Under Rose-Tainted Skies(47)

‘Then, three years ago, the summer I turned fifteen, he comes home, rolls up the drive in his camper, bearing gifts of ice cream cake and a replica Super Bowl ring. There’s something different about this visit, though . . .’ He turns to look at me for the first time since he started moving. ‘I mean, he’s always happy to see us, but this particular time I remember thinking, He’s not just happy, he’s relieved.

‘One week turns into two, two turns into three, and he’s still hanging around eight weeks later.’ His eyes twinkle as he relives the memory. I like this part of the story.

‘We didn’t even do anything, just hung out at the old house like a pair of losers, eating Cheetos and watching Cartoon Network. My dad is a nice guy, you know? Not like one of those phony family guys on infomercials, with the blindingly white teeth and side parting. I mean, he forgets to shave and has zero sense of style, but he’s warm. He smiles a lot, sees the good in everything and everyone. He hurts for people he’s never met, pays it forward like it’s his religion. I think you’d like him.’ I nod because I think I would too.

‘So my mom gets him this job at the airport, working in security, and I get the biggest kick out of seeing him at the breakfast table every morning. Both of them grabbing coffee before they head off to work. Real Rockwell kind of moments, you know? I thought, this is it; he’s staying for sure. Whatever crazy stuff was happening inside his head has vanished, and he’s going to be able to stay happy here now.’ Luke stops moving, like he’s bumped into a brick wall. I don’t speak because I can see he’s trying really hard to work through his thoughts, possibly push down some unwanted emotion.

He closes his eyes, inhales strength, exhales sadness. ‘The smiling happy faces made it easy to ignore him pacing around at night, skipping meals, all the sudden onsets of silence. I’d never seen him cry until the week before he went again, when I found him curled up on our kitchen floor, drawing circles in some sugar that he’d spilt. See, the plan was for him to come home and stay home. But the depression came back and started kicking his ass until he couldn’t stand it.

‘I love him . . . unconditionally. I mean, yeah, sometimes I see how miserable his calls to cancel a trip home make my mom. And sometimes, as you know, I lose my shit and yell at him over the phone in the middle of the night. But then I remember that I would give back those eight weeks, every single minute of every single day, if it meant never having to see him that broken again.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. I’m not sure if that’s the right thing to say. I’m not sure there even is a right thing to say.

‘Don’t be.’ He pauses. ‘This might sound odd, but I can’t wish he were any different, you know? Like, I can’t start wishing away pieces of his personality, because then he wouldn’t be my dad.’

The bridge of my nose pricks. I keep my eyes wide open because I know if I blink, I’ll leak tears. Mom’s said the same thing to me, about me, more than once, usually after I’ve apologized for acting like a freak.

‘You must think I’m awful.’ Luke’s chin touches his chest. ‘Shouting at him like that when he can’t help the way his brain is wired.’

‘No!’ I counter vehemently, clinging to the banister bars and pushing my face up to the gap. ‘Are you kidding? Some days I wonder how my mom hasn’t killed me. We’ve only argued a couple of times since I got sick, and hell, we scream the place down. But no matter how loud we yell, we never love each other any less. I totally get it. It’s hard from both sides. I understand. I really do.’

‘Wow.’ He chuckles through the following few moments of awkwardness, then comes back and sits down on the stairs beside me. ‘You know, you’re the only person I’ve ever told about all of this.’ I feel honoured. Privileged. I know how hard it is to part with private information. ‘He’s not around often. I’m pretty sure that’s left most of my friends thinking he’s dead.’

‘They’ve never met him?’

‘No. You’re the first to even see him, which feels kind of odd.’ He looks up, looks down, picks at the seam on the side of his jeans before turning to me again. ‘It feels kind of good to get it off my chest too.

‘Anyway . . .’ he says, clearing his throat. He straightens his shoulders and coughs testosterone around the room. ‘He’s coming back at Christmas. Has promised to stick around an entire week this time.’

‘That’s awesome.’ I fix a fake smile and nod enthusiastically. The urge to cushion a potential fall with clichéd warnings about not getting his hopes up is strong, but somehow I swallow it.

I’m exhausted. I try to sit up straight, but my spine is made of sponge, so instead I slump forward, lean on my knees, and stare idly out of the porch windows. He does the same.

‘You know those people who bring down a banging party by singing ultra-slow, bleeding-heart ballads on the karaoke?’ I ask him.

‘Yeah?’

‘We should do that as a job, but, like, tell our stories instead of singing,’ I tease. He bursts out laughing. Like a yawn, I catch it, start laughing until my sides split open and all the misery that’s been burning my lungs spills out on to the stairs.

‘Well, Neighbour, it’s been a ton of fun, but I gotta make tracks. Face the music.’ He’s nearly two hours late for school already. I guess it wouldn’t be fair of me to suggest he stay until we run out of words. Plus, I have grades that are in serious need of inflation.