The Last Forever (18 page)

“Ouch,” he says. “Now that we’ve got my fashion sense sorted out.”

“And no more weed. Not in my house, and not around my granddaughter.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Is that right?” he says.

Jenny folds her arms, and I fold mine.

He runs his hand through his hair. “Shit,” he says. “I should’ve known better than to put you two together. You’re both the same.”

“If you mean intelligent, beautiful, and stubborn, I thank you,” Jenny says.

My heart, it just rises.

“I’ve got some amends to make, I know,” my father says.

“I’ll be clear with you for the first time in your life and mine. You fucked up big-time,” Jenny says.

He looks down at his hands, folded in his lap. I feel a little bad for him, but not bad enough. He starts to talk. His voice cracks again. He is pouring his heart out about his loss and confusion and sadness. But as I said, a Big Moment is not in the cards. We don’t clutch each other and weep in mutual grief and newfound understanding. Instead I keep seeing him go off to work when she has her radiation appointments. I see him eating a double cheeseburger when she can barely swallow.

I see him—the captain of our ship—that night in the car. That early morning, actually. That second night, when the hospital called after the
unfortunate series of events
related to
viral pneumonia
and
depressed immune system
and
fluid in lungs
and
aspiration
. I watched his profile as the streetlights flashed light on his face. Nothing was real. He drove like a maniac for no good reason. Just eight hours before, we’d gone home because we were
tired
. Because we were going to
get some rest
. Because we were selfish, terrible people who couldn’t even give up our own comfort to be there for someone who’d do anything for us. I was relieved to go home. To be
away
. And now I can barely look at my father and face this, the way we’d left her to die, even if we had no idea it was going to happen. She was
alone
. Horror,
horridus, horreur
—it was inescapable that night. It will always be inescapable.

Dad is crying and making a bunch of snuffling noises and wiping his eyes on his arm, and I watch him like I’m watching a film. Not a great film either. The kind you start talking back to because the logic stops making sense.

Oh, look, he’s done. The credits roll. I stare at the floor. There’s a small tumbleweed of dog hair down there. I lift it with the tip of my toes. “Check it out. Vito made a hamster,” I say.

They are both silent. They meet eyes. I get up and leave them there. I’m not even hungry anymore.

I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear it. “Looks like you’re going to have to start being a real father now,” Jenny says.

*  *  *

I am sure he’s going to leave. But the next morning, he is sleeping on an old couch on Jenny’s sunporch. He is too tall for the couch; his feet are hanging over the arm. He’s got a crocheted blanket draped across him that someone’s grandma must have made. Not mine. My grandma is not the type to sit in a rocking chair with knitting needles.

He is there the next day too. He is weeding Jenny’s vegetable garden. He’s got a stupid sunhat on, and he’s sweating. He’s working that hoe like there’s no tomorrow.

And he’s there on Friday, in the early, early morning as I am stuffing my pack and as Jenny is pouring me a travel mug of coffee. Vito hasn’t gotten out of his dog bed yet, the lazy squirrel. His alarm clock hasn’t gone off yet. He watches the goings-on with his chin on his paws. Pix is back in my mother’s shoe, which is cinched up tight for the long trip. When I see Sasha’s headlights turn into the drive, I sling my pack over my arm and hold Pix most carefully in front of me.

He hands me some money, my father does. He kisses my
cheek. “Call me when you get there,” he says. “I want to know that you arrived safe.”

I don’t let him see it. But when he says this, I smile.

*  *  *

“I feel like the damn chauffeur,” Sasha says. The sky is only now turning morning pink. I have that leaving-early-on-a trip feeling, where you’re tired but excited and you get to see what’s going on in the hours when you’re usually still asleep. The Jones Farms milk truck heads up our road. A raccoon lumbers across the street like he’s had a rough night.

“Home, James,” Henry says. He’s in the backseat with me. He takes my hand. Pix is on my other side. The shoe is tucked in tight, and I’ve secured it with books I found on the floor of Sasha’s old Volvo.

“Maybe we should’ve taken two cars. We probably should have taken two cars,” Sasha says.

“You made us promise that if you wanted to stay over we’d weigh down your arms and legs with
The International Index to Periodicals
and a couple of
Webster’s Unabridged
.”

