24.
Where Tyson Meets His Match
IT’S A little house in a little neighborhood. Not bad, but by no means the greatest either. There’s a small fence around the front yard. There are flowers and bushes along the house that look as if they could stand to be watered. The lawn needs to be mowed. There’s an old car in the driveway, but it’s missing a tire and is up on a jack. It’s late afternoon, and I can’t tell if anyone is home.
Dom had wanted to come, almost to the point of arguing with me. I told him if he meant what he’d said in the car, he’d let me do this. A little manipulative, sure, but I don’t want him to see her for a very simple reason. He’s never met her. Therefore, he can never be tainted by her. Should this go wrong (and there’s no reason to suggest it won’t—ever the optimist), I don’t want him to see her. She hasn’t gotten to him yet. And if I have anything to say about it, she never will.
He wasn’t happy, of course. He wants to protect the ones he loves.
Loves. Jesus Christ. That’s something I’m still not able to wrap my mind around. Either this has been the best trip in the history of ever or it’s about to go ass up.
Drive away, it whispers. You’ve got what you wanted. At least the foundation of it. Drive away now. Pick up Dom at the shitty motel and drive home. Go back to Seafare and the Green Monstrosity and Bear and Otter and let them worry about things for a little. That’s what they’re there for. Then you can focus on Dom and whatever is supposed to happen. All you have to do is drive away.
It would be so easy. I’d start the car. Put it in drive. And leave. This would all be behind me, and I’d never wonder about it again.
They’re nice, these thoughts. But they’re wrong.
I’d think about it. And I’d dream about her. And I’d always wonder.
But wouldn’t it be better to wonder? If you wonder, you might not know, but at least there would be no more sorrow. There’d be no more hurt.
That’s true. But I have to know. I have to know for myself. And for him. If we’re to have any future, then I need to know all of me.
If you’d have told me a few days ago that I’d be sitting in front of Julie McKenna’s house after hearing Dominic Miller say he loves me, I’d probably have asked you just how finely cut the cocaine you’re snorting is. It’s been that kind of a week. God. My life is so fucking strange.
Do it. Do it now. I’m either going to do it or leave. So just fucking do it.
I open the car door.
I remember her laugh.
I close it behind me.
I remember her smile.
I’m halfway across the street.
I remember her smell.
I’m on the sidewalk.
I remember how Bear sat in front of me, telling me she was gone.
My hands curl into fists at my side and my throat constricts.
Bear says, Breathe.
Otter says, Breathe.
Dom says, Just breathe, Ty. All you have to do is breathe. You breathe because it’s all inevitable. It’s all so inevitable. I promise you that you won’t be lost anymore.
I breathe. Most people don’t know just how precious the art of breathing truly is. I breathe because of Bear. I breathe because of Otter. I breathe because of Dominic, who I love. Of course I do. And I’ll tell him. I’ll tell them all. And we’ll figure everything out together and everything will be as it was and as it should be. It’s inevitable.
I don’t breathe because of her. Maybe I did at one point. Maybe that’s all I did. And maybe in the memories I have of her, there are good ones, times when she was my mother and I was her son and nothing else mattered. She left, but there was good in her. There was. I remember it. I remember the way her hair tickled my face when she kissed my nose. I remember the way she swung me up in the air. I remember the way her hand felt in mine as we listened to the waves on the beach. I remember that kite. I remember her.
But mostly I remember Bear. And Otter. And Dominic. They are my brothers. They raised me. They loved me for who I was and for who I’ve become. I’m lost, but Dom promised he’s found me, and Bear says the same. These are the men I aspire to be. These are the men I need. These people are my family, and they’d never leave. They’d never leave me behind.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe that’s all I need.
I touch the fence. It needs to be sanded down and repainted. It’d look just like new.
I watch the house, willing any sign to come from it to show me I shouldn’t just leave.
There’s nothing.
That’s it. I’m gone.
“What are you doing?” a voice asks from behind me.
I turn.
Standing near the driveway of my mother’s house is a young girl of maybe eleven or twelve. She’s pretty, her dark hair braided and falling on her shoulder. She’s dressed in shorts and a white shirt streaked with dirt. There’s no fear on her face as she watches me, just curiosity.
“Uh, just… looking at houses,” I say lamely. “I like… fences.” Oh, because that doesn’t sound creepy at all.
