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Luke
Someone was sitting beside my bed. The sound of the chair scraping on hospital tile had woken me up, and I could feel their heat near my leg. I kept my eyelids down, allowing a slit of light, but couldn’t make out who it was. Must be visiting hours. If it was my nurse, Tara, she’d be pulling off the covers, lifting my legs with her cold, thin hands, chatting about her son, her feet, her car, whatever else came to mind to distract me from the fact that she’d be lifting my balls and ass into a bedpan.
This person was silent, still, maybe sleeping.
I wondered if it was my dad. He could do that, just sit in any chair and close his eyes. Long hours at the garage and taking care of two boys solo would wear you out, I guess.
I kept my eyes closed. It was a match of wills. Who would give in first?
We did not “ask questions.” You were supposed to just know. You were supposed to just know how to change your brother’s diaper, why the sky was blue, how to brush your teeth, if ghosts were real, how to switch the lightbulb that went out in your room, how to preheat the oven, how much shampoo was too much, who was pitching for the Rangers, how to shave your face, how to drive a stick, why your mom died.
And if you didn’t know, you shut the fuck up and listened until you did.
The person in the chair shifted, sighing through his nose.
Apologies didn’t happen, either. You broke something, you didn’t weep and say sorry, you fixed it or figured out how to replace it. If you couldn’t replace it, like I couldn’t replace the goddess figurine he’d brought home for my mother from Vietnam after I’d knocked it over practicing karate, you fucked off for a while.
Forgiveness came in the form of “Rangers are playing,” or an impromptu lesson in how to take out an intruder with a crowbar if he wasn’t home: You run into a room and wait next to the door, and when the intruder opens it, you smack him in the balls. He let Jake and me practice on him with pillows. Probably one of the five times in my life I’d seen him laugh.
He never laid a hand on Jake or me. He signed our permission slips. He went to our football games, our parent-teacher conferences, dropped us off at birthday parties.
Maybe it was time.
Maybe I could tell him that I had fixed it, that I was sober now, that I had opted out of the stronger drugs for tramadol, even when the doctors said I could risk my spine “winding up” from too many pain signals.
Maybe him sitting here was the equivalent of him forgiving me after a few days, opening a Lone Star, turning on the TV, telling me to turn up the volume so he could hear the announcers.
Dad, I’d say, keeping it simple. Taking it slow. How ya been?
I opened my eyes and choked on a gasp, wishing I’d kept them closed.
Johnno turned, snapping his chin. A tobacco-stained smile grew. “Morrow! Morning, dude.”
Fuck.
He stood, his windbreaker swishing, the smell of secondhand smoke washing over me. My heartbeat rose to my ears. “Welcome home, soldier. Happy New Year. They did an article about you in the Buda Times. I wiped my ass with it.”
“Why are you here?” I asked, my tongue still slurring with sleep.
He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you think? To get paid.”
I wished I had enough spit in my mouth to gather and hurl at him. After the initial shock, I had no more fear left. “I paid you. I had my bank pay you.”
“You paid me half.”
“We said the other half in nine months.”
“We said the other half when you get back.”
“I won’t have it until I get severance. That will be months from now.”
“Fuck that.”
I pointed to my leg. “What do you want me to do?”
“You got money, I know you do. You figured it out before. I don’t know what you did, but do it again.”
I reached for him, just barely missing his jacket. He stepped back, laughing.
