Chapter 2
"Meds time." I shook the paper cup so my dad could hear the pills rattle and set it down on the side table, next to the water glass I'd refilled an hour ago.
The TV was on low in the corner, some talk show Dad hadn't been watching. I'd learned to keep it running because the silence made him anxious. The living room had that smell it always had now, Bengay and the lemon cleaner I used on everything, and something underneath that was just old man.
Dad squinted up at me from his recliner, the brown one we'd hauled all the way from Columbus because he wouldn't leave it behind. His face went blank, like a computer trying to load a page that wasn't there anymore.
"Junior?" he said.
"Yeah, Dad. It's me."
"You're still here."
"Where else would I be?"
He didn't have an answer for that. Neither did I, really.
I pulled up the footstool and sat down while he worked on the pills.
The carpet under my feet was worn thin in the path between his chair and the kitchen, and the afternoon light through the blinds made stripes across the coffee table, across the stack of unopened mail I kept meaning to sort.
He took them the same way every time. Blue one first, then the white oval, then the little yellow bastard, then the capsule. The capsule had to go last, or he'd puke. I'd learned that one the fun way, back in June, holding his head over the bathroom sink and promising myself I'd do better.
I had the whole routine memorized now, every med and every trigger and every tiny thing that could send a good day sideways. I probably knew his schedule better than the nurses at the facility Derek kept pushing.
Dad's hand shook on the third pill, and he got pissed about it, which made it shake worse.
"Take your time," I said. "We're good."
"Thought you had practice," he said, because apparently he was a mind reader now.
"Later. Derek's coming over."
His eyes went foggy, searching for the name. My brother showed up once a week and called twice, and every single time Dad had to work through the math of which son was which.
It shouldn't have stung anymore. It still did.
"Derek," Dad said finally, like he was testing the word. "That's good. You boys should spend time together."
"Yep." I took the empty cup from him and crushed it in my hand. "We're gonna have a blast."
He didn't catch the sarcasm. He used to catch everything. Used to give me shit right back, that dry Ohio humor that I'd gotten from him and Derek had somehow missed entirely. Now he just nodded and looked out the window at the backyard.
His face changed. "Those damn birds are in the garden again." His voice had an edge to it now, that irritation that could tip into something worse if I didn't head it off. "Where's your mother? She needs to get them out of there before they get the tomatoes."
My mother had been gone since I was six. Not dead, just gone. Packed a bag and drove to California and never came back.
I looked out the window. The glass had a smudge on it I kept meaning to clean. No birds. No garden either, just the scrubby little juniper, the dirt patch where I'd tried to grow tomatoes last summer and failed, and the empty feeder hanging crooked off the fence post.
"I'll take care of it, Dad." I stood up and put my hand on his shoulder, felt the bone through his flannel shirt.
He'd lost weight again. I needed to start making him those protein shakes the doctor recommended, the ones that cost twelve bucks a can.
"Hey, you want to watch the game? I think the Buckeyes are playing. "
The irritation flickered. He tried to hold on to whatever he'd been upset about, then lost it. His face smoothed out.
"Buckeyes," he said. "Yeah. Yeah, put that on."
I found the remote and turned on the TV.
There was no game, but I found a replay from last week and he wouldn't know the difference.
The sound of the crowd filled the living room, that familiar roar that used to mean something to both of us.
Dad settled back into his recliner, the leather creaking under him, and the breath I'd been holding finally went out of me.
The doorbell rang at six on the dot. Derek was nothing if not punctual.
I hauled myself up from the couch, hip screaming at me for sitting too long, and got to the door before Dad could start wondering who was there. The last thing I needed was him getting worked up about strangers in the house.
Derek was standing on the porch with a casserole dish and that look on his face, the one that said he was bracing himself.
Like walking into his own father's house required emotional preparation.
Behind him, his Toyota sat in the driveway looking like it had just been washed, which it probably had.
Derek washed his car every Sunday. I couldn't remember the last time I'd washed my truck.
"Sarah made lasagna," he said, holding out the dish. "She thinks you're not eating."
"Sarah always thinks I'm not eating." I took it from him, still warm, and the smell of cheese and tomato sauce hit me hard enough that my stomach growled. I couldn't remember if I'd eaten lunch, but probably not. "Tell her thanks."