“Oh?” she asks. “How peculiar. Is there something about this particular fence that does it for you?”
“What? No! I’m just going for a walk. Around the neighborhood. To see the sights.” Yeah, that sounds so much better. Good job. You’re doing great!
She shrugs. “Free country, I guess. Though I don’t know what sights there are to see here. It’s pretty bad.”
“Nah. I used to live in worse. The apartment my brother and I used to have had bugs all the time.”
“Like cockroaches?”
“Sometimes.”
“I don’t care about cockroaches,” she says. “Did you know they can survive a month without food?”
“I’d be okay if they didn’t survive at all,” I say.
“I like bugs,” she says. “I’m going to be an entomologist when I grow up.” She points down to her shirt. “I was digging back in the woods, trying to find Rosalia funebris.” She looks me up and down. “That’s a banded alder borer beetle, in case you didn’t know.”
“I knew that,” I say, even though I had no idea. I’m not going to look like some rube in front of a child. Who the hell does she think she is?
“Sure you did,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You totally look like the type that gets dirty.”
“I get dirty!”
“You nails sure look manicured,” she points out.
“Goddamn Kori,” I mutter as I hide my hands behind my back. “That was thanks to my ex-girlfriend. Well, sort of. Not sort of she gave me a manicure. Sort of she’s my ex-girlfriend. She’s also my ex-boyfriend. Wait, that doesn’t sound right either.”
“You’re a mess, huh?” she says. “Almost offensive too. I think the term is transgendered. Are you transphobic?”
“No! I’m not phobic anything.”
“Well, entomophobic, anyway.”
“I’m not scared of bugs! I just don’t like them.”
“Most of them won’t hurt you,” she observes. “Especially if you leave them alone.”
“I know that!”
She nods, but it’s so obvious she doesn’t believe me that I want to knock her upside the head, but then I remember she’s a child I don’t know, and I think it’s probably frowned upon to hit unknown children on the street. Or anywhere else. “So,” she says, “you have an ex-boyfriend and girlfriend all in one? That’s pretty epic. There was a transgendered boy at my school, but he got made fun of and his mom took him out. Life sucks like that sometimes. And then you die.”
“That’s a morbid way of looking at things.”
“Or realistic,” she counters.
“He’s not transgendered,” I say, though I have no idea why I’m explaining myself to her. “He’s bigendered. That means that—”
“I know what that means,” she says. “I’m not a little kid.”
“You sort of are. How old are you? Ten? Eleven?”
“Twelve. How short are you? Four foot two? Three?”
“I’m five seven!”
“Something to be proud of,” she assures me, though I think she’s actually mocking me. “So we’ve established you are scared of bugs, have a fence fetish, and have dated outside of societal norms. Anything else I should know?”
“Do you always talk like this?” I ask.
“What? Like I know what I’m talking about?”
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
She grins. “I like you.” Then she frowns. “Wait. You’re not like a kidnapper or a rapist, are you? I have to warn you, I have a black belt.”
“I’m not a kidnapper or a rapist,” I say. “What do you have a black belt in?”
“Nothing,” she says. “But I own a black belt. Didn’t it sound intimidating?”
“Not really,” I say. “I’m not scared of a little girl.”
“But you’re scared of bugs. They’re a lot smaller than I am.”
“I am not!”
“Boys,” she says, rolling her eyes. “All bluster and noise.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter.
She claps her hands against her chest. “You would know about it, wouldn’t you? Because you’re gay.”
“I suppose.” This conversation needs to be over so I can skulk in front of the house some more. Or leave and never look back. That sounds good too.
“Well, that’s fascinating. So, which one are you?”
“Which one what?”
The little girl looks over at the house. “I hear her talking sometimes. She can get loud when she wants to. Once, she was yelling into the phone and I heard a lot. That was before Frank left.”
A buzzing noise picks up in my ears at the name Frank.
“I don’t know who she was talking to, but she was yelling about them. Sometimes, she gets drunk and tells me stories. It doesn’t happen much anymore. The stories. And her getting drunk. I think she’s actually trying this time. Who knows whether or not she’ll make it. Jury is still out on that one.”
“Who are you?” I ask her, though in my secret heart I already know.
“You’re too young to be Bear,” she tells me. “Such a funny name, that. She told me you gave it to him.”
“When I was just a little guy,” I whisper.
