Rumble (37 page)

to decide, I can’t find a good

excuse to say no. “I guess.”

The drive is what you might

call awkward. Especially when

she feels the need to say,

I know we’ve dropped a lot

in your lap very quickly, so

I understand how you might

resent me—

“You?” I interrupt. “You give

yourself an awful lot of credit.

I don’t resent
you
. It’s
him
.”

Him

My father, and there’s a litany

of things to resent him for.

I go ahead and list them:

One:

fucking off on her in

the first place, resulting in

Two:

the pretense of a marriage

and a couple of unnecessary,

unplanned, unwanted children, who

Three:

he disrespected, neglected,

ultimately rejected, and, once in

a while, terrified, which led to

Four:

his wife’s alcoholism,

and my own anxiety, especially

after his younger child’s suicide.

“All any of us wanted was his love.

But he always reserved that for you.”

She Chews on That

For a couple of minutes,

but if I believe I’ve carved

channels of doubt into

her marble heart, I’m wrong.

You make him sound evil.

He’s not. Conflicted, certainly,

and not very good at showing

emotion, but I can tell you

he loves you, and he loved

Luke, despite how it might

have seemed. After . . . After

it happened, he changed.

“How can you defend him?”

A mad jolt of rage buzzes

in my ears. “He was half to

blame for what Luke did!

He called him a fag, a waste.

His own son! And he called him

a pussy! How can you say

he loved him? He never

once stood up for him!”

Did you?

The Buzz Intensifies

“Of course!” (Lie, lie, lie.)

I’m sorry, Matt. I didn’t mean

to be so blunt. But there’s one

thing I want you to know.

After Luke’s suicide, your father

would have left me, gone back

to his family, I think for good.

He was broken, and looking

for you to glue him back together.

Instead, you pushed him away.

Blame is a venomous thing.

Your mother was in pain,

and withdrew. You were in

pain, and lashed out, when

he desperately needed comfort.

You gave him back to me.

I can’t make you forgive him,

but I can help him forgive himself.

Can someone do that for you?

Dislike Swells

Like a sun-baked corpse,

into something close to hate.

I really have no proper response,

so I settle for silent introspection

until we turn into the parking lot.

Here’s another thing I resent:

that this stranger knows—

or intuits—so much about me.

Or maybe she’s just an exceptional

guesser, like one of those pretend

clairvoyants you see on talk shows who

can pull a person cold from the audience,

read the shadow of a missing

wedding ring, and wow the crowd

by postulating that person is recently

divorced. Then again, some of those

pseudopsychics are privy to inside

information gleaned from pretaping

interviews. Lorelei has access to plenty

of inside dope about me, too.

Dad Meets Us

In the lobby.

Hope Lorelei’s glue

is in good supply

because the chinks

in Dad’s shellac are obvious.

“He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”

It’s touch-and-go, I hear.

Way too much forced bravado,

Dad. “But what happened?”

He had a massive arterial

blockage. He came through

the angioplasty okay, but

he’s not rallying as quickly

as they’d like. They just moved

him to ICU. We can wait there.

Lorelei gets directions

to the intensive care unit

from a volunteer manning

the information desk and when

she returns, Dad slides his arm

around her shoulders, tilts against

them, slight support to lean on.

I Follow Them

Two steps behind, watching

the way he’s relying on her.

Screw it. Maybe that’s not

totally bad. Suddenly, I wish

I would’ve encouraged Alexa

to meet me here after all. I want

a strong woman to lean on. Instead,

I throw my shoulders back, tilt

my chin toward the ugly ceiling,

with cracks I’ll be counting soon.

No use getting a backache from

poor posture. Ache. That word

punctures my own forced bravado.

Why didn’t I make Uncle Jessie

go see a doctor? I knew those aches

of his signaled something more

important. Damn. I seriously let

every single person in my life down,

and once again, my failure might

cost someone I care about—no, wait,

someone I love—his life. Hell

has a place reserved for me.

Waiting Sucks

Especially when relying

On a fifteen-inch TV to disturb

the monotony of sitting

on varicose-veined

faux leather

(mind wandering to random

places, like who sat here

before and who was that

person waiting for news about)

listening to the scripted

rants of pundits,

right and left, the only real

difference between them

a yay or no-way

about whatever

they’re “reporting.”

We’re not the only ones

here simultaneously hoping

for and dreading news.

