CHAPTER 38 #2
The doctor said the highways in his lungs were shutting down, one by one, as if it were some fucking motorway somewhere with exits and onramps, toll roads and roadblocks due to construction.
He finished by explaining it would eventually be fatal.
Fucking fatal. They could only work to sustain his health as best as they could and give him as many years as possible, but in the best case, he would have eight to ten years with me if we were lucky.
God, I’d been so angry.
So fucking angry.
I could have set the world on fire and burned it down. Because not only was he sick, but he’d hidden it from me for almost three years, until he’d been too sick to hide it anymore.
The fury I lived with after finding out about his diagnosis and deceit boiled inside every cell of my body.
It lived and breathed as if a separate entity.
It filled every vein. I’d been a silent supernova throughout the rest of my junior year in high school.
Walking down the hallways, silent as a ghost, ready to explode at any moment.
Some nights, I imagined myself standing on a cliff in some far-off place and raging at the storm coming in from the sea, screaming with every ounce of breath.
Rain and a strong wind would pelt me, and I would just rage right back at it with everything I had.
I battled it for months, the silent sea storm. Sometimes I had the strength to stand. Sometimes I didn’t and crashed to my knees. When I did fall, head bent, I would push my fists as deep into the sand as I could, and then punch it for all I was worth.
This is what lived in my head. Because outside of it, I was a shell of indifference.
I tried to hide this battle from my dad.
But of course, he saw through it. He had a unique gift that way, of reading people.
He bought me a journal and a set of expensive felt-tip pens.
He sat me down and told me that the anger was like a cancer.
He was already sick, there was nothing to be done about it, but he’d be damned if I ruined myself over my feelings about it too.
He said it would eat me up from the inside out if I didn’t get it out somehow, that regret and anger were funny like that.
That sometimes mental illness manifests as a real condition in the body, because the mind, body, and soul are connected in ways we can’t fathom.
He truly believed the mind could condemn or save you depending on your mindset.
He swore he would never read the journal or invade my privacy.
I think he knew how dark my thoughts were and that they were getting darker day by day. Hell, maybe his own troubled past gave him insight into how I’d turn out if I kept feeding the “wrong wolf”.
I ignored the journal for months until one day, I didn’t.
It turned out that writing it on paper hadn’t been the worst idea.
But yeah, I guess part of the reason I had been holding it in was because I didn’t want anyone to see it, the vilest, worst parts of me.
Him most of all. It wasn’t his fault he was sick.
Lying about it was, but in some small way, I understood that he didn’t want his sickness impacting the choices I made at that point in my life.
That had been his reasoning and in a way, I hated it, but I’d also got it.
I was going somewhere with baseball, or so the future prospects at the time hinted at. I had a natural talent and high hopes. We’d been anticipating a scholarship at a good school, which would most likely mean I’d be leaving New Mexico after graduating from high school.
His illness changed that.
It was exactly what he didn’t want, but fuck him. He was my dad. I wasn’t going to play another game if he was too sick to come and watch me.
So we both lost in the end. I lost my love for the game, and he hated that he was the cause of it.
I’d gone through two journals in a little over a month, and there had been no signs of stopping once I started pouring all the emotions out. A few months after I started journaling my thoughts, there was a noticeable difference in how I felt.
It had worked. I didn’t tell him that. But my dad knew.
It took me a long time to come to terms with everything. Years in fact. And then I’d been approached by an Army recruiter, and the rest is history. I saw my out and a way to pay for the care he was going to need as the situation worsened.
I’d enlisted and convinced myself it was the right path to take.
I regret that the most. The lost time. The time he had remaining, which I essentially threw away and ran from.
I know I should be thankful he made it this long. Thirteen years is much longer than his doctor gave him, but also, it’s my dad, and I’m too young to watch the man who raised me die.
These thoughts circle as I make my way home, where I’ll no doubt need to take some time to write some of them out, or at the very least grab one of my journals to take back to the nursing home with me when I return.