She nods sadly. “Then you must be Tyson. Well, Tyson, I don’t know why you’re here, but it might be better if you left. Things might have changed, but it’s nowhere near where it should be. She’s never going to be what you need.” She says this with such a familiar air of forced adulthood that I’m taken aback. She’s essentially me.
“Izzie?” I ask her, dazed.
And she smiles, and gone is the cynical edge, the sarcastic lilt. Bear smiles the same way. So do I. As does our mother. It’s uncanny.
Isabelle McKenna, my little sister, says, “I used to wonder if you’d ever come for me. Now I just wonder why you came at all.”
MY HEART hurts a little when we walk inside and she immediately starts picking up the clutter around the house, obviously embarrassed by it. She mutters to herself that she most certainly wasn’t expecting guests as she empties an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and ash. Some have lipstick on the filter, dried and flaking. The house smells stale, and, frowning, she opens a window.
“It’s not usually like this,” she says, but she won’t look at me. “I’ve just been busy with Rosalia funebris and haven’t had time to clean up.” She rushes around the living room, straightening out pillows and magazines. Wiping crumbs off the chipped coffee table. A layer of dust coats the top of the TV. A ceiling fan squeaks overhead.
“It’s okay,” I tell her as gently as I can. “Stuff like this doesn’t bother me.”
“Why not?” she asks. “It should. It’s a breeding ground for bacteria. Who knows how many strains of Escherichia coli are growing in here?”
“Probably at least six or seven,” I say.
She glances at me, eyes narrowed. “Are you making fun of me?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good,” she says. She picks up a trio of coffee mugs and heads for the kitchen on the other side of the living room. “I’d hate to have to kick your ass.” She disappears through the doorway.
I walk around the room slowly, following her to the kitchen. There are celebrity magazines in piles on the floor near the couch. They look old and worn, and I can see the mailing label is made out to a hair salon. There are photos on a shoddy bookshelf, their frames plastic and cheap.
Here is Izzie, a toddler smiling with a princess’s tiara on her head.
Here is Izzie, dressed as a pirate for Halloween.
Here is Izzie, waving as she climbs onto a school bus.
Here is Izzie, sitting on Santa’s (Satan’s) lap.
Here is Izzie and my mother. Our mother. Izzie sits on her lap, that familiar smile on her face. Mom isn’t smiling. This is the first time I’ve seen what she looks like since the day she knocked on the door to that shitty apartment so very long ago. She looks tired. And old. Rough. I don’t remember what happened to the one picture I used to have of her that I kept hidden in my drawer. Maybe Bear found it. Maybe I just threw it away.
Out of the dozen photos, there’s not a single one of Bear or me. I should have known this. I should have expected this. And I think I did. It still hurts. I don’t know why.
Besides Izzie, Izzie, Izzie, there are more photos of beaches and foggy Irish moors and Stonehenge and castles rising impossibly out of steep cliffs. They line the wall with no rhyme or reason, torn out of a magazine or travel brochure and pinned to the drywall. I reach out and touch each one, the paper curling around the yellowing edges. These are hers, too, I think. My mom’s. She always did dream of faraway places. It’s sad to think she only ever made as far as Idaho.
The kitchen is dated, a Formica table in the middle, two folding chairs underneath on a linoleum floor. The fridge is a pale green, and some cabinet doors are missing their hinges. There’s an old electric range. An old microwave. An old everything. Everything in here is old. Secondhand. It might as well be how things looked for me growing up. Different place, same things. For a while, anyway. Before Otter came and saved us. Before Dom came and changed me.
Dom. Jesus, how I wish he was here right now. I don’t know that I’m strong enough to do this on my own. I don’t even know what to say to this little girl, this little girl who might be the only other person in the world aside from Bear and me to understand this life. To understand how it feels. To understand what it means. This little girl who’s furiously scrubbing at dishes in the sink like they’ll never get clean unless she gives it all she’s got. There’s no dishwasher. So maybe this is normal for her.
“I’ll dry,” I say, coming to stand beside her.
She sighs and her shoulders slump. “If you must. There should be a clean dishtowel in that drawer. I did laundry last week.”
There is, and it’s worn and frayed, but it’s clean. She scrubs out a coffee mug, rinses it, then holds it up to her face and squints as she inspects it. Her tongue sticks out between her teeth in concentration. It must pass inspection, because she hands it off to me. “Top cupboard,” she says. “By the fridge.”
