The Return of Jonah Gray (21 page)

“You're saying there's something wrong with me.”

“There's nothing wrong with you. You just need to let go a little. Put yourself out there. Dive in. Call him. Or don't. But don't let an audit decide. An audit is not fate.”

I THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT MARTINA HAD SAID AS I
drove to Piedmont the next day. I thought about a lot of things—how Jonah had managed to forgive his father, how Marcus had managed to forgive ours, what movie Jeff would suggest we see later that night (a third date established over the course of our Monday dinner).

Marcus and Blake were sitting in the kitchen when I arrived, finishing lunch. Blake was explaining what tattoo he wanted to get, and Marcus was advising Blake to wait a few years, or at least until Marcus was out of the house, so that he wouldn't catch hell for it.

Marcus and Blake were getting along famously. Blake lit up when he hung out with Marcus—and even when he spoke about him. I had called earlier in the week and caught my littlest brother on his way out to band practice.

“He's so cool,” Blake had said.

“And he's good with Dad?”

“Oh, yeah. As far as I can tell. I'm not a doctor.”

“And what about with Mom?”

Blake had hesitated. “They're not usually around at the same time.”

“How so?”

“You know, Mom usually runs errands while Marcus is checking on Dad. Or when he brings Dad to an appointment, Mom will stay home. Or he'll go out and Mom and Dad will watch television. Marcus says that there should always be someone with Dad because he's having trouble with his balance.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” I'd said.

Indeed, when I came in on them in the kitchen, one of the first things Marcus asked was whether I'd be around for the evening.

“Actually, I have a date,” I said. “Do you need me to be around?”

“No, I can reschedule.”

“What about Blake?” I asked.

“I've got a dress rehearsal tonight and I can't skip it. Who's your date? The garden guy?”

“You don't know him.”

“What happened to the garden guy?” Blake asked.

“Nothing happened.”

“That's too bad,” Marcus said. “I've always found gardeners to be good people.”

“Really? Thanks,” Blake said.

“He said gardeners, you dope, not Gardners,” I said.

Blake laughed, realizing his mistake. It was the first time I'd heard that sound since before my father's diagnosis. It made me wish that I saw Blake more. But the school year had just begun and with it, his sophomore year. Marching-band practices were already taking their toll in the evening hours, and once football season began, in just a couple of weeks, performances would keep him tied up on weekends. And though he didn't talk much about her to me, Marcus had told me that Blake's spare time was often spent with Nancy, the baton-twirling hickey bestower.

My mother appeared in the kitchen at that point. “Sasha, could I see you in the bedroom?”

“Sure,” I said, letting her guide me out. She pulled me down the hallway quickly. “Did I do something wrong?”

“It's your father,” she said.

When we rounded the corner into the master bedroom, I saw my father on my parents' bed, his eyes closed. At first glance, he looked asleep. Then I noticed that his face was constricted, as if he were in pain.

“What's wrong with him?” I asked.

“I think maybe it's a seizure,” my mother said. She reached out to hold his hand.

“I'll get Marcus,” I said, turning to leave.

“He looks better now. I'm sure he'll be fine.”

“But he's all knotted up. What if it's serious? We should tell Marcus.”

“First help me move him into the hallway,” my mother said.

“What are you talking about?”

“I feel strange having that boy in my bedroom.”

I couldn't believe that I had heard her correctly. “He's not a boy, Mom,” I said. “He's a nurse. He's Dad's nurse. And he lives here now.”

“I don't feel right about it,” she said.

“Then you move Dad. But move him out for good, because Marcus will eventually have to come in here. You heard Ed. It's only going to get harder.”

“That brother of mine,” she said. “He had this all planned. Getting Marcus in this house. He knew I couldn't say no.”

“Is Marcus doing a good job?”

My mother didn't answer.

“Well? Has Dr. Fisher said that Marcus
isn't
doing a good job?”

“No,” she finally said.

“Stop making this about you then,” I told her and went to get him.

By the time Marcus was able to examine him, my father had begun to regain consciousness. Still, Marcus called Dr. Fisher, who recommended that Dad be taken to the hospital for tests.

“I can bring him,” Marcus offered.

“No, we'll all go,” my mother said.

So Marcus and I got my father settled into the Truckster, then came back inside to see what was keeping my mother.

“Blake, are you ready yet?” she was calling down the hall as we walked in.

“For what?” I heard Blake yell back. He was still in his bedroom.

“We're all going to the hospital,” she said.

“I'm not going,” I heard him say.

“What?” My mother glanced at Marcus before marching off toward Blake's room. I could hear her knock on his door. “May I come in, please?” she asked.

They were in Blake's room for a few minutes, before the door opened again. A moment later, she appeared in the front hall, alone. Her face looked pinched. “Blake will be staying here,” she said, her voice clipped. “We might as well go.”

“Is everything okay?” Marcus asked.

“It's fine,” she said. “Apparently his practice is more important than his father.”

“Do you want me to have a talk with him?”

“No thank you, Marcus. My son and I will have a longer discussion later.”