I’m pretty confident, I’m going to need an outlet for when he gets to the end and after. Only God knows how in the hell I’m going to live the rest of my life without him.
It’s funny how a large period of time away from a place can give you fresh eyes.
Those are my thoughts as I gun my Fatboy down the familiar yet also unrecognizable street.
It’s been a while, but I don’t remember the paint on the homes here being so faded, or the yards looking this worse for wear.
It’s as if no one throws away shit anymore; they just repurpose it because they can’t be bothered to take it to the dump.
I’m light on the throttle. Not wanting to wake the neighborhood at this ungodly hour, but another block down, I pass a house with a party in full bloom, their music bumping loud enough to drown out the growl from my Harley.
At the next turn, I eye the group of kids standing there and take note of the broken streetlight. I gun the throttle just enough at the last turn to get me the rest of the way home, then slowly pull up to the curb. Gravel slides under my boots, sending tiny vibrations up my legs.
It doesn’t take long for unease to skate across my skin as I take in our two-bedroom rambler.
“Fuuuuck. Come the fuck on. Are you kidding me? Fuck.”
Apparently, I’d been lied to. There’s an overturned trash can in the driveway, debris scattered everywhere, some of it even stuck in the chain link, and caught in the overgrown grass. But what really has me pissed is the fact that the garage has been tagged with spray paint.
“Son of a bitch.” I’ve been paying a property management company to take care of this place, keep it up. By the looks of it, they haven’t done shit in the last few months. I thrust the kickstand down and, after biting the tip of my glove, peel one off, then the other.
The gang symbol on the garage is a black devil’s head with curled horns. The numbers one and three are scrawled in the eye sockets in blue paint.
A rock drops into the pit of my stomach as I take it all in.
I rub my face, try to shake the sleep and tension out of it, but my anger is building fast. There’s nothing I can do about this right now, but goddamn it, this is the last thing I needed.
After taking off my chin strap, I rip off my helmet and fight not to throw the damn thing. This is going to cost me. Guess getting ahead of the bills and keeping extra money in savings wasn’t in the cards for me. Not when life keeps throwing buckets of shit at me every time I get close to even.
I’m dead on my feet, and I need to get back to my dad.
I can’t leave the driveway like this, and obviously, I can’t trust strangers to do shit for me.
So, with curses spilling from my lips, I start grabbing piece after piece of trash.
I flip the garbage can back to its feet, toss what I’ve collected inside.
It’s enough for now, but it’s far from done.
As I turn to head back, I freeze. My peripheral catches movement, and I slowly spin around to find a face staring at me from behind the curtains of the front bay window.
What the actual fuck?
The hairs on my neck prickle as I stride forward. I don’t bother with the gate; I just plant my hands on the top of the chain-link and vault over it.
The thought of some stranger squatting here makes my vision go red. Did they go through my dad’s things? Steal shit?
I hear shouting coming from inside. I can’t make out the words, but it sounds like someone’s yelling in Spanish. My heart races as I kick at the front door. It doesn’t budge. Feels like something more than just a deadbolt is keeping it shut.
Oh, some fucker is gonna die today.
I kick and kick until the frame splinters. Using my shoulder, I wedge it the rest of the way open, forcing my way through until it finally gives. When it does, I stumble inside and grab the couch to steady myself. The smell hits me like a fucking wall—overpowering, burning my nostrils in seconds.
Training kicks in, and I yank my shirt up to cover the lower half of my face, but it’s useless. The air stinks like rotten eggs mixed with paint thinner, the stench so sharp it makes my eyes water. My throat tightens, and I gag.
I don’t have a second to get my bearings before the sound of a gunshot splits the air. I drop to the floor, fast, like a stone falling through water, my heart racing in an instant.
Motherfucker.
More shots ring out, clunking and pinging against the walls and furniture—way too fucking close.
Thankfully, the couch gives me some cover, and I’m close enough to grab the coffee table.
Using every bit of my strength, I tip it over and shove it in front of me, adding another layer of protection from the person firing from the direction of the kitchen.