Torn clouds drifted overhead.
“Okay,” I said, when the last shred of paper was gone. “It’s over.”
I felt disassociated from the world, like my body was one of those robot limb things that scientists move by remote control. Everything was removed from me. The cell phone felt like an alien weight in my hand. I suppose I was in shock, again.
You killed your mother and you just broke his heart. Everything you touch turns to ****.
That wasn’t the voice speaking. It was my conscience. Which was worse.
Then the stuff with your dad happened. Another time I covered myself with glory.
That was sarcasm, of course.
It was him who came for your stuff.
He drove over the next day from your little town twenty miles inland. I guess you had sent him instead—you hated me so much you didn’t want to risk seeing me. I didn’t blame you.
Your dad turned up in a beat-up Honda when my dad was out. When I saw that car, I realized right away that I had gotten it wrong about you and your iPhone; I mean, I had gotten the wrong idea about the background to your life. Other people’s lives are like stage sets, aren’t they? Which is to say, there are a couple of things in the foreground—items that set the scene, appearance, accent, and stuff—but most of it we fill in with our imaginations, assuming the backdrop, the rest of the picture.
Your going to Brown, your swimming … I guess it had all read middle class to me. But then that car rolled out, and your dad levered himself out of it, sweating, his back stooped and his arms covered in what looked like prison tattoos, and I saw I had gotten it all wrong. His radio was blaring—country music faded out, and then an announcer came on, talking about a storm system that was on its way.
“Come for the stuff,” he drawled. “The stuff my son left behind.”
I nodded. “I’ll get it.”
I went into the house and picked up the necklace and banjo. Or ukulele, or whatever. You must know—just fill in whatever is right.
Outside, I handed the necklace over first. Your dad’s eyes gleamed briefly when he saw it, as if someone had passed the beam of a torch over a dark pond. His chest expanded, like he was drawing in air to soothe a pain inside him. Then he put it in his pocket.
I held out the banjo/ukulele. (Delete as appropriate.) “Nope,” he said.
“Um … sorry?”
“Ain’t his. He don’t play.”
He turned around and spat as he did so, opened the door of the car. I wondered if you’d said anything about me to him, if he was pissed off with me. His whole attitude pissed me off anyway, even though I wasn’t in a position to be judging anyone else, and I guess that’s why I didn’t keep my mouth shut.
“He does,” I said.
Your dad turned. “Wassat?”
“He does play,” I said. “He plays beautifully.”
Your dad shook his head. “Stopped when his mom died.”
I glared at him. His whole stance and the set of his eyes—everything about him was signaling belligerence, and usually I would have backed down, done anything to remove myself from the situation. But I didn’t. Maybe it was the influence of the voice.
“You mean you wanted him to stop?” I said.
“What?”
“Maybe it reminds you of your wife when he plays. But what about what he wants?”
Your dad’s expression had changed to incredulity. “What the **** are you talking about? Who the **** are you?”
Okay. So you hadn’t told him about us.
“Wait,” he said. “Are you guys together?”
“Not anymore,” said the voice. “She **** on his heart.”
“Um … ,” I said.
Your dad spat again. “Told him to keep away from girls,” he said.
“He’s eighteen. He can do what he wants.”
A short bark of a laugh. “Trainin’ comes first,” he said.
“Swimming training.”
“Yep.”
“Oh come on, I was just—”
“Distraction,” he said, talking over me. “You’re a distraction.”
“Was.”
“Was? What?”
“Was a distraction. We broke up.”
“You can say that again.” That from the voice.
“Good,” said your dad. “Maybe that’ll make him focus. I timed him the other day, and his ass was a second down on the hundred meters.”
“What are you, his trainer?” I really don’t know what had gotten into me. A voice, maybe. Animating my vocal cords. Speaking for me.
“Yep,” said your dad flatly. “You know he’s been selected for National team trials?”
I stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack. So that’s why swimmin’ comes first. Now I’m going. I hope that’s okay, princess?” He began to turn away from me.
“He doesn’t even like swimming,” I said, lamely. I was angry—with myself as much as anything. I wasn’t really in control of what was coming out of my mouth.
Your dad shook his head. “What?”
“He doesn’t like it, but he does it, instead of music. Because of you.”