“You don’t have anger management problems. You have aprofoundlyshitty uncle. It’s different.”
After a second, the lights switch on, and she gasps.
“Whoa, look at this.”
I open my eyes, and my heart momentarily stops. Nomi, eyes wide in wonder, stares at a massive model of Sparrow Nook, complete with the downtown, river park, even a backdrop of Philly’s skyline in the distance.
I haven’t seen it in twenty years.
I stagger back a step and slam into the door.
“Julian? What’s wrong?”
“It’s my… dad’s.” I feel lightheaded and unaccountably scared, as if my father’s ghost appeared instead of the miniature town he poured all his energy into the last five years of his life. Maybe they’re the same, in a way. “He built this. I didn’t know Marco had it.”
“Oh my God,” Nomi murmurs, then leads me over to a camp chair. I shrink back from it, but it’s not Dad’s. I collapse into the seat, and Nomi sits beside me. “That’s… wow. Really intense. Are you okay?”
After a second, I shake my head, dropping my eyes to the floor.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Do I?I take several deep breaths, her question lingering in the air before I rise to my feet and feel for the switch hidden beneath the table. With an audibleclick,the town comes to life. The streetlamps light up, the storefronts blink on, and the traffic lights hanging over the intersections begin alternating between green, yellow, and red. “Dad always intended to add a motorized track for the cars.” I drag my fingertips up Main Street. “But he hadn’t figured out how to make the cars sync up with the traffic lights yet.” I let out a small huff. “He would’ve, though. If he’d had more time.”
“What happened?” Nomi asks softly beside me.
Whenever I’ve been asked about Dad before—by women from short-lived relationships, a few times out of professional interest by other ER doctors, once by Eric—I usually give the short answer: he was disabled and died when I was young. To Eric I gave the full story, though, and I’ve been glad many, many times that I did. Having someone I know and trust help me hold the truth, who sees me and understands me in my fuller context—it’s why his advice is so good. Eric knows me. And as much as I hate the truth, I want Nomi to understand me, too. I want her to know, because I want her to knowme.
“Dad was a mechanical engineer. Worked at the engine plant on all the assembly line machines. There was an accident one day, when I was pretty young. He got pulled halfway into a machine—it crushed his rightarm and several of his vertebrae. If they hadn’t pulled the emergency brake when they did, it would’ve—well. He’d have died on the spot. As it was, he was very badly injured. After several surgeries, he regained some function and mobility, but he couldn’t work anymore. He had pretty severe PTSD around motorized machinery after the accident, and due to some poor decisions made during the initial surgery, he was in constant pain.”
Nomi’s brows draw together as she listens. The concern and empathy on her face is too much to bear, so instead I keep my eyes on the model and all the little details I used to resent so much.
“He went on disability, which was less than half of his old salary, and Mom had to work two jobs because of all the debt accruing from his care. I was only seven years old, and suddenly my dad, the funniest, most charismatic man you’d ever meet, barely left his bed, and my mom disappeared into work at the same time so we’d have enough to pay for Dad’s treatments. When Momwashome, she was always tired, and I—I blamed Dad for it. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t get out of bed and take care of me. I didn’t understand why Mom had to work twice as much.”
“That must’ve been so hard on you. To be so young and lose that time with your parents.”
I bite both lips in. “I had Aunt Edna. That’s how we got so close, you know. During that first year after the accident, I practically lived at her house. She took care of the Ohs, too, and sometimes Vinny and Veronica.”
Nomi huffs. “My god, what a brood.”
“The first year was the hardest. Eventually, the surgeries stopped, and Dad could move around again. As part of his physical therapy, they encouraged him to do tasks that would improve his gross and fine-motor skills, and that’s how this started.” I gesture a hand at little Sparrow Nook. “You can tell which parts of town are the oldest because the painting is the sloppiest, and the buildings came from kits. Eventually, he built all the houses himself.”
“It’s amazing.” Nomi runs her finger over the top of the StrangeDrugsRxsign that hangs over the tiny sidewalk, facing the old Belly’s Steaks shop across the street.
“It is. But God, I hated it growing up.”
“Why?”
“It became all Dad cared about. He spent all day, every day, in our garage, working on this town instead of living in the real thing. He rarely left the house. If I wanted to see him, I had to go into the garage, and it always reeked of enamel paints and—and—”
“Weed,” Nomi says, understanding. “He smoked to deal with his pain, right?”
“That’s what Mom said when I asked why Dad was doing illegal drugs in our garage every day. But all I saw was a stoner sitting in a camp chair painting tiny things instead of being my dad. Instead of working, so Mom could be my mom.”
“Oh, Julian.” Nomi reaches out, and in Sparrow Nook’s twinkling lights, touches my arm. “I’m sorry.”
“It was hard, hearing people talk about my dad in the past tense before he was dead. Or worse, hearing people like Gino call him a worthless stoner. And it was even harder to believe Mom when she said it wasn’t true, because it seemed true to me.” I shake my head, hating this part most of all. “Then one day, he made this big announcement during dinner that he was giving up pot because his doctors had prescribed him this new miracle drug for pain relief, covered by insurance and everything. He was so proud, and Mom was so relieved.” My breath twists in my throat. “The opioid crisis was just beginning, and Dad was one of the countless people trampled by it. On a bad pain night, he overdosed by accident and died in his sleep. I was twelve.”
Nomi pulls me to her. Wraps her arms around my middle, rests her head against my chest. The weight of it there makes the first tear feel safe enough to run down my cheek. After a brief, terrified pause, I fold myarms around her woodenly, then melt into her, wishing that I could wear this hug like armor every day of my life. A new layer of skin that’d protect me from all the bullshit. If I had this, I could be nice, I think. I could finally lower my fists.
