Here So Far Away(61)

The Forest Primeval: A Journey Through the Valley, Dad’s favorite book, was on the table beside the recliner, underneath a cigarette lighter. I still hadn’t read it, but knew from Dad that it had a whole chapter about how the original sawmill in our village blew up back in 1919, killing six people. Whenever I saw the new mill, I wondered about the first responders that day: the firemen, the policemen, the closest neighbors. How did you make yourself go, knowing what you would find? My dad had seen some bad stuff, like the time he went out to a farmhouse after a guy killed his ex-wife with a hunting rifle. Was it that it didn’t get to him or that he knew how to swallow it? And if this was swallowing it, the numb feeling that I had, did that mean I would turn out like Dad in other ways too?

“Mum was pretty cool about it,” I said, sitting on the sofa and willing myself not to look at the clock on the VCR. “I hope I get it from her.”

The phone rang and I pounced on it. “He’s going into surgery,” Mum said, “but just to repair the rest of the finger.”

It was his choice. Reattaching the tip would have meant a longer surgery, days in the hospital, and a good chance the repaired finger wouldn’t work as well as a healthy stump.

“You did everything right,” she said. “The doctors told me to tell you that. It’s one of those things.”

I repeated what she said to Matthew, who started to cry.

“Tell your brother that his father’s proud of him. You too.”

“I will. How’s he doing?”

“Oh, you know. He said this was the best his foot had felt in weeks.”

“Bizarre.”

“If all goes well, he could be home Sunday.”

When I hung up, Matthew had his head buried in his arm, like a kid who thinks you can’t see him if he can’t see you.

“Dad says he’s proud of you.”

“Mmhmh.”

“It’s kind of funny if you think about it.”

He looked up. “Funny?”

“Matty, he amputated his own fingertip. He’s just lopping off parts of himself.”

“Life’s a bad writer.”

“Exactly.”

Matthew took a tissue out of his pocket and blew his nose. “Dad wasn’t always a jerk.”

“I know. He used to be fun. Doesn’t make it any easier to live with him.”

“You’re not living with him. You’re hardly ever here. I’ve had to pick up all the slack while you’re off working and partying—”

“I’m not partying—”

“You got arrested at a party!”

So he’d heard about that. I had to give it to him for keeping it to himself.

“Not arrested. Constable McAdams drove a bunch of us home because some people had been drinking. No one’s stopping you from going to parties, by the way.”

“Easy for you to say. You get to check out, and Mum has checked out. No one cares about all the shit I’ve been putting up with.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that I might have made things tough for Matty. Or to tell him what a good job he was doing taking care of Dad, as much as anyone could take care of him. And I was honestly about to apologize when he added: “Do you know I have to help him take baths now? As in, he’s naked. As in, things float. And when he does that throat-clearing thing in the morning? You’ve never seen anything grosser.”

I mean, if you have to make it a competition.

“No, I have,” I said. “Remember when we were little and had the flu at Christmas and we needed the bucket at the same time? You got there first, but I had to go. Oh man, all those cinnamon buns and sausages and hot chocolate. Remember how it got into your hair and your ears? It slid right into your head. And it’s still there, isn’t it? Because once you go that deep into the ear canal, there’s no getting it all out. You don’t have great hearing, buddy, and you know it.”

It took a good ten seconds before he broke and grinned. “I hate you.”

“I know. I’m sorry I’ve made things hard for you. Thanks for picking up the slack.”

The time on the VCR read 7:50 p.m. If I left now, I could catch Francis and at least explain.

“I put my clothes, the bloody ones, down by the washing machine,” Matthew said as I pulled myself to my feet. “Could you do them? Or should we toss them?”

“I’m going out for a bit. I’ll take care of it when I come back.” I gave his head a little rub. “That’s probably enough exposured for one night.”

Mum called again just as I was leaving to remind us to eat, and so I had to drive faster than I should have to the Dempseys, given the snow coming down, but managed to pull into their driveway by 8:20. Francis wasn’t there. I prayed the roads had slowed him down.

While I waited, I stewed—or souped. Worry bumping up against anger getting stirred up with fear. Of course Dad had found a way to ruin our weekend, but he couldn’t just, you know, catch us. No, sir, not when he could drag Mum and Matty and an innocent kitchen floor into it. Then I remembered how he’d closed his eyes, how small he’d looked in the car. Because he’d slammed the knife into himself while soused on Benadryl! What kind of job could he do with a prosthetic foot and a messed-up hand? What if Mum decided she couldn’t take it anymore? I thought maybe I would go to the city, get a break from him, and then the worry circled around again.