“Buddy? You in there?”
My dad turns on the light and enters my room when I don’t answer his knock. He’s still dressed for work, wearing what he calls “venture capital casual.” His navy chinos have a razor-sharp crease down the front, his checkered plaid shirt’s custom-made by an English tailor, and his sweater vest is vicuna, which comes from some kind of llama in Peru and costs ’bout as much as a trip down there.
He and I have the same untamed curls—we look a lot alike, actually—but he keeps his hair clipped real close to control it. For the amount of effort I’ve put into grooming lately, I’d have dreds now whether or not I wanted them.
“Why are you in the dark, pal?” my father asks. He never comes in here, so this is kinda odd. He sort of has to wade through all the debris on my floor before he reaches me. He sits on the end of my bed, real formal-like, probably to keep his pants nice.
“I fell asleep,” I say, but that’s a lie.
Truth is, after the sun went down, I just didn’t have the energy to switch on a light. I thought it was around dinnertime but it must be late if he’s finally home.
Did I somehow drift off?
I don’t sleep now. Can’t. The insomnia’s almost crippling. Plus, every time I shut my eyes, I have visions of a speeding commuter train. I see an empty shoe by the side of the tracks. And on those rare occasions that sleep comes, my dreams are violent and terrifying. In them, I’m either trapped or climbing a hill that grows taller with every step I take. I don’t ever reach the summit, yet I can’t stop my ascent, either. It’s torture. In sleep, I’m Sisyphus, perpetually trying—and failing—to shove that boulder.
Every day I look like I’ve been punched because the circles under my eyes are black. Now they match how I feel. At least people are leaving me alone finally. Suspect my hygiene makes it easier for everyone to avoid me. Wasn’t intentional, but seems to be working so I’m rolling with it.
At first, everyone at school was all, “We want to be there for you.”
Why?
I’m still here.
We shoulda been there for Braden.
Simone was relentless for the first couple of weeks, couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to talk, why I wouldn’t let her in. It’s not that I don’t want to be around her; it’s that I don’t deserve to be around her.
I don’t deserve to have something nice going on in my life. I don’t deserve affection. I don’t deserve love. So I had to be so shitty with her that she’d finally stop trying to come around. It’s gonna be a long time before I can even think about girls again.
I’ve given up everything that I like, everything that brings me joy. I don’t listen to music. Haven’t touched my camera, my guitar, my computer, etc. in weeks. Mostly I just hang out on the bleachers when I’m not in class. It’s cold now, so I sit out there and shiver. I want my physical discomfort to match my spiritual distress.
I shouldn’t be allowed to be a happy camper. I figure I was under the tracks for a reason that morning. Fate placed me there. There’s a French proverb that says, “You often meet your fate on the road you take to avoid it.” I had one job, which was to save Braden, and I failed.
Big league failed.
I’m always going on about saving the whole world, but I couldn’t even save one guy.
“You hungry?” my dad asks.
I can’t remember the last time I ate. Haven’t been hungry. I must be losing weight because my pants are all too big. They sort of hang at my hips now and my face looks gaunt. Haunted.
“Nah,” I reply. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” he asks, inching nearer. “You don’t look fine. You’re giving off a Christian Bale in The Mechanic vibe. Remember when he dropped something like sixty pounds for the role?”
I don’t say anything.
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “That’s not a criticism. Your mother and I are worried, O. You’re really going through something. Feels like you’re shutting us out. Well, guess what, kiddo? Shutting us out? No longer an option.”
I’m still quiet.
My dad shifts even closer to me and is now sitting in a way that’s absolutely messing up his pristine pants. He doesn’t seem to notice. “We haven’t been around enough, buddy, and I’m sorry. You’re just such a self-sufficient kid, so cheerful, that we figured you were fine with our schedules, that you were always okay. But you’re not okay and it’s on us. We owe you an apology.”
I can’t find any words.
He continues, “In our heads we always thought, ‘If we work hard enough to give him everything, he’ll be happy. He’ll be successful, he’ll find his way.’ But your mom and I have had our priorities wrong. We see that now and we’re going to fix it. Starting next week, family therapy. All of us, no excuses. We’re going to get through this together. As a team. Team Foley-Feinstein, which is a terrible team name, yet here we are.”
I nod, but I don’t add anything...because I can’t speak—the lump in my throat won’t let me.
He says, “You assume that we adults have it all figured out, right? Wanna know a secret? We don’t. We’re under the same kinds of stress as you in this community. We feel it, too, the pressure to achieve the most, to have the biggest house, to rack up the most accolades. It’s like, the one with the most toys wins. That nonsense doesn’t end in high school.”
My dad might finally get it.
“It should, though, so Mom and I have made a conscious decision to stop the insanity. Like it or not, pal, we’re going to be around from now on. We’re going to be more of a family, with weekends and conversations and trips we actually take, as opposed to just book. And if we slip up? Then you call us on it. How does that sound?”
I swallow, hard, finally replying, “The Machinist.”
“What’s that, bud?”
“The Machinist is the movie you mean. The Mechanic is a Jason Statham flick about an elite assassin.”
“Huh,” he says, running a hand across his chin. “I don’t think I’ve actually seen either of them. Tell you what, I’m free this weekend. Why don’t we watch them both together?”
“I’d really like that.”
He tells me, “You know, Eckhart Tolle says we should realize deeply that the present is all we ever have. I say we start being present together, kiddo, starting now. Sound good?”
I nod. “That would be...badass.” My dad hugs me real tight, and I don’t fight him, I just lean on in. When we separate, I say, “Sorry if I reek.”
His nose twitches. “Oh, is that you? I sort of assumed the smell is whatever your mother’s cooking right now.”
Wait, she’s home, too? I’m getting the sense that they truly mean what my dad’s saying and that kinda feels like a miracle.
Maybe things will change.
Maybe we’ve hit the peak of the hill and it will get easier to roll my boulder from here.
“Mom’s cooking?” I ask, incredulous. “Does she even know how?”
He laughs. “From the smell, I’m guessing no.”