Authors: J.H. Trumble

Where You Are (8 page)

BOOK: Where You Are

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I struggle to push those images out of my mind. While he might be crushing on me, I have no business crushing on him. Still, if I'm being honest, I do feel a little giddy when I read his texts.

Chapter 6

Andrew

I wake up in the morning to a quick, but disturbing series of texts.

You make me wanna listen to music again. How do I get you alone?
And it goes on. I close that text and read the next two. More of the same.

Robert, I'm a little uncomfortable here.

Ha, ha. Good morning, Mr. Mac. They're just song lyrics. I'm sorting the music on my iPod into playlists. You like music, right?

I scan back through the texts and see that they are just that. Song lyrics. Some I don't recognize, but most I do. Adam Lambert. Heart. The All-American Rejects. I feel like an idiot.

How's your dad today?

Okay, I guess. The hospice nurse is here. I think she's helping him shower.

And you?

I can still shower myself.

You know what I mean.

I'm okay.

Robert

Nic does a drive-by the next day. I'm trying to install my new car stereo, and I doubt he would have stopped if I hadn't seen him. He parks his vintage Mustang on the street and saunters over, then stretches out on the driveway.

“Trying to make your granny car cooler,” he says, looking at me over his sunglasses.

So much for sweet Nic. My skin prickles in irritation as I wedge myself between the steering wheel and the front seat. I slide the head unit back into the dash cavity, careful not to bunch up or pinch the wires in back.

Installing the stereo has proven to be a pain in the ass. The instructions read like they were written by monkeys. I've had to go back to my room each step of the way to search for YouTube videos to clarify something that, in my opinion, should have been spelled out clearly by the people who made the damn thing. I'm sweating despite the temperature in the forties.

I prick my thumb on a sharp piece of exposed metal. A bead of blood seeps from the wound. I stick my thumb in my mouth to stop the bleeding.

Nic is pattering on about his new Kindle, the Rude jeans he's on his way to buy at Hot Topic with his Christmas cash (jeans he calls
sexy
and
to die for
), and the hot new guy at the tanning salon. Despite his annoying running monologue, I finally manage to get the connections right and everything back in place. I just need to get the screws back in, reconnect the battery, and try it out.

“Is your dad going to have a big funeral?” Nic says out of the blue. “I read that in New Orleans they sometimes march down the street after a funeral and play âWhen the Saints Go Marching In.' I think that would be really cool since he's from Louisiana. And, oh God, it would be so sad, you know. It makes me want to bawl just thinking about it.”

I don't respond.

“I'm not going to be there. You know that, right?”

I scoff as I try to get the angle right on the first screw and wonder again what I ever saw in this pretty boy.

“He's not even dead yet,” I say sullenly.

“You're getting kind of fat, you know,” he says, without skipping a beat. “You really should lay off the sodas and the French fries.”

I yank down the hem of my shirt. “I'm not getting fat.”

“Um, yeah, you are. Just a little though. A little pudge around the middle. And really, you should consider tanning. You're stomach is as white as a marshmallow.”

I wonder for a moment if there is anything Nic likes about me. I'm about ready to jab the end of the Phillips head screwdriver right through his trendy designer sunglasses when he says, “Oh my God! I almost forgot. You're never going to believe who's tripping the light fantastic on the dark side.”

“Who?” I ask, ignoring the strange juxtaposition of his words and feeling like I already know the answer to my own question.

“Your calculus teacher. Mr. McNelis. Damn, he's hot. I wouldn't mind tapping that.”

Ironic,
I think,
since you can't even stand the idea of French kissing.
I steady my hand, my throbbing thumb notwithstanding, and secure the screw.

I mumble something about not believing everything you hear, and reconnect the battery. When I start the car, the new stereo booms. I turn down the volume, then kill the ignition and close the hood.

A little black-and-white Boston terrier has appeared out of nowhere and is sniffing at Nic's legs, his tail wagging furiously. Nic knees himâ“Get out of here”âand the scrawny dog scuttles backward. He advances on Nic again, a little more cautiously. This time Nic smacks him hard in the nose and the pooch yelps.

“Why did you do that?” I ask angrily.

“He's getting dog snot all over my jeans.”

I crouch down on the driveway and try to coax the dog to me, but his tail is between his legs now and he holds back, wary. His ribs show through his dull, short coat. “Come here, boy. I won't hurt you.”

“He's probably got rabies,” Nic says.

“He doesn't have rabies. He just looks like he's lost.” I stand up and take a step toward the dog, but he turns tail and dashes off.

“That's one ugly dog,” Nic says, then flexes his ankles and studies his Rockports.

“I gotta go in,” I say, closing my car door. “I need to help Dad with a shower.”

It's a lie, but Nic runs off like his hair is on fire.