Every movement

in the corridor

elicits reaction—

heads turn, postures stiffen.

There are those

who deal with stress

by supporting Big Tobacco.

They leave, for varying lengths

of time determined, I’m sure,

by the depth of their habit.

Then they return, steeped

in nicotene.

I’ve never tasted tobacco.

Some of my friends smoke,

but Mom’s stench always

turned me away, cold.

So why do I semi-crave

a cigarette now?

Must be something to do

with the satisfied smiles

on the faces of those who

embrace the habit.

If I’m willing to immerse

myself in stink,

would I be able to grin

like that, despite knowing

whoever it is I’m waiting on

news about might disappear

from my life forever?

Three Hours In

I’m fighting the nod

that signals the need for sleep

(or boredom) has won.

I jerk into awareness,

notice Dad and Lorelei have

given in. They’re dozing,

attached, cheek to chest.

A nurse happens by and notices

the three of us, now the only

ones in the waiting room.

Where did everyone else go?

Who are you here for?
she asks,

then goes to consult her charts.

When she returns, I notice the name

on her badge. Meri Valencia. Nice.

Mr. Turner’s resting comfortably.

Why don’t you all go on home

and come back in the morning?

“Okay. But can I talk to Quin

first?” Nurse Meri looks totally

confused. “You know, his . . . wife?”

Her eyes flash understanding.

Oh. He’s not married, you know,

but if you’re referring to his fiancée

she’s in the chapel. She’s been there

for hours.
She lowers her voice.

I made sure she got some food.

She was pretty upset when they

came in, especially when she wasn’t

allowed to stay with him.

I don’t blame her, of course, but

they haven’t even registered as

domestic partners, and he was in

no shape to sign papers allowing her

in ICU. They can fix that tomorrow,

assuming he’s well enough to write.

“Thanks, Meri. Has anyone ever

mentioned how ironic your name

is, considering your profession?”

She rolls her eyes.
Pretty much

everyone. The irony of that is,

I’m really a cheerful person. See you.

I Nudge

Dad and Lorelei awake, repeat

what the nice, progressive

nurse told me—“Go home,

come back in the morning.

He’s resting comfortably.”

Which could be code

for “be ready to say goodbye

in the morning” or might

just possibly be good news.

I doubt she’s a bullshitter.

As Dad reluctantly leaves,

I check messages to find,

of course, a short one from

Alexa.
SOME PEOPLE ARE

ASSHATS. YOU’RE LUCKY YOU

MISSED GETTING THIS ASSHAT

FOR A FATHER-IN-LAW. FILL

YOU IN LATER. KEEP ME POSTED,

OKAY? LOVE YOU LOTS. CALL IF

YOU WANT TO TALK.
One thing,

at least, I definitely love about

this girl is her ability to know

exactly how much, or little,

to say. That is a noteworthy talent.

Before I Go on Home

I find my way to the chapel,

which is dark and claustrophobic

and scented with some exotic

incense. Quin is easy to spot.

She’s the only one here.

She sits leaning forward, and

very still, forehead against

the chair in front of her. I’m not

sure if she’s awake and I don’t

want to startle her. Softly, “Quin?”

Her head lifts immediately.

Was she praying? Without turning,

she says,
Matt. I’m so glad you came.

Is everything okay? Any news?

I wander down the short aisle,

scoot into a chair beside her.

“Last I heard from the cheerful

Nurse Meri, he’s resting comfortably.

What about you? You holding up okay?”

I’m stellar. I mean, I’m not the one

who had the heart attack. It’s just

such a shock, you know?

“It definitely threw me, but looking

back at how he’s been feeling

lately, I think the symptoms were

there all along. I tried to talk him

into seeing a doctor, but that is

so not Uncle Jessie’s thing.”

Is your dad here? Did he get to

see Jessie? They wouldn’t let me

in, did you know that? I’m not

legally attached to the man.

“They wouldn’t let Dad see him,

either. But he did come. Nurse Meri

just chased us all out of the waiting

room and told us to come back

in the morning. Cheerfully, of course.”

That rates a smile, or at least

a half smile, but her mind has

wandered.
We always meant

to fill out the proper paperwork

to legitimize our partnership,

but it was never a priority.

We were stupid. We were

sure we had plenty of time.

Priorities

Are hard to prioritize,

even at my age, when

my options are relatively

limited. Being an adult