“Sprite! More!”
“That’s why I’m doing this. I know what’s best.”
“We all deserve a say.”
“This is my decision.”
Karen stepped close again. “You know,” she said in a surprisingly even tone. “Ethan is part of all of us.” When she said that, her bottom lip began to quiver with what I could only assume was anger because, as I have noted, Karen never cried.
“So? What’s your point?”
She searched my face with her blue eyes, looked away, then looked back at me.
“And just in case you’ve forgotten,” she said. “Just in case you don’t remember how things were, we were there, Dad. We were there with Ethan and you and Mom.” Her eyes were reddening now, and when I saw that, when I realized my queen bee was starting to crumble, something began to break inside me.
“Karen.” But it was too late; she was through the doors and gone.
“Why. Mad?”
*
Back in the van, I forced myself to remember things I had forced myself to forget.
Karen was standing next to me that day the neurologist called to tell us the official result of the MRI. (“We confirmed the initial reading. He has global brain damage.”) I remember her asking, “What’s wrong, Daddy?”
That day in the supermarket, when Ethan gagged so badly that he threw up in the crowded checkout lane in front of Mindy and Karen.
That day in the Six Flags parking lot when he refused to get out of the car so we had to go home. Mindy cried the whole way back, Karen’s arms around her.
That day he fell to the floor at Mindy’s grammar school graduation and refused to get up for an hour.
That day.
That day.
That day.
There were hundreds of them, thousands of them. Every day was a that day. For me. For us.
I squeezed the wheel and checked on Ethan, now sitting in the back. He was quietly eating a bag of potato chips, sipping a Sprite, oblivious to the drama, his “Why. Mad?” detector switched off. I glanced at Stinky Bear in the passenger seat, eyes all-seeing, picked him up, and pressed him close to my cheek.
What happened to you, happened to all of us, I heard him say.
This hasn’t been easy on anyone, he said.
They were there, he said.
Then: She’s right. Ethan is part of all of us.
“Okay,” I said out loud. “All right.”
I moved my foot over to the brake, began to slow. Eighty-five, eighty, seventy-five, seventy, the anger seeping out of me, a trailing, noxious fume.
“All right, okay.” I put Stinky down and switched into the right-hand lane, waiting for my family to catch up.
*
“So,” I said to Mary. “Another quiet day on the road.”
We were standing at Taylor’s, a crowded restaurant off the interstate, waiting for the girls, when I started in on my not-very-rehearsed-but-nonetheless-sincere apology. I figured I was going to spend the rest of the evening saying I was sorry, and I wanted to get a jump on things.
“I’m sorry for the way I was driving. That was stupid. This whole thing has gotten out of hand. I’m very sorry. That’s not like me, you know that.”
Mary didn’t immediately respond. Instead she picked up a menu and started to read. After a minute she said, “Next time you have a nervous breakdown, try not to do it in a speeding car.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’ll talk when the girls come. Have a drink. It’s been a long day for everyone.”
My relief was tinged with confusion. I’d been bracing for a good beatdown, if not a hard punch in the stomach. “I am sorry,” I said again. “About everything. I didn’t handle any of this right.”
“I. Starving!”
I massaged Ethan’s shoulders. “Yes, we’ll eat, we’ll eat.” While Mary continued to scrutinize the menu, I allowed myself a peak around Taylor’s. It was classic supper club: dark and small, clean and homey. Large framed photos of a sturdy-looking, alpha-male-dominated family in various acts of sport—hunting, fishing, skiing, but mostly hunting—hung on pine walls. There was a formidable salad bar in the middle of the place, deer heads and antlers on the wall, and a small but inviting bar in the back. “Place looks kind of neat. It has a motel too. Maybe we should just stay here tonight.”
Mary finally put the menu down and glanced around the restaurant. “Fine,” she said.
“Pee-pee. Now.”
“I’ll take him,” Mary said. “You’ve had him all day. Come on, buddy. I’ll wait outside while you go.”
“No, it’s all right. I got him. Let’s go, dude-man. Come on.” I led Ethan to the men’s room and, after he was done, thoroughly washed his face and hands and kissed him on the top of his head.
“You’ve been a good guy today. Thank you. Everyone else has been bad but you. Even I’ve been bad. I’ve been very bad. But you’ve been great.”
“Shut. Up. Idiot.”