Heavy: An American Memoir(10)

“Presentation matters,” I remember him saying. “So do patience and discipline. Take your time eating, son.”

That day, my father brought out these snowballs he’d frozen from the winter so we could have a snowball fight in the summer. After the snowball fight, we walked down to the dumpster near our apartment complex, where we saw this baby raccoon. I’d never seen the baby of a raccoon, or possum, up close. I was so afraid, not just to touch it but to even witness it trying to live. My father picked me up and let me peek down deeper in the dumpster. The baby raccoon messed around in some trash with its crazy-short arms, then it looked up at us and I jerked my body back as fast as I could.

I remember folding up my arms, sticking out my lips, and just looking at my father while he was dying laughing. It was the first time I’d ever seen him just be a normal goofy person. After a while, I followed my father behind the dumpster to Lake Mendota, where I watched him throw rocks at the sun that never came down.

That’s what I told the psychologist about my memories of my father. For some reason, it made you cry.

“Might you talk to me a bit more about violence?” the psychologist asked me after my story.

I looked over at you. You were cross-legged, looking at me misty-eyed. “What do you mean?” I asked her.

“What I mean is this: if you’re having problems with violence at school, I wonder how you’re experiencing violence at home.”

“I ain’t having problems with violence at school,” I said. “I ain’t having problems with violence at home either.”

The psychologist told me you said I had a violence problem. I wondered when you met with her and why I couldn’t have been there to just watch you talk like you were watching me. “Your mother contends you eat and drink things you shouldn’t be eating or drinking when you’re angry. She said you have turned to alcohol. I want you to tell me about your experiences with alcohol and violence at home or at school.”

I looked over at you again. “I drank Mason jars of box wine three times when there wasn’t nothing else to eat or drink because it’s sweeter than water.”

“Count to ten,” the psychologist abruptly told me.

“What you mean?”

“It’s clear you’re harboring anger over your parents’ separating and I think counting might help. Use this technique when you feel yourself getting angry about the divorce no matter where you are, or when you feel yourself wanting to drink wine, or eat sugary foods, go to the bathroom and count to ten.”

“Is a technique like a style?”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t feel nan amount of anger at all about them not being together,” I told her. “I mean, I got my grandmama, too. I don’t feel nan amount of anger at all over them being divorced. I be wishing my father paid child support more, but I’m good.”

“Don’t say ‘be,’?” you said from across the room. “Don’t say ‘nan’ either. He’s just showing out right now.”

“I wish my father paid his child support on time,” I said. “But I’m good.”

“Do me a favor,” the psychologist said as she walked us to the door. “Remember, in case of an emergency, I’d like for both of you to find a quiet space away from each other and just count to ten. If it’s dark, go outside and count at least ten stars. Everything that seems wrong might seem right if you just do this exercise. I think it might also help if you both limit your sugar and carbs and get more physical exercise.”

? ? ?

When we got home, you and I played our last game of one-on-one in the driveway. Your student Carlton Reeves put a goal in our front yard a year earlier and we’d played 21 a few times a month since then. When we first played, I was scared of how physical you were on offense and defense. I was taller than you, heavier than you, more skilled than you, stronger than you, but it didn’t matter. On offense, when you didn’t shoot your high arching one-handed jumpshot from your right hip, you backed me down by lunging your butt into my thighs. When you were close enough to the goal, you either shot a strange hook shot or pump-faked.

That day, though, I was too tall to go for pump-fakes and my calves were too strong to let you back me down. I blocked your first three shots into the azaleas of the family next door. On offense, I just shot over you, or blew by you with a jab step left. That day, though, I realized I could have beaten you a year earlier. And you realized I could have beaten you a year earlier. And neither of us felt happy about that fact. I kept getting to twenty and missing the free throw on purpose so you could get closer.

At some point, we had to decide if I would win. Your neck was glowing with sweat. I don’t know why but beating you felt harmful. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Knowing, or accepting I could beat you was enough for me. We both knew that game would be the last game we ever played no matter the score because we both knew, without saying it, you needed to not lose much more than I needed to win. When you made the last shot of the game, you celebrated, hugged my neck, told me good game, and held my hand.

“Thank you for letting me win, Kie,” you said. “I needed that. And thank you for what you did today at the counselor’s office.”

I remember looking at you and believing we’d turned a page in our relationship. We were about to limit our sugar and carbs. We were about to exercise more. And no matter what happened next, we would both go outside and count at least ten stars until everything wrong in our world felt right.