Rewind to You (31 page)

“Austin.” Dad calls my attention back to him. “We’re not going through with this.”

“And then what, Dad?” I stand, tossing my fork into the sink. “You die? Docs gave you six months before your heart would be too sick for a transplant. Your time was up three weeks ago! We’re lucky they’ll even do the transplant. It’s not like I can finish this season and
then
give you my kidney.

“You’re only forty-one, Dad. I’ve been living less than two hours away for a whole year. I didn’t even find your address; Sienna did. It took her coming along for me to realize what a jerk I am. You think I can live with that? You think I could let you die, knowing I was the one person who could save you?”

The recliner screeches as Dad pushes himself into a standing position, his arms shaking with the effort. He hobbles over and pulls me into a hug. He steps back and holds my face between his hands.

“None of this is your fault. When my six months were up, Austin, I prayed for the peace I’d need to die. Few days later, you knocked on my door. Don’t you see, son? You’ve given me enough. Maybe someday, when you’re a father, you’ll understand that seeing your boy again and knowing he’s all right is worth more than living.”

I look at my dad, his hollow face and tired eyes.

“I used to want football more than anything,” I say, my mind made up. Seeing each other again may be enough for him, but it’s not enough for me. “Now I want something more.”

CHAPTER 43

Austin

T
ime, it seems, is working against me. I feel it, the need to hurry. But I haven’t forgotten Dad’s advice about living with no regrets.

A pad of paper, an envelope, a book of stamps, and two silver dollars: I haul this stuff in my backpack over to River Street, back in Savannah. I’m filling up my motorcycle at a gas station when I hear someone call out my name. I turn and see Brian breaking away from a group of friends.

“Austin, what’s going on?” he asks, heading my way. “Haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while.”

Seeing him again brings Sienna back to the front of my mind with a rude stab, and the fact that she’s three states away. Seeing him makes her feel real again. Reminds me that she and I aren’t together.

Brian gives me a high five. “Have you heard from Sienna lately?” he asks.

“Nah,” I reply, surely giving him the news he’s wanted to hear all summer. “She and I haven’t talked since she left.”

Brian’s lips shift into a sad, perceptive grin. Not what I expected. “You know, at first I was jealous,” he says, catching me off guard. “Of the way she looked at you. I mean, c’mon, who wouldn’t want a girl like her to look at them like that? Dude, all these summers with her, and I never even kissed her. But that’s nothing you didn’t already know.”

The gas pump clicks behind me, but I don’t bother with it yet. Actually, all of this is news to me.

“She was always with that Kyle,” Brian goes on, “although I have no idea why. I hadn’t met the guy until this summer. Still, I knew all along he was no good for her. But you? As much as I wanted it to be me, Austin, it’s not. You were good to her.”

I fidget with my wallet, a little stunned at his honesty but appreciative nonetheless. “Thanks.” I’m not sure what else to say.

“It’s too bad what happened with Spencer and that café, though.” Brian changes the subject and clears his throat, as though the conversation is getting too deep for him, too. “Otherwise Sienna could have stayed longer. I feel bad for her mom paying up on damages and all, you know, now that her dad is gone.”

“They won’t have to,” I say. It sort of slipped out. “I know Jesse, the café owner. It’s all good.”

“You talked him out of the lawsuit?”

I don’t answer, and I can tell Brian is putting it together, the fact that it was me who paid up. He smiles. I’m glad when his friends drive up to get him because this whole conversation is awkward.

Brian whips out his phone. “Hey, can I get your number?”

“Sure,” I say and recite it off. He punches it into his contact list.

“I’ll call you if we ever need an extra guy to play ball,” he says as he hops into the car. “Plow ’em down this fall, okay?”

Football. I guess Sienna told him. I’m not about to explain my change of plans. Coach was pretty disappointed when he heard about the transplant, but he couldn’t exactly argue with me saving my dad’s life. Recovery from donating a kidney these days is pretty slick, but not slick enough to play a contact sport like college football a month later. He told me I’ll be benched for the first few games, permitted to play as soon as doctors see fit. I know what that really means.