I take it without a word and dry it before putting it back in its rightful place.
“Why are you here?” she asks after this goes on for a while.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“That’s comforting,” she says. “Do you often travel hundreds of miles and show up at people’s houses without some kind of thought as to why?”
“Constantly. It’s sort of my thing.”
She stops and looks over at me, cocking her head. “You’re weird,” she finally says. “You’re lucky I like weird.” She hands me a fork and points to a drawer near the sink.
“Very lucky.”
“I’ve never had a brother before,” she says.
“You have two of them.”
“How’s Bear?”
“In general or right at this specific moment?”
She makes a face. “What’s he like?”
I think hard on this. “Like a verbal hurricane,” I finally say. “But in the best way possible.”
“I don’t think hurricanes are considered good things, much less verbal ones.”
“This one is. I don’t know how else to describe him. He’s the greatest thing in the world.”
“That’s quite a lofty proclamation.”
“And it’s not made lightly,” I tell her. “What grade are you in?”
“Sixth.”
“You speak very well for a sixth grader.”
“That didn’t sound condescending at all.”
I roll my eyes. “I was giving you a compliment.”
She shrugs it off. “I like to read,” she mutters. She pops a bubble in the soap.
“What do you like to read?”
“Books,” she deadpans.
“It was just a question.”
“From a strange man who happens to be my brother, who until fifteen minutes ago I hadn’t ever met before.”
“My favorite is Brave New World.”
She laughs. “How pretentious. You don’t have to try and impress me.”
“I’m not.” She’s got a bit of a chip on her shoulder. Reminds me of me at her age. Unfortunately.
“Wuthering Heights,” she says. “That’s mine.”
I snort. “Talk about pretentious.”
“It’s romantic!”
“It’s not romantic. It’s about two fucked-up people who love each other so much they want to destroy one another.”
“Romantic,” she sighs. “And it sounds like you’re just projecting.”
I still. “What’d you say?”
“Projecting. It means—”
“I know what it means. I’m just… surprised you do.”
“I am pretty smart,” she says.
“I can tell. I was, too, when I was your age.”
“But not anymore?”
I shrug. “I suppose that remains to be seen.”
“Weird,” she says again.
“You still like weird?”
“For the most part. Your taste in books could use some work.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“So you don’t know why you’re here,” she says as she washes the soap away from the sink. “And you’re not smart anymore. And you like fences. Anything else I should know? Any diseases that run in the family?”
“Bear and I tend to speak without thinking sometimes. Well. All the time.”
“Because your mouth works before your brain?” she asks. She sounds delighted.
“Yeah.”
“I do that too. I think it’s just because I have a broken filter.”
“Manic, most likely.”
“It’s good to have an official diagnosis.” She steps away from the sink. “Want to see my room?”
“Sure, kid,” I say without even thinking.
SHE SHOWS me her ant farm (“I’m breeding them,” she tells me, but for what purpose, she’s adamantly silent).
She shows me her collection of books and poems by the Bronte sisters (“Maybe you should branch out a little more,” I tell her. “Like, Twilight or something.” She punches me in the arm).
She shows me her poster of Nikola Tesla (“He was so selfless and so dreamy,” she sighs).
She shows me her yearbook. She’s in the Chess Club (“Pretty much the only one,” she says). She’s in the Botany Club (“President and treasurer. I could embezzle dozens of dollars and they would never know”). She’s in drama (“I can’t act for shit,” she says. “But I like to pretend.”). She’s in choir (“Have you ever heard someone running over a bike horn? Imagine that, and you’ll know what I sound like.”). There’s a signature or two in her yearbook, but they’re mostly from teachers. I ask her about it, and she closes the book and puts it away, averting her eyes. “It’s hard to have friends when you’re so busy,” she says. There’s a challenge in her voice, daring me to question that. I don’t need to. I know better.
“It’s hard being the smart one,” I tell her instead. “I skipped a few grades.”
“Yeah, well, I could if I wanted to,” she says, fiddling with her fingers. “I just didn’t want to leave all my friends behind.” She won’t look at me.
“Yeah, that can be hard. I didn’t have that many friends, though. I had my brother. And Otter.” I sigh. “And Dom.”
“Who’s Dom?”
“This guy.”
She grins. “This guy,” she says. “Must be some guy if you get all swoony.”
“I’m not swoony!” I sort of am.