Andrew

By the end of the day I've accumulated so many texts that my in-box reaches its limit and I have to delete some. I start with the oldest texts and delete a lot of them, but I don't delete Robert's. I pretend that I don't know why.

The next morning, another long string of texts. More lyrics. I recognize them for what they are this time, but these are darker.

Hello, teacher, tell me what's my lesson. We should never be afraid to die. Boys don't cry.

Wow. What's the title on this playlist?

Pity Party. Hey, you drive through Huntsville on the way home, right?

You are correct.

Can I meet you there? At SHSU? I want to tour the campus. It's not top tier, but I can commute if Mom needs me here after, you know.

Wow. I didn't expect this. I'm planning to head out in about an hour. But that would put me in Huntsville at about ten this evening. A little late for a tour of the campus even if it weren't a colossally bad idea.

I don't know, Robert. Not a good idea.

Why? I'd go with Mom, but this, um, doesn't seem like a good time.

I don't respond right away.

Mr. Mac, I've got to get out of here for a while. Seriously. You take classes there, right? You could show me around. If you don't, I'll go by myself. It's no big deal.

What about Nic?

He wouldn't be caught dead on the SHSU campus.

Why am I not surprised?
Your parents okay with this?

Mom's totally cool. Don't think Dad cares much about anything anymore.

Against my better judgment, I plan to meet Robert at two o'clock the next afternoon. I don't tell him, but I drive home that day as planned and sleep in my own bed.

Robert

Dad looked bad Christmas Day. Turns out, that was the beginning of a rapid downhill spiral as the cancer spread exponentially throughout his brain. He can still speak, but it's only with a great deal of effort, and Aunt Whitney says soon he won't be able to do that either. He's weaker, and he's confused, but he does have a few hours of unexpected lucidity this evening.

“I've called Father Vincent,” Aunt Whitney says gravely.

Mom pulls the fish sticks from the oven. Her back is to Aunt Whitney, but her silence speaks volumes.

“You know, Kathryn, I know you are not a spiritual person, and that makes me very sad for you. But my brother is. He needs to make his last confession and receive absolution.”

That's an understatement.

Aunt Whitney shoots me a look, and I fear I might have spoken out loud. But then she rattles off a couple of things she wants me to find.

When I've collected the stuff she's asked forâa crucifix, a vial of holy water that she purchased for Dad years agoâI take it to her in the bedroom. She's dusting and straightening everything in the room. On the highboy are three lit candles. A white tablecloth covers the puzzle on the card table at the foot of the bed. And the windows are open. I can't help wondering if she's airing out the room for God or so the priest doesn't have to breathe in death.

When Father Vincent arrives, he ushers us out of the room. The confession, not surprisingly, doesn't take long, and I wonder what the eternal penalty is for omitting sins to God on your deathbed. We are welcomed back to witness communion, the anointing with oil, and the last blessing. Father Vincent finishes with, “and may the blessing of Almighty God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, descend on you and remain with you always.”

My aunts are weeping (it's the only word for what they're doing) as they mutter an amen.

Mom and I stand off to the side, interlopers in this little ritual. All of this stuff is supposed to prepare Dad for his passage through the portal of death into eternal life. I shouldn't feel this way, but I'd like to dispense with all this hocus pocus and just shove him through and slam the door.

After Father Vincent leaves, Aunt Whitney gets Dad out of bed and props him in an armchair she's muscled in from the living room. Aunt Olivia brings a bowl of homemade chicken soup on a tray and places it on Dad's lap. He struggles with the spoon, and I wonder if it's the last time he will ever feed himself. I'd prefer to make myself scarce, but Aunt Whitney charges me with changing the sheets on the bed while Dad is out of it.

And that's when Mom makes her move. I can't blame her. Dad's going to die, but we have to go on living. And Mom's practical because she's had to be. Her questions are gentle enough, and not extraordinarily difficultâ“Wesley, I need to know where your will is, what life insurance policies you have, passwords.”

“Not now,” Aunt Whitney warns when Dad becomes agitated.

Mom ignores her and presses him for answers. I snap out a clean sheet and settle it over the mattress. There's a sudden movement from Dad, and I look up as the tray and the bowl clatter to the floor, leaving noodles and bits of chicken scattered all over the carpet. Before anyone can react, Dad throws his good arm out, his fist clenched, and knocks the lamp off the table next to him. Aunt Whitney tries to calm him down, but he's grunting and growling as if all speech has left him. He struggles to get out of the chair.

Mom looks at him coldly and leaves the room. Aunt Whitney catches up with her in the kitchen a few minutes later.

“What is wrong with you? My brother is dying. You are the most insensitive, selfish
bitch
I have ever known.”

