He kissed the baby’s forehead. “Consider yourself lucky, Little Man,” he whispered. He glanced over at me for a moment. And it was like I’d never left him. He wasn’t mad or distant or craving something to fill the void.
We were surviving. But more than that, we were okay. Only okay and nothing more.
“I’m glad you guys are here. I pictured this going a lot differently,” Carla said, her eyes scanning from Snake to me. “I like the way it went.”
“Do you have a name picked out?” I asked her.
“Preston,” she answered. “Preston Henry Banks.”
That name was one of God’s great jokes (see: catfish) (also see: my life). And by Snake’s subtle grimace, I knew he agreed. But he didn’t say anything because he wanted to keep her happy. It was a small price to pay in the long run.
“It’s perfect,” he said. “Preston Henry Eliot.”
“Banks,” she corrected with a glare. “Someone has to carry on my family legacy.”
“Your family legacy of unreasonably priced soft serve?” I taunted.
Snake laughed, but didn’t look up from the baby’s tiny blue eyes.
Mr. Banks came in only minutes later, followed by Snake’s moms. There was excessive cooing and balloons and family pictures and talk of how beautiful a baby Preston was. I stayed for most of it, because every time I tried to sneak out, Carla called me back in and ordered me to stay. Snake’s complaints about her bossiness were not the slightest bit unfounded.
An hour later, I received a text from my mom telling me to rush upstairs immediately. My stomach dropped when I read the words, knowing that what awaited me could change my life forever. My point B could be my dad’s point C. It could be his end and my middle. My pain to endure.
I said goodbye to Carla and ran out of the room without giving her a chance to stop me. When I was halfway to the elevators, I heard a familiar voice call from behind.
“Wait!”
I turned around and saw Snake standing in the hallway, his arms dangling at his sides.
“I just wanted to say thanks for helping Carla. I can imagine it was quite the challenge for you.”
“She’s not completely insufferable,” I replied. “Good luck with the fatherhood thing. I’m sure that’s quite the challenge for you.”
“It’s not completely insufferable. Where you headed?”
“Third floor. My mom said to come as soon as I can. I don’t know why.”
He looked concerned for me, like he wanted to help but knew he couldn’t. He wanted to be with me and not. He had his own point B.
“I’m here if you need anything.”
“I know,” I said, hitting the elevator button.
“I guess I’ll see you around.”
The doors opened. I glanced at him over my shoulder, and knew that I wasn’t walking away. This absence wasn’t the permanent kind. We were only as temporary as we chose to be.
“See you around.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
SOME POINT C’S WERE REACHED UNFAIRLY. When a person felt too young to let go of their line, but knew they were too old to mourn the length of the line they were given. Many hit point C with dread and regret and a resentment for the beautiful messes they had left in their wake. And maybe one day my dad would reach point C and he would determine his line too short and insufficient and plain unfair. But as I sat beside his bed and saw his eyes—?open, awake, clutching point B for as long as it would allow him—?I knew today wasn’t one day. Eventually, “one day” would screw us all. But in the present we were alive. Temporarily and chaotically alive.
“We prayed for you every day,” my mother cried, her hand holding tightly to my dad’s. His glasses were back where they belonged, lopsided on the edge of his nose. His eyes were as lifeless as they’d ever been, but they weren’t dead. Not yet. “Frankie read you some of your favorite verses. Even Reggie prayed.”
My dad’s eyes gradually shifted from Mom to Frankie to me, lingering on me the longest. “Is that true?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
“Yes,” I answered. “I didn’t think it would work.”
Despite his weariness, his lips moved upward into a lazy smile. “It doesn’t always. That’s the great thing about prayer. We don’t get everything we ask for.”
“Well, we got what we asked for,” my mom said.
Frankie, who was standing by Blondie on the opposite side of the bed, bent down and touched my dad’s arm gently. “How do you feel?” he asked.
My dad looked thrown for a moment. The skin around his eyes crinkled, and he concentrated on the wall as if the perfect answer was scribbled on the surface. Then he relaxed, and his eyes were tremendously still. He wasn’t looking at Frankie, but at me. And he was pleased. Pleased with himself like the day in the basement when he promised me that nothing ever died. Maybe it didn’t.
“I’m just happy to be alive,” he said, releasing my mother’s hand and reaching for mine. I wrapped my fingers around his palm without hesitating. I had wanted to hold his hand from the moment I had walked through the door. It was cold, but like his eyes, it wasn’t dead.
Neither was I.
“Me too,” I said.
My mother glanced at me, unable to conceal her contented smile. Her eyes watered and her lip quivered so badly she had to bite it to keep it still. She reached for my other hand, and I let her take it. I wasn’t the only one who deserved to be understood.
“Love you,” she mouthed. She was crying as her lips moved. She meant it like a prayer. I nodded so she would know that I loved her too.
It had taken me too long to realize that, but I did. I was capable of caring, and that didn’t make me weak. It hurt more than it didn’t. It hurt too much, sometimes. But if love didn’t hurt, I might not have felt it at all. Accepting the pain of it made the good parts (see: answered prayer) easier to see.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A WEEK LATER, MY DAD WAS released.
I went to see Dr. Rachelle while my parents visited Pastor James. She sat in her usual spot when I arrived, holding her clipboard loosely in her lap. When she spotted the journal in my hands, she looked so nontherapist I wondered if she was even the same woman. I took a seat on the couch knocking the journal against my leg as I waited for her to start with her basic, pre-heavy-stuff checklist.
But she never said a word.
I looked up to find her watching me, a subtle smile pulling on her lips. She pointed to the journal.
“I see you’ve finally done your homework,” she said. It wasn’t an accusation, but a weird sort of appreciation.
“Yeah,” I muttered, playing with the binding. “I screwed up, though.”
“Oh?”
“I didn’t exactly follow directions.”
I extended the journal to her.
She took it slowly, opening to the first page. Her lips drew back into a full smile when she read the heading scribbled sloppily across the top.