The End of Our Story

“What?” I go cold. “What?”


“My dad, ah . . .” He looks up at the water-stained ceiling. “You never met him, of course, but he wasn’t very nice to my mom and me. And that’s not an excuse. It’s just the way it was. He drank, and . . .” He works hard to straighten out his face. “He got pissed off a lot, and he didn’t know what to do with it. So.” He interlaces his fingers together on the table so tightly they go white. “So,” he almost whispers.

“Dad,” I say, my face hot and twisty.

“Anyway.” He clears his throat once. Twice. “It’s not an excuse, like I said.”

I don’t know what it is, but it’s something. Why didn’t he tell me?

“When your mom and I were younger, before you were around”—he smiles a little when he says you, and it makes me feel good—“we had a couple of bad fights, and we decided to stop drinking. Both of us. So we did, cold turkey. And things haven’t been perfect, of course, but I haven’t—I haven’t messed up in a long time.” He slides his hands across the table and grips my arms so hard I wince. His fingers are sticky with syrup. “I’m going to fix this, son. I swear to God. I want a clean slate for all of us. I’m going to be better, for you and for your mom.”

He looks at me like the rest of his life depends on what I say in the next three seconds.

“What do you want me to say, Dad?” I take shallow breaths, feeling like I might throw up everything I just ate.

“I want you to say you’ll forgive me,” he says, still holding on. “Or that you’ll think about it. Your mother will come around. I know her. But I need you on board, son. I need your support.”

I close my eyes. My head is hurricaning with things I didn’t know before: This is not new, he’s done this before, and I am third in a line of pissed-off men. Maybe even fourth or tenth. Violence is imprinted in me. In my father. In his father.

I say, “Tell me it won’t happen again.”

“I won’t hurt you again, son. You have my word.”

I keep my eyes closed, through the cash register ringing in the background and plates being slid onto tables and change being released into the tip jar.

“I don’t care about me.” I open my eyes. “But don’t you hurt her again.”

Dad’s face is solemn. “Never.” We slide out of the booth, and I stick out my hand. The air whooshes out of our lungs when he hugs me instead. Finally, I say, “I have to get to class,” and he releases me. He says, “Good man,” and I jog to school, because if I don’t burn off these feelings, who knows what I’ll do. I am genetically capable of despicable things.

My feet pound past KYLIE MITCHELL and a brick that is too bright to be old, IN MEMORY OF OUR PAL ROOSTER, and I think about a fresh start.

There are ties to cut, and things to let go. I picture myself sawing through waterlogged rope. I will release everything that has held our family back. The things I didn’t even know about: my dad’s past and the hurt he caused my mother. The things that are mine to release: anger that he isn’t who I thought he was and so maybe I’m not who I think I am. I hold my breath and I sink beneath the surface. With my next breath, I break above the waterline.

For the first time in months, I can see the shadow of land. The maybe of a new beginning. For the first time, I believe that he wants to make us new. The kind of family we should have been from the start.





BRIDGE


Spring, Senior Year


EVERYTHING in my room glows with the blue-gray light of morning: the shapeless bathrobe draped over my desk chair; the nearly perfect fossilized starfish Wil found in the front yard when he dropped me off last night after Minna’s. He gave it to me like a regular boy gives a flower away. The abstract painting hanging over my dresser, an early graduation present from Leigh.

“Shit.” I sweep my hand over my bedside table, my fingers closing over my phone. I stab the screen until it lights up. There are three texts from Leigh.

6:37 P.M.

Where were you today? Worried. For real.

7:13 P.M.

Sending search party soon.

11:14 P.M.

Micah says you’re out. Thanks for telling me.

I fall back on my pillow, deflated. This is my fault. I don’t want Leigh and I to erode at the same time that Wil and I are rooting into each other.

I text her back.

6:13 A.M.

So sorry I missed these. Phone was off.

6:14 A.M.

No it wasn’t. I’m just an asshole.

When the sun comes up, I drag our enormous cooler from its resting place behind the house and I scrub and rinse it with the garden hose three times. I make a Publix run, and with most of my gas money for the week, I buy the things I never buy: subs loaded with everything, so fat they are spilling open, and the potato chips that taste like Old Bay. I buy a six-pack of Coke in the doll-sized glass bottles because Coke tastes better that way. Dried mango and fresh fruit salad in a plastic container.

I text Leigh and Wil separately. I tell them that we need a sick day in quotes. I tell them to meet me at the First Street access. Beach day. Wil texts back in and Leigh texts history quiz, can’t. I tell her there will be Pub Subs and groveling, and she caves and says fine, the last few weeks of high school don’t count anyway.

I’m making my last trip from the house to the truck when Mom stirs on the fold-out. Her real estate exam study guide is tucked next to her. I cap a pink highlighter that’s peeking out from under the bed.

“Mom,” I say.

“What’re you doing, offspring?” she sleep-asks, without opening her eyes.

“Sorry, maternal unit,” I whisper. “But I need a favor.”

“It’s fine,” she says into her pillow. “What’s up?”

“Can you call me in sick? For a beach day with Wil and Leigh,” I tell her.

This time, she opens her eyes. “Just a beach day? Nothing future-jeopardizing, right?”

“Just a beach day. I—we all need a break.”

Her brow furrows. “Something going on with you and Wil again?” she asks, trying to make her voice even, the way moms do when they’re pretending that something is NO BIG DEAL. “You guys have been hanging out a lot lately.”

“Um, I don’t know,” I say, and then I say, “Yeah. I think so,” because Mom and I don’t lie to each other. That’s important to her. Hawkings are real. Hawkings tell the truth, even when the truth sucks, she always says. When I was a kid, I used to wish that she would lie to me about the adult things. I didn’t want to know about account balances and how she had no idea where my dad was, that asshole.

“Good.” She yawns. “Is he doing okay?”

“I guess,” I say. “As well as you could expect. I think his mom’s having a pretty tough time, so he’s worried about her.”

“We should have the two of them over for dinner.” Mom sits up and hugs one of the couch pillows to her chest. Her hair is a shock of warmth around her face. “We could make a casserole or something.”

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