Ann Aguirre - I Want It That Way

I moved away from Gropey and got closer to Angus. He took the cue to glare, driving the other guy off. Courtney was laughing at something, and as I twirled, I spotted a face in the crowd, and shock went through me like a lance. It was dark, smoky and loud. I was wrong; I had to be. But for a few seconds, I thought I’d spotted Ty, and it knocked the buzz right out of me. Tracking through the crowd, I stopped dancing and took a second look. No, this kid was much younger, shorter, too. Only the red hair was similar, and he had a mess of freckles. He noticed me looking and signaled, like we were connecting across a crowded room.

Nope. Sorry. You’re not Mr. Hot Ginger.

To cover my near meltdown, I danced, but I didn’t drink more. You’re fooling yourself if you think booze can wash this away. I remembered how Courtney had said, With some people it doesn’t. They never leave you. Maybe, ten years from now, I would still be having conversations with Ty in my head, remembering everything about him with this awful, aching clarity.

Jesus.

I tried it now in the silence of my head. So work is going well. Grades are up. Everything’s on track, except for how much I miss you. Do you think about me? Courtney had said she got answers from her ghost, but my subconscious was silent, possibly because the guy haunting me was alive and well, living in 1B.

As planned, Courtney got shit-faced, and when Angus was helping her to the car at 2:00 a.m., he realized I was stone sober. She tipped over in the back, giggling, and he shrugged. I circled around the front to the passenger side.

Angus slammed into the car, frowning at me. “I’m pissed off at you. The whole point of this was for you to participate in the age-old letting-go ritual.”

“I’m not ready,” I whispered.

I might never be.

In the backseat, Courtney was singing superloud about how this shit was bananas. I didn’t disagree.

March blended into April, and April to May. Study, work, skim chapters, memorize material, go to the practicum, joke around with the roomies: that was my life. And time marched on. One low night, I crept into Max’s bed, and he held me. We didn’t talk, and the next morning, he said nothing about it. I didn’t feel much better about Ty and me, but he still didn’t answer when I talked to him in my head. At this point, I had no idea if that was good or bad.

I had just finished the last of my finals when my mom called. I’d tried to keep up with them better, sending regular emails—not that she nagged me about it. Today when I answered the phone, her tone was off, echoing with forced brightness.

“Hey, how did exams go?”

“Pretty well, I think. I worked hard this semester.” There had been no reason not to. No weekends away, no sex, no dates. If not for my roomies, people might’ve thought I’d joined a cult structured around abstinence and lack of fun.

“If you have time, your dad and I need to talk to you. Can you call us on Skype?”

“Sure,” I said as a cold hand twined around my intestines. In the years I’d been away at school, my parents had never shown any interest in video chat. “Just let me get my laptop.”

“Okay, honey. We’ll be here.”

Something’s really, really wrong.

On the way to my bedroom, I almost threw up. Somehow I choked it down and called them, as requested. It took a few tries for them to answer, and I could imagine Mom and Dad arguing about how to do it, just like the stupid pine tree. The mental image put a smile on my face, so I didn’t look scared or sick when they finally picked up.

“There you are,” my dad said.

He’d aged visibly since Thanksgiving, even more lines, more gray in his hair. That was enough to worry me, but the look in his eyes? I’d never seen anything like it—a reeling combination of fear and despair, reinforced in the slump of his shoulders. I couldn’t stand it. The only time I ever saw my dad cry was when he buried my grandmother, but that was a grief I could understand. As a kid, you think your father is invincible. You tell other kids that he can beat up their dad, and he will, if they don’t leave you alone.

This man was frightened. He resembled my father, but there was none of his quiet strength, none of the certainty, only hesitation and confusion. That was not my dad. Never in my life had he ever shown any sign that he didn’t know everything. He’s dying, I thought, and then I wanted to jam a metal spike into the brain that could consider such a thing.

I take it back. I take it back, okay?

The silence went on too long, and my mom took Dad’s hand, as if to give him courage.

“Here I am,” I answered eventually. “What did you want to talk about?”

Cancer, it’s cancer.

Stark terror flooded me, sparking behind my eyes. Apart from me, the apartment was empty, so there would be nobody to catch me after I hung up with them, after I pretended to be strong and sure, all the things they’d need from me. I schooled my face, trying—for once—not to show everything.

“I don’t know how to break this to you,” my mom started.

My whole body locked.

Dad touched her lightly on the cheek, such a tender gesture for so many years together. “No, I should tell her.”

She breathed in. Out. “Okay.”

“Last year, I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I’ve tried to manage it so I could keep working, but I’m not steady enough anymore. At the end of the month, I’ll be unemployed.”

For a few seconds, I was beyond breathing as thoughts whirled in my head. What the hell is Parkinson’s? I’d heard of it, something to do with Michael J. Fox, but I couldn’t remember anything. Is it terminal?

“Give me a sec, okay?”

Quickly I brought up the browser and Googled. Disorder of the brain that leads to shaking (tremors) and difficulty with walking, movement and coordination. Can be genetic or caused by environmental factors like exposure to pesticides. Then I read a quick article about how Michael J. Fox had been battling it for over twenty years. Relief crackled through me when I realized it was a degenerative condition, but not an automatically fatal one. It doesn’t mean I’m losing him in a month or even a year. It’s treatable. I flipped back to the chat window and found my dad hugging my mom.

“Sorry, I just wanted to know more. I figured it would be faster to read it.”

“You’re taking this pretty well,” Mom said.

A deep breath trickled out. “I thought it was worse. Do you want me to come home? I can quit my job to help out, whatever you need, Dad.”

At least the school year’s over. At first, I wasn’t thinking about leaving Mount Albion, but I could. My credits would transfer and—

“Only if that’s what you want,” he said. “Don’t do it for me.”

“Or us,” Mom added. “We’ll be okay. Rob’s here, and your father and I, we can weather anything, as long as we’re together.”

I want that, I thought. And then, I had that.

Mom smiled as he squeezed her around the shoulders. “The reason we’re telling you this, honey, is because it impacts your future. Your dad tried so hard to hang on until after your senior year, but it’s not going to happen. On my salary, we can’t afford our bills and your tuition, too. I’m sorry, but this last year, you’re on your own.”

My dad picked up, continuing as couples who had been together a long time often did. “You needed to know what’s going on, so you can make plans. Tuition will be cheaper in state, but you won’t have a scholarship. You could transfer like Lauren’s doing, and you’ll save money by living at home. But don’t come back expecting to take care of me. I’m not that sick yet.”