Forever for a Year(90)

“I think Dad and Mom are going to talk by themselves all night, Lily.”

“What are we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll think of something,” Lily said, and she closed her eyes. Like the idea of how to fix all this crap would come to her if she just concentrated.

“How about we pick up McDonald’s, go home, and watch TV?” I said.

“That’s a good plan, Trevor. Except can we go to Sonic? They have better milk shakes.”

“Okay.”

*

I didn’t sleep that night. Sometimes people say that, but I know they’re making it up. I really didn’t sleep. I just lay there and thought about Carolina kissing and touching another boy. Like, each time the image of that would hit my brain it was like this giant bird dinosaur would tear into my chest with its giant dinosaur claws. Here’s what I had to do. Fucking had to do: Pretend she didn’t exist. Ignore her. Ignore people who talked to me about her. Not look at her. Not think about her.

I was thinking about her every goddamn second. Crap. But I would keep yelling at my brain until I stopped. Or something. Just ignore her, Trevor. Just ignore her until your brain can forget her.

That’s what I did Monday. Didn’t look at her. Not once. My whole stupid body wanted to look at her. For her to see me and tell me it didn’t happen. Even if that was a lie, I wanted her to convince me. Maybe. Crap. I don’t know. What the hell happened? How did this happen? My mom. My mom and her dad and their bullshit.

*

My dad picked me up from practice Monday night.

He said, “Let’s go talk.” I nodded. He drove. We went to this pizza and bar place near the train tracks. They gave you peanuts to eat and had no real menus, just big chalkboards with pizza toppings. My dad got a beer and I got a Coke. We ordered a pepperoni pizza.

“How are you doing?” my dad said.

I shrugged my shoulders. He knew about Carolina. Lily had told him this morning when my dad started yelling at me about the BMW having a dent. Lily was the smartest, best person ever.

“Sorry about Carolina.”

“I want to go back to California,” I said.

“We’re not going back to California.”

“You’re leaving Mom, right? You’re getting a divorce, right? No way Lily and I can stay with her. No f*cking way.”

“Watch your language.”

I wanted to yell, Yeah? Yeah? I should watch my language? Yeah! How about you watch your wife? But I didn’t say anything.

“Trevor … we’re not getting divorced. You get married, you make promises. You make promises to the Church and God—”

“I don’t believe in God.”

“He still believes in you.”

“Mom doesn’t believe in God,” I said.

“And she’s not very happy because of it.”

My dad was a lunatic. In a different way from Mom or me, but still a lunatic.

“Trevor, listen … sorry … I didn’t want this to be combative. I want this to be a grown-up talk. Your mom and I will keep working on things. But you have to let us work on them. If you unleash that wrath of yours on her every time she steps into a room, she won’t be able to take it. She’s fragile. She needs our strength.”

“Isn’t a mom supposed to give her kids strength?” I said, and as I did I almost lost it. Not mad. But emotions. I held it. Barely.

“Yes … you’re right. Your mom gave you lots of talent, and brains, and passion. But she needs strength from you. I’m sorry about that.”

“How can you stay with her?”

“I love her.”

“Well, she doesn’t love you!” I said.

That smacked across his face. Then he breathed for a second and said, “I’m not a perfect husband either.”

And—f-ing unbelievable—I saw it in his eyes. Man. He had done the same to her. Before? Before she tried to kill herself? Or after? Now? “When?” I asked.

“What you think you know, you don’t. You shouldn’t have to know any of this. But you do, and we have to deal with it.”

“Kids know everything. You both suck.”

“Don’t use that language.”

“AAAAH!” I yelled out, and the whole restaurant looked at us and I felt so f*cking stupid, so I just started mumbling in this whisper that didn’t even sound like me, “Aw, Dad … God … you tell me that … you tell me that … and you and Mom … my language … you’re worried about me swearing … I don’t know, Dad. You’re worried about me saying words, and you two do all this crap.…” Then I stopped talking. And he didn’t talk. He always filled silence. Always. He could be quiet for days, but he always filled those strange silences. Not today. Not now. The pizza came. We ate. We watched SportsCenter on the TV above the bar. He kept opening his mouth, had something he wanted to say. But nothing. Nothing.

We got back in his car, started driving home. Then he pulled over into the parking lot of a closed bank.

“I’m sorry, Trev. Really sorry. You’re right. I’m going to be better. Your mom is going to try and be better. I promise. Let us try. Give us that?”

Can’t say anything to that besides “Okay.”