I smile, even though I don’t feel like it. Brian told me he didn’t make the high school team his senior year because of an injury, probably a regret. In a way, I know what his shoes feel like now. Something like sympathy stirs inside me, and I’m not prepared for it.

“Thanks, Brian,” I say, feeling undeserving of how nice he’s been. As he drives off, I consider my first impression of him, how I figured him and his whole family for the rich, snobby type. I recall the way Brian’s mom said a good word about me to Sienna’s mom. I was all wrong about them.

I take the long way, walking from one end of River Street to the other, where I first met Sienna. I find a bench and sit, then look out at the river and think. At least I was right about one thing. When I ditched Reggie and Leo for River Street, somehow I knew that decision would change the course of my life forever, and it did.

I rip a piece of paper from the pad and grab a pen from my backpack. This is exactly what I spent my life trying to avoid—setting myself up for rejection. But now I suppose it’s better to feel the pain because it means I really loved. Sienna. My dad. I write it all out, the words I should have said.

I sign my name at the bottom, fold the paper, and tuck it into the padded envelope. I reach into my backpack and draw out the two silver dollars. I drop one coin inside the envelope, seal it, throw a bunch of stamps on the front, and then slip it into a mailbox as I walk back. Turning, I look at the riverfront—at River Street—one last time. Then I head for my motorcycle, dropping the second coin on the ground along the way, so maybe someone will find a silver dollar on River Street, like Sienna did.

I give Aunt Deb a hug Friday morning before I head back to St. Simons for the surgery. She invited my dad and me to dinner so many times I had to make the trip up here even if Dad declined. It’s hard for him to travel. I think Deb actually misses having me around, although I can’t imagine why.

“Come back now, you hear? Sunday dinners. Holidays. You can stay here anytime.”

“I wouldn’t miss a chance to eat a meal at your house, Aunt Deb,” I say and then kneel to Megan’s level. “Kiss, Megan?”

She steps behind her dad’s leg, bashful as usual. At the last minute, she darts around and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. Finally.

Aunt Debbie claps. Mark smiles as Megan runs into his arms.

I turn to Mark. He opens his mouth to say something but bites down. We’re thinking the same thing, and we both know it. If only we had my first football game on the fifth to look forward to, this wouldn’t be so hard. Mark was excited to drive down for it.

At last we settle for a hard pat on the arm, and I walk out the door. I sling my backpack over my shoulders and straddle my motorcycle.

“You’re going to throw it all away?”

I turn. Mark. He followed me out. It’s only me and him, and I see he’s finally spitting out what he’s kept behind tight lips the past few weeks.

“He’s my dad.”

Mark gives an unconvinced smile. “And he left you with nothing.”

I fiddle with my helmet. Thoughts of the surgery Monday morning, and the college football dream that will never be, claw their way to the surface. Things changed. I think about River Street again, about the girl I met who taught me what love really means. Football used to be everything. Now the thought of a life of football without Sienna in it, without my dad in it, is like staring down a dark tunnel with no end. She changed me, and if I had it to do all over again, I would still walk down River Street.

Finally I turn back. “Not all of us are lucky like Megan. He may have left me with nothing, Mark, but I’ll still give anything to save him.”

I pull my helmet on and drive away, leaving Savannah behind.

The sun shines. Thick summer leaves blow in the hot breeze. A baseball bat cracks against a ball in a nearby park, and a dad cheers as his son practices a run to first base. I drive through small-town St. Simons with an odd feeling I can’t quite explain, like a silent confidence in the future, regardless of the questions ahead.

I stop at Dad’s house and take off my helmet, humidity wrapping around me. This place, this island, is growing on me. Feels like home. Gusts of wind hit me, and the first signs of a storm hover in the sky. I twist the front door handle and find it locked. I knock. The thick air presses down on me. Brutal. A strange feeling settles in the longer I wait. Finally I start for the back door.

“Hey, Turbs.” I pat my leg, but he only whimpers in reply. Dusty won’t stop yapping. He jumps at my legs, then runs for the back door. Barks like crazy. Turbo buries his nose in the grass near his paw. Moans. My nerves twist as I watch them. Turbo’s gloomy eyes lock on mine. It’s impossible to miss: He’s trying to tell me something. Just like he tried to warn me that day my dad disappeared.