“Totally swoony. Like, boy-band swoony.” She giggles to herself, and it’s a happy sound, a carefree sound. A little girl sound. It hurts. It hurts to know I’ve missed this. That I’ve missed all of this.
“Maybe a little,” I say.
“He’s pretty rad?”
“Very rad.” The most rad ever. He might even be gnarly. “Well, for the most part. He’s not a vegetarian.”
She laughs, long and loud. She holds her sides, and I can’t help but smile at her. She’s pretty, this girl.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re a v-v-vegetarian?” she asks me, wiping her eyes.
“Yeah. Why? Are you one too?” I ask, astonished.
This sets her off again. “Of c-c-course not!” she howls. “I’m not a h-h-hippie! This is so funny! My long-lost brother shows up and he’s s-s-scared of bugs and m-m-m-meat.”
“Oh, har har,” I say as I scowl at her. “And why does everyone call me that? I’m not a hippie!”
She finally calms. “So, where is he?”
“Who?”
“Dom. Wow. Great memory. Maybe eat more meat, huh?”
“At the hotel,” I say, somehow resisting the urge to give her an Indian burn.
Her eyes go wide. “He’s here? Why didn’t you bring him?”
“Thought I should do this on my own. I don’t know.” It sounds stupid now that I’ve said it aloud.
“That’s stupid,” the little psychic (psycho) says. “You should never be alone. It sucks.”
Oh Jesus. “You’re not alone,” I tell her lightly.
She looks away again. “I didn’t mean me,” she says.
I think quickly. “You have a cell phone?”
“No. Mom says we can’t afford it. She has one, but it’s from Walmart. You can’t even download apps on it.” She says this like it’s the greatest travesty man has ever known. “I don’t even have e-mail. How archaic is that?”
“You have a piece of paper? Something to write with?”
“Why?”
“God, do you have to question everything?”
“Yes,” she retorts. But she scrounges on her desk and then hands over a scrap of paper and a Bic pen, the end pocked with teeth marks.
“Gross,” I say with a grimace.
“Oh please,” she says. “You’re gay. I’m pretty sure that’s not the worst thing you’ve ever touched.”
I gape at her. She stares back.
“Sisters,” I mutter and begin to write. Once I finish, I hand it over.
She looks down and mouths the numbers and words. “What is it?”
“My phone number. The address of the Green Monstrosity.”
She frowns. “Why would I need this?”
“In case you ever need help.”
“Help from what?”
This life. “Anything. Or just to talk. Whatever you want. Bear and me are here. Anytime.”
“You’ve never been here before.”
“I don’t think we knew how.”
She ignores this. “What’s the Green Monstrosity?”
“Our house.”
“Why is it called that?”
I pull out my own phone and flip through the pictures. There’s one of Bear and Otter standing in front of the house, their arms around each other’s waists. I show it to her.
Her nose wrinkles. “Your house looks like someone got sick and threw up on it.”
I laugh. “Isn’t it great?”
“And it’s at the ocean?”
“Close enough.”
“I’ve never seen the ocean,” she says.
“Maybe you can come see it one day,” I say, though we both seem to know that won’t happen for a long time. If at all.
Izzie holds the phone closer to her face. “Is that Bear?” she asks.
“Yeah. And Otter. He’s kind of like my dad. They both are, I guess.”
She touches Bear’s face. “They love each other, huh?”
“Very much.” And I miss them terribly. It’s only been days, but it feels like years.
“And they love you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “They do.”
Her finger slips and the phone scrolls to the next photo. “Who’s that?” she asks.
“That’s Dom,” I say. “Dominic.”
“Dude,” she breathes. “He could squash you with one hand!”
“Dude,” I agree. “Totally.”
“And he loves you too?”
I turn away as my eyes burn. “Yeah. He says so.” And while I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, I’ll figure it out. No more wasting time. I hope.
She hands me back my phone. “Seems like things are pretty good.”
And they are. It’s just taken me this long to realize it. I don’t need to be here. I didn’t need to come here. I’m glad I did, because Izzie is a force of nature, but I need to leave. It’s time for me to go home. It sucks to leave her behind, but I’ll only make things worse for her. I can’t have that. And I have people who need me. And who I need.
“Look, Izzie—”
The front door opens. “Izzie? I’m home. Do I have any more cigarettes here?”
“Well,” Izzie says, “this is probably going to be slightly awkward.”