The darkness is lifting, and the sun is showing itself. It’s a miracle, when you think about it, that this happens every single day. There are only a few straggly cars in the ferry line.

“Getting up this early should be against the law,” Sasha says. But she’s hyped up and excited. She’s bopping around on the radio, trying out different channels before giving up and shutting it off.

The ferry arrives. A few cars trickle down the ramp. By
the afternoon, the arriving ferries will be packed, dumping tourists by the masses. You start understanding how the people who live there feel. It’s a weekend invasion of cars and ice cream eaters and photo takers, and by Monday, it’s normal life again. Joe Nevins waves us in. I roll down my window.

“Hey, Joe,” I say.

“Morning, Tess. Have a nice ride,” he says. My insides squeeze with happiness. I love belonging.

“You’re getting to be a regular regular,” Henry says.

Sasha sets the brake and turns off the engine. We’re way at the tip of the boat, where the chain runs across the front and where you can’t help but have a flash image of cars rolling forward and tumbling in. “You kids go ahead,” Sasha says. “I’m going to have a little snooze.”

I want to race up the stairs to the upper deck, I’m so excited. The ferry is practically empty, so it feels like it’s all ours. Henry follows along, putting up with me. This ferry stuff is old news to him, but it’s only my second time. The huge windows and the outdoor decks that nearly hang over the water are thrilling to me. The ferry engine rumbles, complains, and then lumbers forward anyway. I stand at the very farthest point on the front deck. The wind kicks up. My hair’s going to look fabulous, but oh well. Out there, the sound is all mine, and Parrish gets smaller and smaller behind us.

“Damn it, Henry, put your arms around me.”

“Are you cold?” he asks. My sweatshirt sleeves are flapping in the wind.

“Yes, I’m freezing. But you’re putting your arms around me because it’s romantic, you idiot.” I am learning this about Henry. Sometimes his mind is on ideas and concepts and beliefs, and he forgets about the sentimental stuff. Like Meg used to say about her last boyfriend, Kyle, some boys just need reminding.

Henry puts his arms around me from behind, and I lean my head back against him. Even with his thin frame, I feel him there for me.

“Have you ever had your heart broken, Henry?” It’s time I asked this. I am feeling fearless with all that wide water in front of me.

“I suppose most people have at least once by now,” he says into my hair.

“My mother broke my heart. My father did. But not a boy.”

“Hmm,” he says, but that’s all. I turn around and give him a good look, but his face reveals nothing. There are just those sweet eyes looking at mine.

“Your face is becoming familiar to me,” I say.

“I know what you mean.” He pulls my hair into a ponytail, lets it drop. “You are really very beautiful.”

I know you’re supposed to just say thank you when you get a compliment, but I haven’t perfected that technique yet. “Ha,” I say.

“You are. I don’t understand why you don’t see your value.”

“ ‘Value’ sounds like buying tires. And who really sees their value, anyway? Does anyone?”

“Yeah! Absolutely. Some see it too much. What about Elijah? I’ve known him and Mill forever, but sometimes the whole superiority thing just really gets under my skin.”

“That’s too bad,” I say. Hey, I’m no dummy. It’s fine for him to say that about his friend, but I’m not supposed to agree. “So, have all three of you been in the same class since preschool? Is that how it works?”

“Basically. Look.” Henry points. My attempt to get more information falls flat. He obviously has no interest in discussing Millicent or Elijah, and I can’t say I mind. “I want to live there. Posey Island, one acre.”

“Cutest island ever.” It is. I picture Henry and me washing ashore there after the shipwreck. We’re in amazingly stylish island clothes for all the rough seas we’ve just swum through. My hair looks great too. Henry is hacking tree branches into a fabulous home. Not sure how that grocery store got there, but I like it.

Henry breathes in deeply. “Take it all in,” he says, which just becomes another thing to love him for.

*  *  *

When the ferry lands, we drive through a small seaside town and then through miles of farmland. Finally, we’re on the freeway. It all looks so different from San Bernardino. There are high, forested hills, and even the farms look lush from
rain, surrounded by clumps of green trees everywhere.