“Dad?” I call out after shoving the sliding door open. I start through the kitchen. “Dad?”

I hear his voice, thin and frail. “Austin?”

I move toward the sound, the living room, but he’s not in his recliner where he usually sits. I round the corner and find him on the floor.

My helmet slips from my fingers and crashes to the ground. “Dad!”

I run and kneel beside him, my heart launching punch after punch against my rib cage. His hand clutches the neckline of his shirt, his breathing freaking me out. Wheezy. Panting for air. “Dad, what’s wrong?”

“I . . . I . . .” he starts to say between heavy breaths. “Take the folder on the—”

I pull out my cell before he can finish.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher answers.

“I think my dad is having a heart attack. Or just had one,” I say, feeling my tongue tripping over the words. “We need a medic, now.”

I give her the address and my phone number. Dad pulls at my shirt for my attention. I try to answer the dispatcher’s questions, but my dad is so insistent, I finally ignore her.

This isn’t happening.

“Austin, Austin,” he says. His voice is so weak it scares me.

“Just wait, Dad.”

I toss my backpack aside, run into the kitchen, and yank a cabinet door open. I fumble the box of pills, and it crashes to the ground. Bottles tumble out and roll across the wood floor. I toss Benadryl, Pepto-Bismol, and Tylenol aside, finally finding the aspirin. I dart around the corner and twist the cap open.

“Austin,” he says again, his eyelids drooping. “On the cabinet. The folder.”

“No, Dad!” I don’t even glance in the direction he’s pointing. I don’t want to look at that stupid will. “You’re not giving up on me like this. The transplant, Dad. It’s Monday morning. Just a couple more days. You have to hold on.”

“Son,” he says, a weak smile outlining his wrinkled lips.

I wipe a dribble of spit away from his mouth and feel the sting of hot tears behind my eyes. “No,” I say. “It’s not too late.”

He heaves a deep breath. “It’s better thi—”

“No,” I cut him off, the word tying a knot inside my already throbbing throat. I should be feeling anxiety, grief, pain, and a dozen other emotions right now. But all I feel is guilt. I hold his head in my hands, and his outline becomes a watery blur: his once-dark hair now speckled with gray and his strong face wrinkled with age and sickness. But his blue eyes look as young as ever. These are the eyes I looked into as a kid while he bounced me on his knee, the eyes that smiled every time I caught a ball and cried with me when I got hurt. These are the eyes that watched me grow.

“Just hold on, Dad.” I’m not about to let myself fall apart, not now. “An ambulance is coming. The transplant. I can still save you.”

Dad smiles. “You’ve already done that, Austin.” He points to the envelope again with a determination I can’t ignore. “I only wish I woulda been there for you. You, your mother . . . nothing I ever done can make up for that failure.”

“You didn’t fail.”

He gives an unconvinced smile.

I look him in the eyes, making sure he’s looking into mine, too. “I love you, Dad.” My voice comes out strained, a sob so far from anything manly.

He breathes out. “I know. You have courage I never had. Courage to love with everything you got. That right there is enough for me to know you’ll be all right.”

The faint sound of a siren blends with the distant rumble of thunder. His hand trembles as he points to the leather-bound book on the side table. I pick it up. His Bible. I didn’t even ask him about his church; all the attention these past few weeks was on me. So many questions I didn’t ask.

Dad takes several deep breaths, his lips slack. “This isn’t the end, Austin.”

The sirens steadily grow louder, but not fast enough.

“You’re right, Dad. It’s not,” I say. I steady the open bottle of aspirin in his palm. “I’ll get you some water. We’re going to get you to the hospital.”

I fill a glass with water.
He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay.
I won’t let myself think otherwise. But a clatter from the living room tears down my pointless reassurance. I turn. Pills dot the floor at my dad’s side. An empty aspirin bottle teeters in his limp hand. Water rushes down the drain as I stare, and with a grief that nearly crushes me, I know.

Everything happens in a daze. The ambulance, medics rushing to my dad, and the proclamation of his death I try not to hear. People come and go: police, medics. I answer what I can, but when everything is said and done, the whole day feels surreal, like it didn’t happen. It couldn’t have.