Mom glares at her, then grabs her keys off the counter and slams the door behind her.

Aunt Whitney turns on me. “Are you running away too?”

Chapter 7

Andrew

I drive back up to Huntsville the next afternoon and park in the main lot right across from the steps that rise between the English and the Fine Arts buildings. It's nice outâcool, but sunnyâand I lean against my car, tip my head back, and soak up some of the sun.

I have to squint when Robert pulls up next to me fifteen minutes later. He's driving a late-model Camry, and my guess is it has more air bags than a kid's birthday balloon bouquet.

“Nice car,” I say as he gets out.

“Thanks. It was a birthday present from my grandmother. Sweet sixteen.”

I smile and nod. “So . . . where are you really?”

He smiles back, guiltily. “At Nic's.”

“Aren't you afraid he'll call your house?”

“Nic doesn't call my house. You didn't just drive in, did you?”

I feel my cheeks redden. “Come on. Let's have a look around.”

I don't know the Sam Houston campus well at all. In the fall and spring, my graduate classes are online (although I'm not taking a class this spring; I plan to be busy with the admin training program). And when I do come up for graduate classes in the summer, I park outside the education building, go to my classroom, and straight back to my car an hour or two later. I had to look at a map of the campus just to come up with an easy-to-find place to meet.

So we explore together.

The campus is largely vacant. We see perhaps two or three people as we make our way from one end to the other. The SHSU campus is not unlike others that I've been onâold buildings, new buildings, a memorial garden here and there, a student center, multistory dorms. The hills are perhaps its most distinguishing feature, and the muscles in my thighs are burning by the time we circle back to the fountain in the heart of the campus.

There's a north breeze, and we have to stand upwind to avoid getting showered. The tile bottom glitters with coins.

Robert fishes in his pocket for some pennies and hands me one. He shrugs and grins at me. “Make a wish.”

“Okay.” I squeeze my eyes shut and make a wish, then toss the coin in. He smiles and does the same.

“So what did you wish?” I ask.

“Can't tell you or it won't come true.”

I laugh and start to turn away.

“I wished that my dad would be dead when I get home.”

That stops me. I search his eyes in the bright sunlight.

“What the L-M-N-O-P, huh?” he says, and smiles, but it's a pained look.

“Yeah. What the L-M-N-O-P? You don't mean that,” I say, but I suspect he does.

He shrugs. “I cannot tell a lie.” He kicks lightly at the bricks around the fountain with the toe of his athletic shoe, then grimaces, and I see his eyes are glistening. “I just want it all to be over, you know. The people always in our house, the smell, the resentment. Yesterday a priest came and gave my dad last rites.”

We sit down on a bench a few feet away from the fountain. One thing I've learned working with kids is this: When they want to talk, you shut up. I twist on the bench to face him and prop my head on my fist. He watches a mockingbird land in the mist from the fountain, flutter its wings some, and then fly away.

“I know he's my dad and all,” he says finally, “but I feel like he's just this thing that sucks all the oxygen out of the room. Like the world has stopped spinning and it can't start again until he's gone.” He folds his arms across his chest like he's cold and tells me about the chicken soup.

“I just wanted to rip that oxygen tube away from his face and replace it with a pillow and just hold it down, you know. You would think he'd want to make sure that I was going to be okay, that his affairs were in order so we wouldn't have to untangle everything after he died. But all he can think about is himself. It's as if I don't even matter. And they talk about him like he's such a hero. I don't understand any of it. And I can't stand the way everyone acts like my mom is some bad person. She's not.”

I rest my hand on the back of his neck. He slips into silence, as if he can't handle any more naked honesty today.

“You hungry?” I ask after a while. “I know a little place. Great Mexican food. I'm buying.”

Robert

We leave my car in the lot and he takes me a few blocks down the street to Jack in the Box. I have my first good laugh of the day.

We take our tacos, onion rings, and drinks to a table next to the window.

“So,” I say, tipping a wrapper down and allowing the taco to slip out a couple of inches. “What do you like about being a teacher?”

“Hmm. That's a pretty complicated question. Definitely not the pay. Definitely
not
the adoration of hundreds of teenagers. How about summers off and pizza or Chick-fil-A five days a week, thirty-six weeks a year.”

“Well, at least you're honest.” He smiles at me and I feel myself go a little gooey inside. “But you don't buy school lunch,” I remind him.

“Oh, yeah. How do you know that?”

“Because you have a five-quart cooler sitting on the floor next to your desk every day.”

“Five quarts, huh? That's a little anal, don't you think?”

I shrug, a little embarrassed. “The real question is”âI spin an onion ring on my fingerâ“what's in it?”

“The real question?”

“There is
some
speculation.”

“About what's in my cooler? Really? So what does conventional wisdom say?”

