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“I’ve got one more semester of college, and Shiloh’s got another year. Then, some time will free up and we can do more things with the three of us.”
Not that Shiloh has stepped foot in the home we grew up in since the day he left for college. I don’t blame him for it, but it would be a lie to say I don’t miss us feeling like a family.
Dad makes a disgruntled noise and pulls a cigarette out of his breast pocket, ignoring my pinched expression when he lights it up.
“I’ll believe it when I see it. Your sister—“
I slap my hand on the table, and his mouth slams shut. He takes a slow drag—making a show of it—before setting it down in the ashtray.
“Your brother wants nothing to do with me, and you know it.”
Maybe if you hadn’t made him feel less than his whole life, or maybe if you had been present and acted like a father. Maybe then he’d want to be here. Maybe he’d take some of the burden off our shoulders.
Dad made his bed, and now we both have to lie in it.
“Shiloh is busy. His schedule is jam packed, and he has the self defense class—“
“That boy has too much anger in him. It’s going to get him hurt or arrested one of these days.”
Talking to Dad is like talking to a brick wall.
“He’s got Atlas,” I say, feeling a little of the pressure in my chest lift.
Shiloh is a firecracker, a stick of dynamite. He’s unpredictable and hotheaded, but having Atlas around has always seemed to balance him. The calm to his storm. The flowing river to his raging rapids.
“At least someone around here has some sense in their head.”
Dad has been fond of Atlas since we moved to the trailer park when I was seven and Shiloh was five. I think it’s because at the time he was drowning in the grief of losing our mother, and having someone take the weight of Shiloh’s attention off of him was a relief.
“Come on,” I say. “Help me sort through the mess in the living room, then you can get back to your project while I start the dishes.”
He doesn’t complain, only sighs in defeat and pushes away from the table, wheelchair nearly backing into the wall with the force of it. He reaches around for his walker, unfolding it and pushing himself out of the chair.
Dad lost his leg not long after he became an empty nester. A year on his own—while I was drowning in classes and work, trying to support both Shiloh and my college efforts—and he’d stopped taking care of himself to the extent that they had no choice but to amputate his leg.
There was an accident. A small one, but he’d gotten a nasty gash on his leg. He let the hospital stitch him up, but he refused to follow the care guidelines, and as a man with severe diabetic neuropathy, the infection traveled up his leg until there were no options left.
He doesn’t let it stop him from doing the things he wants, but he sure uses it as an excuse to put off what needs to be done. That’s why he has me, and he isn’t afraid to lay the guilt card on thick if I miss a visit.
I get maybe twenty minutes out of him before he wanders off, and I’m halfway through scrubbing up the bathroom an hour later when something buzzes in my pocket.
It’s not my normal pattern for text or notifications, but it’s one I’m familiar with.
I fish around until I find the pocket of the flannel wrapped around my waist and pull out my phone. On it is a notification from an anonymous messaging app that I use as part of an LGBTQ helpline.
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve gotten a message from it that lasted for more than five minutes, so it can’t hurt to check it out and see what they need.
Unknown: What can you tell me about being ace?
I chew on my bottom lip as I look around and take in all the work I still have to do. But I’m already tired, and a five minute break won’t hurt me.
Me: All kinds of things. What do you want to know?
Unknown: Can you jerk off if you’re ace?
The person’s response brings a smile to my face.
Me: If not, then I’ve been doing it wrong.