“TacoTime, next exit.” For the last twenty minutes, Henry has been pointing out all of the fast-food possibilities. This is pissing off Sasha, which gives him more incentive to do it. “Arby’s, next exit.”

“Henry, put a sock in it,” she snaps.

“I’m huuungry, Mom,” he whines.

“We just ate!”

It’s true. The backseat is littered with garbage-filled bags marked with the glorious red
M
. The car is filled with the sad smell of empty hash brown wrappers and flattened syrup packets. Henry is turning out to have a pretty good appetite, which I’m thinking is a sign of character. Anyway, I’ve lost count of his fine qualities. For once in my life, numbers are eluding me.

I hunt around in my purse. There are no more caramels or fuzzy Altoids, but I find what might be a cough drop. I hold it out to Henry, and he gives me a scared look, like I’ve just pulled out a knife.

“Read the damn map, people, if you’re bored back there.”

Good idea. I want to know how much longer we have to go. I can’t keep my eyes off of Henry, and so I keep missing the freeway signs. He must want to know too, because he’s fishing around down by my feet, where the map has dropped. He holds it up like it’s the winning lottery ticket, but then he does a double take. His floor scrounging put him eye level with Pix.

“What is that?” he asks.

“What is what?” Sasha is looking back and trying to drive at the same time. “Don’t tell me there’s a cop.”

Henry ignores her. “Did you see that?” he asks me.

“I noticed it a few days ago.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

There are a million reasons, but no real good one.

“Say what about what?” Sasha asks. She’s still trying to see what’s going on, causing the car to swerve alarmingly.

“It’s a bud,” Henry says. “On the plant.”

“A bud? I thought the plant was dying.” Sasha catches my eye in the rearview mirror.

“It’s not a bud,” I say.

“Let me see.” Henry holds out his hands and wiggles his fingers, directing me to pass him my mother’s shoe.

I shake my head. “Too much bumping around.”

“Fine.” He leans across my lap, jams his elbows right on my legs, and studies Pix where it sits. “It’s a bud, Tess.”

Sasha looks over the seat, squinching her eyes, and I have a near-death experience when that semi next to us honks loud and long. “It’s a bud,” she says.

But they’re wrong. I know it.

“Tumor,” I whisper. All morning, I’ve been so happy, but now I think I might cry. I’m feeling all choked up. I try to concentrate on Henry’s shoulder blades and his swath of black hair as he leans on my lap, but even Henry Magic isn’t working.

“Tess, it’s not a tumor. It’s a bud. I’m telling you.”

“Pix has never flowered in its life. Never.”

“Well, it’s about to flower now.”

“Ow,” I say, as Henry raises himself up with the help of my cushy legs. I don’t want to do it, but I give Pix another look. I don’t see a bud, honestly. I have a feeling that Henry just sees beauty where beauty really isn’t.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

We are quiet. No one says anything. Sasha concentrates on the road, and Henry watches as all the small towns whip past, and I watch Henry watching. I’ve ruined the mood, but then we move from awkward silence to just plain silence. We pass outlet malls and big casinos advertising concerts by old guys from the seventies. Sasha can’t help but pipe in then.

“Alice Cooper!” She chuckles. “Did you see that? I’ve gotta call Will!” When her brother, Will, was seven, she tells us, he saw Alice Cooper on a record album of their dad’s. Will thought Alice Cooper was a bad clown, and he used their mother’s makeup to dress like him. Then he scared her by jumping out of the coat closet. “You’d have thought that kid would have ended up in prison, but he’s in library science too.”

I smile. Not just at bad clowns, but at “library science.” I like that name. It makes a library sound as vast and mysterious as the universe or the ocean, requiring specific study to be understood.

As we get closer to the city, the traffic slows, and the red brake lights of cars stack against each other. Sasha is jazzed. She pounds the steering wheel with her fist and says, “Hurry up, Car.” She gives helpful instructions to the drivers we pass,
including, “Use your signal, asshole,” and, “If you want to change lanes, have some bleeping balls, Datsun!”

Henry pops his head over the seat. “Why did you and Abby break up again?”

“Too bossy,” she says.

“
Who
was too bossy?” he prompts.

“Me.”

“And you’re crazy about Abby and want to make this work, correct?”

“I will be so, so not bossy.”