The Impossible Knife of Memory(24)

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “It sounds awesome. You have to go.”

“I’m not leaving you alone.” Dad flipped the bacon. “End of story.”

“I’ll stay at Gracie’s.”

“I said no,” Dad growled.

“Just for tonight,” Roy said. “Hell, you could go home after dinner, the drive only takes a couple hours. Bring Hayley if you want.”

Dad shook his head.

I plucked a piece of cooked bacon from the plate next to the stove. I’d seen a glimpse of the old Dad the night before, the guy who was funny and sweet, but he’d gone back into hiding and New Dad, Damaged Dad was cooking the bacon. As much as I wanted some space to think about Finn (and possibly hang out with him), getting Dad to spend more time with Roy was more important.

“I’ve never seen the Adirondacks,” I said. “Might be fun.”

“See?” Roy grinned. “Come on, Andy. You know you want to. Man up and get your sorry ass out of this place for a day.”

“I’m not going!” Dad snapped. “End of discussion!”

The smoke from the bacon curled toward the ceiling. He stared at the pan. The darkness had settled on his face again. He didn’t move when hot grease splattered on his arms.

“It’s cool, Andy,” Roy said quietly. He reached in front of Dad to shut off the burners, then he turned to me and nodded toward the door.

I was sitting on the tailgate of Dad’s pickup watching two soldiers load their duffel bags into a Jeep when Roy came outside. Cold wind gusted from the north.

“Make sure everyone’s awake,” Roy called to them. “Get all the gear packed and stowed, and make sure the house and yard are cleaned up.”

“Yes, sir,” they said, trotting toward the backyard. “When do you have to leave?” I asked.

“After breakfast. We don’t have much time to talk.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and shook one out. “Is Andy seeing a counselor or a shrink?”

I shook my head. “He won’t go. If I bring it up, he yells at me. And he drinks a lot. Too much.”

Roy swore and lit the cigarette, his hand cupping the thin flame to protect it from the wind.

I brushed the hair out of my face. “Are you afraid of overpasses?”

He blew the smoke to one side, away from me. “Come again?”

“Bridge overpasses. Do you turn around if you see one so you don’t have to drive underneath it?”

“No.” He studied the burning end of the cigarette. “But I’m guessing Andy does. Why?”

“Snipers,” I said. “First it was overpasses, then toll booths. He’ll take huge detours around Dumpsters or trash cans ’cause they could be hiding an IED. He knows that’s stupid, but knowing doesn’t stop the panic attacks. Sometimes, he won’t leave the house for days.”

“What about a job?” Roy asked.

“When we first got here he worked for an insurance company, then the post office hired him. That didn’t last long. A couple weeks ago, the cable company fired him, too.”

“What’s the problem?”

“His temper. He blows up about stupid things and then he has a hard time calming down.”

“Does he get any disability money?”

“A little.”

“This was your grandmother’s house, right? Is it paid for?”

In a flash, I saw myself

. . . standing on a chair at the kitchen table, helping Gramma put packs of gum in a brown box. We fill it up with gum and cigarettes and books and a picture of the sky filled with birds that I drew with my crayons. Gramma tapes it up and we take it to the post office and mail it to Daddy. . . .

I dug my nails into the palms of my hands until the memory disappeared. “I think so.”

Dad’s voice boomed across the backyard, but with the wind, I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Roy took another drag of the cigarette. “What’s the story with this Michael dude?”

“They went to school together. He’s the only friend Dad has around here. I think he’s a dealer.”

“Shit,” Roy said.

“Why is he getting worse?” I asked. “It doesn’t make sense. He’s been back for years.”

“The blood is still flowing.”

“No, it’s not,” I said. “Everything’s healed up, even his leg. Has been for a long time.”

“How old are you now?”

“Eighteen,” I said. “Well, I will be. In April.”

“His soul is still bleeding. That’s a lot harder to fix than a busted-up leg or traumatic brain injury.”

“But it can be fixed, right? People can get better.”

“Not always,” he said. “I probably should sugarcoat it a little, but you’re old enough for the truth. Andy needs to take charge of this. He needs to get help.”

I hopped off the tailgate. “Make him go with you. Talk to him. He’ll listen to you.”

“That’s the hardest part.” Roy frowned. “If he doesn’t want to go, there’s nothing I can do.”

“So stay here with him,” I said. “I’ll go to my friend’s house.”