The End of Our Story

“Oh, for years.” Minna’s sigh is a single note, never ending. “But turning someone into what you want them to be is no more possible than willing someone back from the dead. We don’t have that power. We are not that kind of magic.”


I lean into Wil, rest my head on his shoulder. We want the same thing: for Minna to be wrong. I want to take every last bit of my strength, every molecule of energy, and I want to transform the person Wilson was into someone entirely different. I would trade all my childhood wishes about my own dad for this one wish. I would do that for him—use everything I have to change the shadows in Wil’s life.





WIL


Winter, Senior Year


FOR months now, he’s been trying to convince me that he’s changed. That he is someone other than the man he is. But people don’t change. He said it himself, last year. We are who we are, down deep.

I’ve accepted it: He is part of me. But there are plenty of pieces of me, the Real Me, that have nothing to do with him. This morning, I stare into the bathroom mirror and count the ways we aren’t the same. My eyes have more gray in them. My hair is just a little bit lighter, or maybe that’s the light in here. There are these grainy freckles on my shoulders, where the sun stays all summer. I am not him.

“Wil? You in there?” Dad’s fist slams against the door, and I jump.

“Just give me a second to shower,” I yell back. I turn on the shower and sit on the tile floor, a rolling wave of nausea overtaking me. Maybe it’s the godawful smell of the candle my mom put on the back of a doily on the toilet tank. Lavender Serenity. More likely it’s the fact that my dad is six foot three inches of rage, and I’m not immune.

By the time I lurch into the shower, the water’s only lukewarm. I wash my hair with the same shampoo he uses. I scrub my chest extra hard, the spot where he put his jackass hands on me months ago. I want to slide dripping wet between my cool sheets and sleep until the world is upright again. But I can’t, because it’s a school day and a person shows up to play, no matter what.

I’ve barely finished getting dressed when Dad comes into my bedroom without knocking. I brace myself for I don’t know what.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, which is not what I expected. I still can’t look at him. But the little boy part of me senses him sitting on my bed, fingers laced together like he’s a reasonable man and we’re about to have a father-son talk about sailing or something embarrassing like sex. And I’m so pathetic that it takes everything I have not to bury my face in his chest and make him swear that he didn’t mean it, any of it. He’ll never do it again to me or to my mom. Swear, Dad. And then let’s go out to the workshop and listen to some Steely Dan.

“Haven’t slept well lately, that’s all,” I say.

From the corner of my eye, I think I see his head dip. “Listen.” He clears his throat. “I know you’ve got to get to school, but I want to have breakfast together first. Out. Nina’s.”

“I, ah—” I check the clock radio next to my bed. “It’s getting late, you know? I’ve got Econ.”

“I know, son. I’m asking.” His voice is a soft I’ve never heard. I don’t ever remember him asking instead of telling. I let myself hope a little.

“Fine. Meet you at the truck,” I say. A guy’s gotta eat, I think. I hate myself for giving in so easy. I wish I could cut the ties between us, a single swift slice of a knife. But it’s harder than it should be. He is my dad, after all. And that means more than it should at a time like this.

At Nina’s, everyone is staring. Ned Reilly from school is there with his Bible study group, plus Leonard who runs the place, and I swear each and every one of them can look over and tell that man is a wife abuser, and the son’s probably messed up, too. We are transparent. Anyone who wants to can see through our reptile skins to our ugly insides.

Dad doesn’t seem to notice. He just walks in and orders two coffees, even though you’re supposed to wait for menus. We find a booth with empty booths around it.

We eat for a while before anyone says anything. I won’t be the first to speak, that’s for sure. I could sit here for years without saying anything. I sip my coffee between bites, soak my pancakes in broken yolks. I stuff syrupy bite after syrupy bite, and dissolve it all with black coffee.

“I have something to say to you,” Dad says finally. “And I need you to look at me”—he takes a flimsy breath, which surprises me enough to look up—“while I say it.”

I look at him for the first time in months. I expect him to look broken or angry or even ashamed. I expect him to look like someone else. But he just looks like my dad. It’s like my brain won’t let me think too long about the terrible things he’s done. Instead, I see the guy who taught me to bodysurf, who carried me on his shoulders on the beach at night. I want to hate him. He deserves that.

“Look at me,” he says again. “I want you to know that no kind of man should do what I—it wasn’t right to do what I did to you. I haven’t been acting right for a while, especially toward your mom. I want you to know that I know that. I know that it doesn’t matter how mad she makes me or how much damn pressure I feel sometimes.”

“Okay.”

“Your mom and me—” He closes his eyes. “You know. We don’t get along sometimes. We get upset. We fight. She’s—marriage is hard, son. I think you’ll understand that when you’re older.”

“I understand now, Dad.” I squeeze my coffee mug. “I understand that plenty of people have hard marriages and don’t punch their—”

He almost yells, “I never—” People are staring now, actually staring, and Dad must see it, too. He leans in and lowers his voice. “I have never punched her, Wil.”

“Right. Hit,” I say under my breath. “Or whatever. That’s better.” I’ve never talked to him this way. The fact that I’m getting away with it tells me: something is very wrong. I check the clock over the counter. I’m late. I’m going to miss Econ. Econ is now the most important thing in the world.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. This isn’t how I—” He tilts his head from side to side, and I wince at the cracking sound. “What I’m trying to say is that nobody’s perfect. Not your mom and not me.”

“Okay. Nobody’s perfect. Got it.” I slide out of the booth.

“Wil. Please. Please, boy, sit down.”

When I look down at him, his eyes are like mirrors. A fat tear worms its way to the edge of his nose and hangs there, suspended. It’s the first one I’ve seen from him. I want to wipe it away and I want to leave it there. I want to shove him and I want to pull him into me. I sit. People are looking.

“I’m not saying what I need to say.” The tear slips into a pool of syrup and disappears. “What I mean. I’m saying the exact same things my old man said to me.”

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