as I turn to grasp Joshua’s small shoulders; shoulders that I can’t remember being so thin. Has he been eating? Or has this idea been eating at him? “What happened to Mom and Dad is
not
your fault. If there’s anyone to blame, it’s me.
I
called them.
I
couldn’t handle you being sick.
It’s not your fault.
”

Tears roll down his cheeks as he looks into my eyes, holding my stare as if forcing himself to believe my words. I hope he does, that my words can take his pain away. “They loved you so much, Joshua.”

He drops his eyes, head bent towards the couch. “I feel like I can’t remember them anymore.”

My breath catches as I try to keep the tears out of my voice.
Me too,
I want to say, but instead say, “It’s okay to let go, buddy. They wouldn’t want us living like this.” I gesture to the house around us, realizing that we’re living like they’re still here. The picture frames hanging on the walls, the plaques with sayings and the candles and the damn fruit bowl on the kitchen bar. Everything just as they left it. Like they might come back.

“They would want us to move on, to be happy.”

And with that, I stand and take Joshua upstairs with me. He helps me move my stuff from my room to
their
room, tells me where I should put my TV and whether I should just use their bed or not. When Emily comes upstairs and finds us on the floor in our parents’ room, with photo albums covering every inch of space between us, she drops to her knees and touches her finger tips to a picture of Mom. “She was so beautiful,” she whispers.

“You look just like her,” I say and Emily meets my eyes with a smile.

We spend the rest of the night sitting in a triangle with our lives spilled in front of us, finally ready to let go of the guilt and grief and pain and ready to continue living it.

6

September 7, 2007

             
When I finally got the balls to make the call, the card was barely legible, all of the letters and numbers worn away from the constant in and out of my pocket. Even though it’s a number I knew by heart, I took it with me everywhere; the bar, Emily’s cheer competitions, Joshua’s soccer games. It sat like a paperweight in the seam of my pants until one rainy afternoon when I realized that the bar wasn’t enough; to pay the bills, to keep Emily and Joshua happy, to keep me sane. More than that, I wanted to be something better than even Dad was. I wanted to have a chance to right the wrongs that he had unknowingly committed.

              I had no idea what I was in for.

              The rigorous training was something I was familiar with. Pushing myself to the limit and meeting goals brought back a sense of comfort I missed from playing football. Even the constant ribbing from the veterans was something I gladly accepted. But being thrust back into the world of high school, expected to infiltrate and expose a dangerous group of wealthy drug dealers is not a situation I could have prepared myself for. And as Hannah sits next to me, whispering into my ear during the middle of our art lecture, I begin to wonder if I can do what’s expected of me before the year is up.

              “Mason, are you listening?” I hear her say, but it takes a minute for my fake name to register. When I finally look at her, at her perfectly made up face and her small blue eyes and her pin straight blonde hair, she’s wearing the expression I’ve come to recognize as annoyed. I’ve only known her for two weeks and already I’m aware of her all over the place emotions.

              She rolls her eyes and whispers, “I’ll tell you later,” before facing the front of the classroom again. I try to pay attention, if only to keep my mind from wandering back to that place of uncertainty, but art, and high school in general, isn’t something I’m interested in.

              When class is over, Hannah and I leave together and walk the halls side by side. I can’t help but be aware of everything going on around me; how all of the girls glance first at her and then at me, how the guys turn their heads as she walks by and stare at her ass. There’s so much going on, so much commotion and noise that it feels like it’s inside my brain, rattling around like a can full of bolts.

              A sharp shove pulls me out of my thoughts and the noise around me falls out of focus. Hannah has her hands on her hips, and Russell, the leader of the group, is watching me carefully, waiting for a response to a question I didn’t hear.

              “We’re having a party tonight. Do you wanna come or not?” Hannah asks heatedly. I’m not sure why I was accepted so quickly by this group of popular kids, the girls so beautiful they look fake and all of them more loaded than is good for any one person. Even if it is their parents’ money. But since the first day I arrived, they’ve taken me in and kept me close, and this moment is exactly the in I’ve been waiting for.

              “What kind of party?” I ask, hoping it’s not obvious that I’m fishing for information. I can feel Russell’s stare on the side of my face, but I keep my eyes on Hannah because out of all of them, she’s taken to me the most.

              “What does it matter? It’ll be fun,” she replies with a smile.

              I shrug my shoulders. “Sure.”

              The bell rings, signaling lunch, and the group takes off towards the cafeteria, Hannah and I trailing slightly behind. “It’s a really exclusive party. Russell’s parents go out of town a lot,” she says, wrapping her arm through mine and leaning her head closer to me than necessary.

              “Should I bring anything?”

              “Nope,” she says, popping the
p
. “We’ve got everything you could possibly want, and I mean
everything
.”

              Instead of answering, I give her a short nod, because the only thought running through my head is that Emily is the same age as Hannah, and even though this school is almost an hour away from her school, the fact that she could be exposed to kids like this, and groups like theirs, has me wanting to lock her in a six by eight padded room and never let her out.
Is this what it feels like to be a parent? The constant worrying and questioning?
Even though the pain of missing Mom and Dad has yet to subside, it’s days like this and thoughts like these that have me wishing I could see them just one more time, if only to say thank you.