In a romantic relationship, sometimes you can peg the beginning of the end. There was the fight I had with one of my college boyfriends, the one we never quite got over, about who would clean the hibachi we had bought together. During the fight, I had grown so angry that I told him to go screw himself. We stayed together for a month or two afterward, but we never recovered, not truly. Weeks later, when he finally called it quits, I knew that hibachi fight had done the damage.

With my dad's cancer, that first round of seizures woke us all to the fact that six months may have been optimistic, that we may already have been in the home stretch. My parents had been planning one last trip to Europe, but by the time my father was discharged, three days later, they no longer spoke of it. Dr. Fisher sent my mother home with hospital-bed brochures in her purse and a poster that mapped the human brain, so that we could visualize the region where new lesions had been found.

When Marcus, Mom and I returned that evening from checking my father into the hospital, Blake was dressed in his drum-major uniform, waiting for the honk of Nancy's horn to spirit him away to practice. He looked as if he'd been crying, though I knew he'd never admit as much to me. I was glad, at that moment, that Marcus was staying in the house and that he'd be there when Blake got home. I'd never been an angry fifteen-year-old boy. I didn't know what to say.

I called Jeff and begged off the movie. “It's not a good time. I'm just going to stay here and watch television or something,” I told him.

“You're not all alone, are you?”

“My mother and Marcus are here.”

“Marcus. Right. The tats man. You don't have any tattoos, do you?”

“No,” I said. “Would that be a problem?”

“Maybe we could do something tomorrow night,” Jeff suggested. “I'd love to see you.”

In the den, I drank a beer and Marcus sipped club soda. I could hear my mother in the kitchen, but I couldn't muster the energy to offer assistance. Maybe she wouldn't join me and Marcus in the den, but that was her choice.

“How's my old room treating you?” I asked.

“It's fine,” Marcus said. “That stuffed bear is a little creepy.”

“Hey, it's not mine.”

“Blake said it wasn't his.”

“My mom bought it when she redecorated in there. I figure it's supposed to symbolize children.”

“Are you kidding?” Marcus asked.

“How could I make that up? I imagine it's pretty different here than your place in Sacramento.”

“A bit.”

“What sort of place do you live in up there anyway? Do you have roommates?”

“Why? Do you think I live in some rat hole?”

I felt my cheeks redden. “I just realized I didn't know what you gave up when you moved down here.”

He softened. “Not much,” he said. “I've got some friends. I ride around on the bike. I hang out.”

“You got a girlfriend?”

He shook his head.

“Really? You?”

He just shrugged.

“Boyfriend?” I asked, realizing all I didn't know.

“You got it right the first time,” he said, smiling a little at my discomfort. “There was this physical therapist where I was working. But now I'm down here, and it wasn't a serious thing anyhow. I take it you're dating this Jeff guy?”

“I don't know. It's only been a couple of dates.”

“But do you think you'll start dating him? I'm sure he wants to.”

I shrugged. “The garden guy, he moved from Tiburon to Stockton to take care of his father. Maybe I should have been willing to make that effort.”

“And leave your job? That doesn't make any sense. What's wrong with the guy's father?” Marcus asked.

“Stroke.”

“That's hard, too.”

“Why aren't you mad?” I asked.

“At you?”

“At my—at your dad. At our dad. How can you just forgive him? I grew up with the guy and haven't managed that.”

“I didn't just forgive him.”

“But you're here,” I pointed out.

“It took a long while and a good deal of convincing. And he made some overtures. And Ed.”

“That didn't seem weird? That it was my mother's brother who…you know.” I petered off.

“Ed's definition of family is expansive.”

“He rounds up,” I said, nodding.

“Jacob did a lot of apologizing. I know that was hard for him,” Marcus said.

“He's not very good at it,” I agreed.

“And he asked me to come.”

“He did? I thought it was Ed's idea.”

“Guess again. He knew the strain it might cause, would cause. But he asked me to consider it and I did.”

“When did you decide that you wanted to be a nurse?”

He looked over at me and narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“I mean, you were working construction before.”

“I've always liked to work with my hands,” Marcus said.

“And I guess the surfaces are softer in nursing.”

Marcus nodded. “Usually.”

It struck me how differently he and I were trained to approach people. For Marcus, understanding someone professionally was literally a hands-on process. He touched, he poked, he injected and held in his arms both the sick and exhausted, as well as all sorts of emotional viscera that hid itself from view in nearly every other environment.

My job required me to approach people from afar, studying the trails of their lives, the wakes that they left in passing before I ever met them face-to-face. I didn't think I could do the sort of work Marcus did. It seemed like something that would get on you and not wash off.

“When did you decide to become a tax auditor?” he asked.

People outside the Service were always asking how I ended up there, as if they took comfort in knowing that there was a reason, something comprehensible like an accounting internship or genetic predisposition. “I blame Dad,” I said. “I grew up rifling through his trash can and making collages from old 1040s. I always figured that was the start of some inescapable march toward the IRS.”

“But if you'd ended up an artist, you could have said the same thing,” Marcus said. “Jacob must love that you work there.”

“Have you ever heard him say that?”

“No, but it's so similar—”

“Not to him, it isn't. I guess he had this idea that I'd go into business with him but—”

“But you were sane and avoided it?”

I smiled. “Something like that. I get the feeling he's never forgiven me.”

“You didn't ever want to do something else? Maybe something that helped people?”