Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

No wonder my dad likes this guy. I can hear the ambulance now, a dim wail in the distance.

Dad grabs my wrist. “Hey.” His voice is getting softer. “About the narrative…”

I look up. His bag of cocaine is still sitting on the counter. I want to tell him to fuck the narrative. But he’s clutching at my sleeve and he looks even more desperate now.

I stand up and pick up the bag. “I’m throwing out all your stupid cocaine if I have to come through the house with a fucking dog, do you hear me?” Dad shuts his eyes in relief.

“Live,” I say, “because when you get back from the hospital, I’m throwing your stupid ass in rehab.”

The front windows fill with flashing red and blue lights. The ambulance is here. “Live.” I swipe my hand across the counter, gathering up the remains of the dust that sent him into this latest attack. I slide the plastic baggie into an oven mitt, obscuring it from prying eyes.

“Love you too, asshole.” His voice is weak. “Check my bathroom cabinet. And the nightstand.”

The EMTs are hustling through the front door, pushing a gurney before them. Dr. Wong meets them at the front and directs them as they strap my dad in. It doesn’t seem real. None of it seems real. Their boots crunch on glass. Dr. Wong hands me a card and tells me that my dad will be at the hospital, that I’m free to follow along.

I walk beside them, bringing him to the ambulance.

“Live, you stupid fucking bastard,” I tell him, again, leaning over the cot. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” His eyes are shut. But the EMT grabs his head and slips a breathing mask on, and that’s the end of the conversation. I tell myself that it can’t be that bad—that if he’s talking and cracking jokes, this can’t possibly be the end.

I’m pretty sure I’m lying to myself. I wait in the cold night air until the EMTs slam the doors shut, until they strap themselves in their seats, until the lights seem to flare all the more brightly, and they let the sirens blare, briefly, warning the night that they’re starting off. And then they’re gone.

20.

BLAKE

I’m standing in the driveway. The lights of the ambulance are receding; a moment later, they slip around a corner and are swallowed by the hill. My awareness of the circumstances seeps back in slowly. It’s almost like waking up from a nightmare: first, there’s a sharp, shock of consciousness, where physical reality sets in. My feet are bare. The concrete underfoot is wet and cold. I’m wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, and my skin is so cold that I’ve begun to shiver.

Next, memory floods back. Except when you wake up from a bad dream, you have to remind yourself that everything is okay—that nobody has died, that there are no monsters.

This is exactly the opposite.

Dad is doing cocaine.

No, scratch that.

Dad has been doing cocaine. For years. My father has been killing himself. He’s been begging for my help, and I was too blind to understand how much he needed me.

I’m the worst son ever. Somehow, the cold feels appropriate. It pinches my flesh, robs me of feeling. I could put on a parka and I would never feel warm again.

Footsteps sound behind me. I turn around to see Tina holding a broom. Apparently, she’s cleaned up the glass. She’s watching me with dark, clear eyes.

Twenty minutes ago, we were in bed, closer than close. Twenty minutes ago, I knew I couldn’t go on without her. I know that even more strongly now. I have never needed anyone like I need Tina now.

“Come on, Blake,” she says, gesturing me in. Her voice is gentle. “You need to come in and get dressed. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

“I don’t even know where they’re taking him.”

“You’re holding the card in your hand,” she points out. “Dr. Wong just gave it to you.”

Shit. So he did. I’m not thinking very well right at the moment.

She comes up and takes the card from me. “Here. He’s being taken to…the Reynolds Foundation Emergency Department? Huh. What a coincidence. For some weird reason, I’m going to guess that they’ll take good care of your dad there.”

I look down. It’s drizzling, and I’m wet enough that my jeans are plastered to me. Have to hope that the EMTs didn’t have a camera. I can imagine what it would look like if these photos hit Twitter. For the first time, I can see how I must look: sparse and still too scrawny. The entire world just landed on my shoulders, and I’ve been dicking around.

I take a deep breath. “All right,” I say. “But I have to get a few things ready.”