In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(25)

“Sleeves rolled up,” Rolans confirms, adding more somberly, “he almost lost.”

“No.”

“Yeah, I’m serious.” By the look on Rolans’s face, I instantly know he’s telling the truth. “Your dad’s worn out. We’ve tried to force him to take a vacation, but he refuses. The billable hours he’s putting in are fantastic, but they’re going to kill him. This lawsuit is going to—”

“What lawsuit?” I interrupt.

“The one from your accident.” He emphasizes that last word in a way that makes me think he has a distinct opinion about it. One that’s not favorable toward me.

“The Turner family? I thought that was settled out of court.”

“No, the Monroes. You know, the teenage girl who died?”

I feel my face screw up. I didn’t even know they were suing.

“They’re going after your dad for more money and he feels guilty enough to pay out. If you had any idea how much he’s already lost in this . . .” Rolans shakes his head, his eyes trailing the Zamboni as it cleans the ice.

“How long has that been going on?” How long has he hidden it from me?

“A while.”

“But the accident was two years ago.”

He glances over at his daughter, April, whose focus is glued to her phone screen, as any typical fourteen-year-old’s would be. “When you lose a kid, two years is nothing. Those parents will be missing their daughter for the next fifty years.” Rolans’s eyes flicker behind me, warning me that my dad is back before he takes his seat, ending all conversation.

The third period begins.

But in my head, it’s already over.

■ ■ ■

“Good game, right?” my dad hollers from the kitchen.

I don’t answer, simply taking in the wall of pictures. A shrine to our family. Some I recognize from the living room wall of the house my parents shared. Some must have been dug up from the shoe boxes my mom kept under her bed. The three of us together, my dad and me at hockey and football practice, my mom and me on the beach. Sasha and me in the backyard. My parents’ wedding photos.

The full bottle of Johnnie Walker that sat on the bookshelf three nights ago when I arrived at his house in Astoria now sits half-empty. I guess leaving my mom didn’t break him of his newfound vice. In fact, I think it has only amplified it. For a guy who preaches letting go and moving on, he sure as hell doesn’t seem to be following his own advice.

“I had to fight Tesky to get those tickets,” he jokes, stepping into the room, a glass of scotch against his lips. “It’s not often a client hands us box seats to a play-off game, no matter how much they say they like the firm.”

“I haven’t seen a Rangers game in years,” I acknowledge.

“Yeah, I think you were fifteen or so, the last time?” Scratching his stubbly chin in thought, he murmurs, “I can’t believe how fast the time has flown.”

Fast, and yet painstakingly slow. Two years ago, today, I was sitting on a couch in Rich’s house, pounding beers. In a month, I can say my parents have been separated for a year. They just filed for divorce. Rolans is right. My dad has lost so much, and not just the money.

“You still love her, don’t you?”

My dad sidles up beside me, settling his eyes—eyes I inherited—on a grainy old picture of my mom at sixteen, sitting on a set of wooden steps that lead to the public beach on the Cape, where they first met. I’ve heard the story a thousand times. My dad was tossing a Frisbee to his brother and my mom—oblivious—walked straight in between the two of them and took it in the head. And then she just started to laugh.

“I’ll always love your mother.”

“Can’t you work it out? Things are . . . better now, aren’t they?” There’s nothing about what goes on in my head and heart on a daily basis that could be considered better.

“I guess our marriage finally faced a test that it couldn’t pass,” is all he finally says.

A car honk sounds outside. “That’s my taxi. I’m going to head into the office for an hour or two to finish up some work. If you’re fine with that.”

The last time I glanced at the clock above the TV, it was almost eleven. On a Sunday night. When I haven’t seen him since Christmas. I’m tempted to ask him about the lawsuit, but I don’t. I simply nod as the door swings shut behind me.

I wonder if this is about those billable hours, making up all that he’s lost for the firm and for himself. Or maybe he’s simply drowning his sorrows over my mom in work. Or maybe he wants to get away from me for a while. There’s no doubt that my dad loves me. But he’s also got pictures on his wall of three little boys’ smiling faces, their arms roped around each other’s waists. I don’t know a lot of dads who would include his son’s friends on his bachelor pad wall.

Unless his son’s friends were like second sons to him.

I reach for the bottle of scotch.

■ ■ ■

A soft ballad over the radio mixes with the low purr of the engine to create a soothing ambiance in my dad’s crammed single-car garage. I let the darkness envelop me, my dashboard a blurry haze of green lines.

Her smile shining brightly up at me from the screen on my phone as I hit “call.”