“It's pretty much an even split between peanut butter and jelly and some kind of tofu crap. I peg you for a peanut butter and jelly guy.”

“Jif. Creamy. And jam, not jelly. Peanut butter on one slice of whole wheat, jam on the other. Eaten whole.”

“Who's anal now, Mr. Mac?”

He grins. “Can I ask you a favor? Can you stop calling me Mr. Mac? It sounds like you're talking to my grandfather. And, anyway, my last name is
Mick
-Nelis, not
Mac
-Nelis, like
Mick
-Donald's.”

“It's not
Mick
-Donald's.”

“Sure it is. That's how you pronounce the M-C.”

“Oh, really? Then why don't they serve Big Micks instead of Big Macs?”

He looks at me a moment, then laughs. “Okay, you got me there. How about we just dispense with the whole issue and you call me Andrew.”

Andrew?
“What happened to Drew? It's, uh, on the school Web site.”

“Okay, then call me Drew.”

“No. I think I'll call you Andrew.” The name feels a little foreign on my tongue, but in a good way; it's going to take some getting used to.

“So, are you really considering Sam Houston?” he asks me.

“No.”

His eyebrows shoot up at my admission. I don't give him a chance to follow up. “I'm going to LSU. Premed, then medical school.”

“Wow. That's a big deal.” When I scoff, he follows up with, “You don't seem too happy about that.”

I shrug again. “It was kind of decided for me. My grandfather left me a trust when he died. I'm the last of the Westfalls. He expected me to carry on the tradition. It's been understood that I would become a doctor since I was born.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Does it matter?”

“I think so.”

“No premed, no medical school, no trust. No trust, no funds for college.”

Andrew leans back in his chair and studies me. I have a feeling I'm about to get a lecture, so I change the subject. “You wear an OU T-shirt on college day. Is that where you went?”

“Yep, I'm a Sooner. The pride of Oklahoma.” He scoops up the trash from the table and pushes it through the swinging door of the receptacle a few feet away, then sits back down. I glance out the window at the fading light. I don't want to leave.

“Do you think I'm a bad person?” I ask.

He pushes his drink to the side and plants his elbows on the table, then rests his chin on his fists. “No. Definitely, emphatically, unequivocally no.”

“You seem a little unsure.”

He smiles. “Do
you
think you're a bad person?”

“Sometimes.”

He doesn't say anything further. He's in listening mode and seems in no hurry to leave. So I start talking, trying to explain things I barely understand myself.

“Everything feels like it's more than I can handle, you know? I keep thinking, you can't hate someone who's dying, right? Especially your own dad. But I can't
not
feel this way. I want to close this chapter in my life and move on; I want him to die, but I'm so afraid that makes me some kind of monster.”

“Robert,” he says, reaching across the table and laying his hand on mine. His fingers curl around the edge of my hand and dig into my palm. “I don't know your dad, and I don't know what's happened in the past, but I do feel like I know you. You are not a monster. I suspect that what you feel or don't feel toward your dad has more to do with self-defense than it does any kind of pathology.”

I look at his hand gripping mine, and I desperately want to turn my hand over and feel our palms meet, our fingers lace together. I force my hand to remain where it is. “He doesn't love me,” I say, lifting my eyes to meet his.

“Are you sure about that?”

“He resents me. Sometimes I think it's because I have the opportunity to become what he couldn't. I don't know. The crazy thing is, he didn't want to be a doctor any more than I do. But in the Westfall family, if you're not a doctor, you're nothing. They blame my mom for getting pregnant, which is just stupid. She quit schoolâanother Westfall sinâgot a job, and supported us while dad played at being a student. The seizures started during his final year of med school, and he just never finished. He's never even held a job. But do you know that his sisters still tell people he's a doctor when they talk about him or introduce him. That status is everything to them; it's everything to him. And I'm . . . nothing.”

He retrieves his hand and props his chin on his fist again and studies me. My hand feels naked, and an ache blossoms in my chest. A silence grows between us, like he's working out some problem in his head, and I'm waiting for the answer. Then he asks, “Do you know what chaos theory is?”

“Yeah. The butterfly effect.”

“The math of messes,” he says. “Tiny differences in starting conditionsâthe beat of a butterfly's wings, a temperature differential of half a degree, a bottle withheld a few beats too long, an ear infection that went undetected for a day or moreâany little difference can lead to a totally different outcome later on. The entire
Back to the Future
movie trilogy was based on that very concept.” He shrugs. “Who knows what little things made your dad the way he is. Maybe what he took from his experiences left him insecure and unable to develop into an independent, fully functioning adult and a loving father. I don't know.

“But the point is, you don't know either. And you probably never will. Don't beat yourself up for feelings you can't help because of the dad he couldn't be.”