Chapter 23 #2
Wolf laughs, tossing his head back. I’m glad to see that, for the first time in days, he really does look like the version of himself I’m more familiar with. And I don’t miss the way his gaze moves across the room until he finds Kyoko, and his smile gets even bigger.
I don’t have long to consider it though, because I notice John edging toward the door.
Did he see me coming to talk to him before Wolf stopped me? Is Rose’s son so against this that he doesn’t want to have a conversation?
“You’ll have to excuse me, Wolf. I’ve got to see a man about his mother.”
Wolf claps me on the shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “Godspeed and fair winds,” he says as I rush toward the front door that’s just closed behind John.
Though I was afraid he might have sprinted to a getaway car, I find him pacing out on the sidewalk out front. The temperature has steadily dropped this week, and I’m surprised to see his breath puffing out in front of him.
“I didn’t realize it had gotten so cold,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. A really dumb opening line, but then, that’s one of weather’s primary functions, isn’t it?—giving people an easy subject for small talk.
John stops and faces me, matching my posture with his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants. But I can see that they’re balled into fists. He studies me for a moment, and I can’t read the expression in his eyes.
“It’s the humidity,” he says. “If the air already holds a lot of moisture, it doesn’t need to be as cold for your breath to be visible.”
“Makes sense, I guess. Your mom told me you’re smart.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “Memorizing weather facts doesn’t make someone smart.”
I tilt my head, trying to forget the part where I want so very badly for him to like me.
Instead, I think of him the way I would James or Collin or Pat if they were behaving this way.
I want to invite conversation, not incite his anger.
It’s been a long time since any of my boys had this level of attitude, but I recognize something else in John.
He’s not just angry, he looks miserable. Almost defeated underneath the defiance.
“Is it me specifically you disapprove of?” I ask. “Or is it me dating your mom?”
“I don’t disapprove of you,” he says, pulling a hand out of his pocket to drag it through his hair. “Or of you dating my mom. It surprised me, sure. But it’s fine. She seems happy.”
His body language tells a different story than his words. John starts pacing again, walking a few steps away before coming back and stopping in front of me, a little closer this time. He rocks back on his heels, looking ready to explode, but says nothing.
I wait.
One of the most-used tools in my toolbox for my kids is simple patience. Silence in the face of a secret has a way of drawing it out, like poison.
“My dad wasn’t very nice,” John says, finally, his eyes bright and his voice sharp.
I don’t react, though this is not where I expected the conversation to go.
“I mean, it’s not like he was a bad man.
He wasn’t mean. He didn’t hurt Mom or us.
He was good. He loved us. But he wasn’t …
friendly or playful or soft. I don’t think he meant to, but he treated us—especially Mom—like we were a task on a checklist. He was very good at completing tasks.
Which makes him a better father and husband, I guess, than many. ”
Rose and I have talked about our late spouses, and I didn’t pick up on anything like what John is saying now. Their descriptions sound like two different men.
From what I remember her telling me, John was in high school when his dad died. So, it’s not a case of childhood memories skewing his perception. But I could see how John’s words might complete the picture, adding shadows and depth where Rose drew broad strokes. She did describe David as serious.
What serious means to a wife and to a son might look markedly different.
I’m still not sure where this is going, so I simply continue to wait and listen.
“I’ve become him,” John says finally.
His face crumples a little bit before he smooths his features out. I can see the strain and the effort it takes. If I didn’t think he’d pull away, I would reach out and give him a hug. But I can tell that would be the wrong move, so I grit my teeth and stand my ground.
“Or, I have been becoming him,” he continues. “I realized it lately, but I don’t know if I can stop. I think I thought he’s who I needed to be after he died. Someone had to.”
I ache for John, remembering now with sharp clarity all the ways my children dealt with Michelle’s death. Especially James, who stepped up when I fell apart, taking on tasks that never should have been his to take. I still feel guilty about letting him shoulder the weight for as long as I did.
It sounds like John, who’s also the oldest, took a page out of the same book as James.
“I don’t think the way you’re characterizing him sounds all bad,” I say, picking my words carefully.
“Not if he loved you and took care of you in his own way. But if you see parts of him in yourself, and that’s not who you want to be, recognizing it is a good start.
” I pause. “And I think you can honor his memory but still see his flaws. You can want to be a different man. Your own man. That’s okay too. ”
I think I’ve overstepped or maybe ventured off in the wrong direction by the way John’s shoulders draw up stiffly. But then, he slumps a little, dipping his chin to his chest, scuffing a toe of his dress shoe along the sidewalk.
“I like your family,” he says.
I’m too shocked by the subject change to respond, but he keeps going anyway.
“They’re noisy and a little overbearing and don’t seem to have the normal kind of personal boundaries.”
Accurate. Though I’m not sure if he’s insulting me or trying to compliment me … or both.
I chuckle. “Thanks, I think.”
When John glances up, his face has changed.
Gone is the hard, pinched expression he’s been wearing all night.
He smiles, just a little one, and I can see Rose in it.
“Sorry—I meant that as a good thing, but I can see how it sounds. What I’m trying to say is that there’s an openness to them.
To you. It’s refreshing, and it’s good for my mom. You’re good for her. I can tell.”
“I’d like to hope so. I know she’s good for me.”
“Chelsea seems to fit right in with your family up there—even though she probably shouldn’t, considering the fact that she once dated your daughter’s husband and was responsible for him being sprayed by a skunk.” John shakes his head.
“Totally weird how that happened, right?”
“It is. On brand for my sister, though. I’m both surprised and also like, of course.
If it were me? I don’t think I’d be cool with it.
But Chelsea is totally the kind of person who can just …
let go of things in that way. She can open up and let people in even if maybe she shouldn’t. I’m not like that.”
“But you want to be?” I ask.
“I don’t know what I want. Or if it’s possible for me to fundamentally change who I am.”
“Maybe you’re not seeing who you are clearly. If you aren’t happy in your skin, maybe it’s just that—a skin. One you can shed. Please don’t take offense to me comparing you to a snake.”
John laughs softly, then runs a hand over his jaw. “It works. And I like the idea of leaving this behind. I’m just so tired of trying so hard.”
“Now that is something I can relate to,” I tell him.
For a moment, neither of us speak. And though we don’t smile or make any move to embrace each other, it feels as though an understanding passes between us. I’m deeply relieved.
I know Rose made it sound like how her children felt about us wouldn’t change how she felt or what she wanted, but it’s hard to imagine a world in which she’s fully happy when one of her two kids hates my guts.
“I know that the kind of tired you are might not mean sleepy, but do you want to stay the night? Rose said y’all are planning to drive back, but it’s late.
I’ve got room at my place. And if you wouldn’t be comfortable there, or if you’re simply up for a little adventure, I also know a man with a very nice guest room in his underground bunker. ”
John blinks at me a few times, then he surprises me by laughing. “A very nice guest room bunker, you say? This I might need to see to believe.”