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He looks like he didn’t get much sleep. But, I figure, maybe he always looks like that. I try to remember the last time I saw him fully awake. Then I think, Duh, it was at the ocean.
Of course it was.
“Hello?” he says. Shit, I’ve missed something.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “Just tired. A little spacy.”
“I’ve heard that before,” he says gruffly. And I realize that, yeah, I pretty much said that to him last night. “Why so tired?”
“Life,” I tell him.
He gives me a look.
He’s not buying it.
—
We go for pizza. Once he’s got food in him, he talks.
“I don’t give a fuck what you’re doing,” he says, “but at least have the decency to let me know how long it’s going to take. It’s just rude.”
I tell him I’m sorry.
“Yeah, yeah. I know you’re sorry, but what does that really mean? When it all comes down to it, isn’t that word just one short excuse? It’s like, my dad can be King Asshole to my mom and tell her that she and I are a complete waste of his time, and then he’ll come back and say, ‘Sorry, I didn’t really mean it,’ like now everything’s fine, now everything’s erased. And she’ll accept it. She’ll tell him that she’s sorry. So we’re this big, sorry family, and I get all the shit because I refuse to play along. I get it enough from them, and now you’re doing it, too. Don’t turn us into Steve and Stephanie, because you know we’re better than that. You and I don’t play games and we don’t cover things up with sorry this and sorry that. If you don’t want to tell me what you’re doing—fine. But if you say you’re coming over, come the fuck over. Don’t make me wait like you know I don’t have anything better to do. I just sat there like a dumbfuck waiting for you.”
I almost say Sorry again. Almost.
“In case you were curious, my father finally got off his ass to see my grandmother. I told him I wanted to come and he said it wasn’t the right time. And I was like, ‘When’s the right time, after she’s dead?’ That really pissed him off. And I wanted to say, What’s it like, Dad, to be a failure as both a son and a father? How do you account for that? But he had his give-me-one-reason-to-belt-you face on. He never does it, but man, he wants to.”
“Is she getting any better?” I ask.
“No. She’s not ‘getting any better.’ Jesus.”
Fair. I need to focus. And when I focus, I see the pain he’s in. His grandmother is the one person in his family he really loves. Hers is the only blood he wants in his veins. I know this. He’s told me this. I have to stop treating it like he has no reason to be angry.
“You should call her,” I say. “They can’t stop you from calling her. Is your dad there yet?”
He shakes his head. “He’s probably still on the plane.”
I reach across the table and pick up the phone.
“So beat him to it.”
A lot of the time, love feels like it’s about figuring out what the other person wants and giving it over. Sometimes that’s impossible. But sometimes it’s pretty simple. Like right now. He doesn’t have the words to thank me, but when I hand him the phone, he holds on for a moment, lets me know I’ve gotten it right.
Right after he dials, I tell him I can go. Give him some privacy.
“No,” he says. “I want you here.” Then: “I need you here.”
So I stay, and watch him talk to his grandmother like it’s all going to be fine. Not going near goodbye, even though it’s probably the word most on his mind.
After he’s done, he puts the phone back on the table and says, “Wow, that was hard.”
I wish I were sitting next to him, not across from him. I press my knees against his knees.
“It’s alright,” he says. Then he picks up a slice of pizza and keeps eating.
I’m about to ask him what his grandmother said, but then the phone rings and it’s Steve, telling us about a party at Yonni Pfister’s house.