"Tell her yourself. She says you never text back."
"I text back."
"Emojis don't count, Red."
I stepped aside to let him in and he pulled me into that one-armed half-hug we'd been doing since we were teenagers, back when full hugs felt too soft for two boys from Ohio who'd been raised on football and not talking about feelings.
He smelled like fabric softener and that cologne his wife bought him every Christmas.
"How is he?" Derek asked.
"Good day. Knew who I was. Got his pills down.”
I carried the lasagna into the kitchen and put it in the fridge, which was looking pretty empty except for some leftover pasta, a carton of eggs, and three different kinds of mustard.
Derek followed me and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, looking around like he was taking inventory.
He probably was, noting the dishes in the sink and the pile of bills on the table, and the crack in the window above the stove that I kept meaning to fix.
"You look tired," he said.
"Thanks. That's what every guy wants to hear."
"I'm serious."
I shut the fridge. "He's watching the game. Probably won't even notice you're here for a while, so you can relax."
Derek was quiet for a second. He was winding up to something, that careful way he had of approaching topics he knew I didn't want to talk about. He'd been like that since we were kids. Always thinking three steps ahead, always trying to find the angle that would get me to listen.
"I called Sunrise again," he said. "The memory care place in Corrales."
"Derek."
"Just hear me out." He put his hands up like I was about to swing at him. I wasn't, but I was thinking about it. "They have an opening. A good one, a single room with a window. I talked to Sarah, and between what I can contribute and Dad's pension, we could cover most of it."
"Most of it."
"You'd barely have to put in anything."
I hated that word. Barely meant a couple hundred bucks a month I didn't have.
Barely meant choosing between Dad's care and keeping my truck running, between the protein shakes the doctor wanted him on and my own groceries.
Derek didn't understand what barely looked like when you were already down to the margins.
He had Sarah's salary and his own, a house with a two-car garage, and two kids.
He'd never had to check his bank account before buying gas.
"I can't," I said.
"You can't, or you won't?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah, Red, it matters." He stepped closer and dropped his voice, even though Dad still couldn't hear us. "Look at yourself. You're running on nothing. You've lost weight, you've got bags under your eyes, and don't think I haven't noticed you limping. How's the hip?"
I turned away from him and started doing the dishes just to have something to do with my hands. The water was too hot, and I didn't adjust it. "I've got it handled."
"You don't, though. That's what I'm trying to tell you. He wouldn't want this for you. You know that. He'd hate knowing you gave up everything to—"
"Dad worked his ass off for us." I swallowed hard. "When Mom left. When things got hard. He worked doubles for years so I could play hockey. He gave up his entire life for me to have this chance. I’m not giving up on him."
The kitchen was quiet except for the water running and the muffled sound of the game from the other room. I scrubbed at a pot that was already clean, just to keep my hands busy.
Then Derek reached out and grabbed the back of my neck, the same way Dad used to when we were kids and he was proud of us, or when we were upset and he didn't have words for it. His hand was bigger than Dad's now, and stronger, but it still carried the same weight.
"You're a stubborn asshole," Derek said. "You know that?"
"Learned from the best."
"You learned from Dad. I'm the smart one." He let go and stepped back, and when I turned around, he was almost smiling. "Go on. Get out of here. I've got him."
I dried my hands on the dish towel and didn't look at him. "Practice first, then drinks with the guys."
"Be careful," he said. He didn't say have fun or don't do anything I wouldn't do. Just be careful, like he knew exactly where I was going and what I was looking for, and all he could do was hope I came home in one piece.
"Always am."
"Bullshit." He pulled me into another hug, a real one this time, with both arms. I let him. "Love you, little bro."
"Love you too." I grabbed my gear bag from the hook by the door and slung it over my shoulder. "Don't wait up."
The screen door banged shut behind me, and I stood on the porch for a second, breathing in the evening air.
It was cooling off fast, the way it did in the desert, the heat of the day bleeding out into the sky.
Derek's Toyota gleamed in the driveway next to my truck, which had a layer of dust on it so thick you could write your name in it.
I got in and sat there with my hands on the wheel, not starting the engine.
I had eight hours of something that looked like freedom, and I was going to spend at least three of them at practice getting yelled at by Coach.
The other five were mine.
I turned the key and pulled out of the driveway.