Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

I don’t just get dressed. I get a bag. I tell Tina that I’m putting a few things together for my dad. I am getting a handful of things, because he will go crazy if he doesn’t have at least a tablet if—no, when—he wakes up. But it’s not just that. I send her off to find a blanket—I tell her it’s for me, while I’m waiting for him to come to—but the truth is I don’t want her to see this.

I ransack his room. I find a bag of white powder in the bathroom, another in his nightstand. I’m in a cold fury now—angry at him, furious with myself—as I toss it in a duffle alongside the stash from the kitchen. I gather up his personal items—computer, tablet, phone, headset, and, on second thought, a razor and a toothbrush—and throw those in a separate messenger bag.

Tina meets me downstairs. She’s packed up my bag as well as her own. She throws these all in the car, and then slides into the driver’s seat.

I can’t look at her yet. Instead, I pull out my phone, slip on a Bluetooth headset, and look out the window. The streetlights slide by between dark houses and dark trees. I glance at my phone, choose a number, and dial.

The phone rings three times before a voice on the other line answers. “Blake?” The voice of Amy Ellis, our head of public relations, is blurred by sleep. But she doesn’t complain about the time. She knows that if I’m calling, it’s urgent. “What’s going on?”

“We need a press release,” I tell her, “and we need it in five minutes, because chances are someone is going to squawk soon.” I don’t know how I manage to sound so calm.

There’s a pause. “Your dad told me things were being rearranged a few hours ago.”

“Fuck what my dad told you,” I say. “This is bigger than that.”

She sighs. “You know I have to have your dad’s approval to release anything. But hit me with the damage.”

“You’re not getting his sign-off on this.” I shut my eyes. “We need a press release saying that Adam Reynolds had a heart attack this morning.”

It’s easier to say it that way. Adam Reynolds, not Dad. As if I can pretend he’s the distant owner of some distant company. As if I’m not bleeding inside.

I hear her intake of breath. “Oh, God. Blake. Is he okay? Are you okay?”

“He’s in stable condition,” I tell her, which I hope is true. “I’m on my way to the hospital where he’s being treated now.”

“Which hospital?”

“Don’t release that.” I shut my eyes. “Not that they won’t figure out anyway. Still. The most important thing is to get the message out, to get ahead of any of the aftershocks. I’ll have more details in an hour or so.”

There’s a long pause. “What about the product launch today? This is short notice, and the press will kill me. But do we need to cancel?”

I look down at the clock. It’s one in the morning, and yes, the product launch is this afternoon. I imagine my dad, larger than life, striding across the stage with a knowing smile. He had such a flair for these things. How the fuck am I supposed to take his place at the launch? It’s ridiculous, that’s what it is. It’s the most ridiculous thing in the world.

And yet.

I watch the streetlights slide by on an empty, deserted world.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like his shoes are too big to be filled by me. I don’t feel like he’s impossibly strong, unbowed by any problems. His weakness is equally my strength.

One thing at a time. “I’m doing the launch,” I say.

I hear Tina suck in air beside me.

I should feel like I’m disappearing now, like my life doesn’t belong to me. But now, for the first time, this doesn’t feel like it’s taking me over.

I still feel all my grief shut up inside me. But now it has a cause, an outlet. I know the name of the thing that killed Peter, and it wasn’t Cyclone and it wasn’t the job. It was not being able to walk away when it got to be too much.

I can do this, because I am going to walk away. For the first time, this feels like a winnable battle.

“It’s better if I run the launch,” I continue. “It’ll give the investors a sense of continuity. It’ll give the community a sense of belonging. And I’m the only one who can tell jokes about my dad.” I can already sense it. If I tell jokes, everyone will believe it’s not serious. And they have to think it’s not serious—the less serious it seems, the better things will go. I shut my eyes. “Speaking of which. Amy, I need someone out there to make up some jokes about my dad.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” I shut my eyes. “We need to minimize this as best as we can, and that means I need to tell jokes. I’m not really in the mood to make them up right now, though. So that’s on you.”

“Is this serious?” Her voice is subdued.

My father has been doing cocaine. He’s been doing it even after he watched it kill his best friend. If this isn’t serious, I don’t know what is.

“I don’t know,” I lie. “I hope not.”

Tina is pulling into the hospital parking lot.

I shake my head. “I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.” I end the call.

Tina finds a spot. But instead of grabbing our stuff and going, we sit there in the car. She’s parked right under an overhead light; it washes us with a pale, fluorescent light.