Chasing Forgiveness (18 page)

If I were driving, I would have stomped on the brakes and squealed to a halt in the middle of traffic. Unfortunately I won't be driving until next year. I turn away from my father so he doesn't see my eyeballs bulging. But he catches my reflection in the misdirected side mirror.

“I hope we get a bigger house,” says Tyler.

“Preston?”

Inside my head, the demons have broken the huddle and are laying siege to my mind. How dare he just decide this. How long has he known her, two months or so? How long has he been out of prison, a little over a year? How long since he killed Mom?

But I deny any of these questions exist. I deny feeling anything. I am a disciplined athlete. I am in control of my body and mind. I feel nothing but happiness. That's what I tell myself.

“Preston?”

“When are we going white-water rafting?”
I suddenly spit out at him like an accusation.

“What?”

“I'm happy for you and all that, Dad—you and Sarah; that's great—but when are we going white-water rafting like you promised?”

I've caught him off guard. He stutters a bit.

“Well, Preston . . .”

“When do we go rafting and skiing and camping? When do we see the Grand Canyon? When do I get my dirt bike? When do we do all those things you promised?”

“We'll do all of them, Preston,” he tells me. “We'll do them with Sarah.”

“Fine,” I say. “I was just asking.”

Dad promised me the world when he was in prison. I don't want the world, I want my mom back, but he can't perform that particular miracle, can he? So if the world is all he can give me, then he better get on the job.

Because if I can't have the world, then he can't have Sarah.

•  •  •

Dad gives me a small slice of the world. He gives me the dirt bike he promised, against all my grandfather's protests, and we spend the day riding it up and down the street—Dad, Jason, and I. Its loud, rude engine draws the angry attention of the neighbors and the admiration of all the kids on the block.

The noise is enough to bring my grandfather out of his house.

“What is this?” he asks while Dad is off for his ride.

“It's mine,” I tell him. “Dad got it for me.”

His face turns to stone. I immediately sense this is going to be worse than I'd thought.

“I see,” says Grandpa.

As soon as my dad gets back from his ride, Grandpa calls him aside. “Danny, can I speak with you?”

Jason takes off buzzing down the street. I lean one ear into Dad and Grandpa's conversation.

“Who gave you permission to buy him a dirt bike?”

“He's my son,” says Dad. “Why do I need permission to buy him anything?”

“You know Lorraine and I don't approve of those things. They're dangerous. And we're still his legal guardians.”

Dad steams whenever Grandpa reminds him that they still have legal custody of Tyler and me. It's a cold reminder that we're only with Dad because of their good nature. It's more than enough to make Dad back down.

“He'll only ride it when I'm around,” Dad says. “On weekends. In empty parking lots—places where there's no traffic.”

“You should take it back,” says Grandpa. “Get him something else.”

“No!” I say, busting into their conversation. “This is my dirt bike. Dad bought it for
me
. I'm not taking it back.”

Grandpa looks at me, then at Dad.

“You see what you've done, Danny?” he says as he leaves. “You see what you've done?”

But nobody, not even Grandpa, is going to take this bike away from me. I've had enough taken away from me already, and it's about time I demanded something back.

•  •  •

Dad seems sullen for the rest of the day. He lets Jason and me ride the bike, but he won't ride it himself—he just sits on the porch and watches. When Jason leaves and we put the bike in the garage, Dad says what's on his mind.

“Maybe your grandpa's right,” he says. “We should take it back.” But he won't look me in the eye when he says it.

“Why are you afraid to stand up to him, Dad? You don't stand up to anyone anymore.”

“What am I supposed to do, Preston? I feel like I'm still on probation. If I do something wrong they'll take you away from me.”

“They love you, Dad,” I remind him. “You know that!”

“But they love
you
more,” says Dad. “Both you and Tyler. And they'll always wish you were in their home again. If they get mad enough at me,” he says, “they'll take you away. I don't want to lose you, Preston.”

“I live where I want to live!” I tell him. “It's
my
choice, and I want to live with you. Even if you marry Sarah.”

“I appreciate that, Preston, but the bike . . .”

“The bike stays!” I say, and I stare my father down. Finally he leaves the garage, and I'm left alone with the bike.

I've won the battle, but I don't feel good about it. I tried to make my father stand up against Grandpa, but that's not what happened. Instead, not only did he back down from Grandpa, I made him back down from me as well.

Next time, I say to myself, I'm going to back down first. Next time I will. I'll sacrifice some of my own pride and self-respect, and give Dad back some of his.

•  •  •

Dad has Sarah over for dinner almost every night, or we go over there. I once asked Grandma how she felt about them getting so serious so quickly. She always answers such questions the way Christ himself might.

“Danny's had a very hard life,” says Grandma. “He deserves a second chance. And as for Sarah, we'll just love her, too. We'll love her like she were our own daughter.”

But Sarah's not their own daughter. Not even close. . . . Her relationship with Dad is not what I would call perfect. It's not an equal sort of thing—it's mostly just Sarah pushing and pulling Dad in every direction she can. She drags him to a party one day, a show the next. She gets tickets to things and doesn't even tell my dad until she arrives at the door ready to go wherever it is she decided they must go. And the worse part of it is that sometimes she leaves her children with us.

When we had dinner that time with her, she seemed sweet enough. I didn't see that her fingers weren't fingers at all, but talons, and she was slowly digging them deep into my father's skin. “She's strong willed,” says Dad. “What's wrong with that?” If it were just that she's strong willed, I'd like her just fine. But there's a difference between being strong willed and demanding complete control.

“She's a woman who knows what she wants,” says Dad, “and knows how to get it.”

Maybe that's why when they went to L.A. to see a show, Sarah came back wearing a necklace that we all know my dad can't afford.

Maybe that's why Dad's always over at her house fixing it up and redecorating it just the way she wants it.

“She's a very determined woman,” says Dad.

I say she's a reptile.

“You'll all move in here when your father and I get married,” she says as she gives us a tour of her house one day. “Preston will get his own room, and Tyler will get to share one with Davey—he'll like that. And we'll build a workout room with a whole gym in the garage. Who needs a three-car garage anyway? Two is enough for anybody.”

We're all sort of just swept along in the enthusiastic beating of Sarah's slick reptilian wings. We're all hooked by her pterodactyl talons whether we like it or not.

Maybe this is what Dad needs, I try to convince myself. Someone to give him direction. Someone to keep his mind so full of details that he doesn't have to think about anything. But even as I think it, I realize that the last thing Dad needs is someone else telling him what he ought to do.

•  •  •

“I hate Davey,” says Tyler one day when we're driving back from Sarah's place. This is new for Tyler. Tyler never admits to hating anybody. It's enough to make Dad prick up his ears about an inch.

“Well,” says Dad, “he does whine quite a bit, doesn't he?”

“They all do,” I add. “I think they're all just spoiled rotten.”

“Life with Dad'll unspoil them,” says Tyler. “ 'Cause Dad's so cheap.”

I laugh, but I wonder just how cheap he will be. Sarah will have him spending his money left and right. Like . . .

Like Mom did.

Dad shakes his head. “Sometimes I don't know about those kids.”

“You're not dating the kids; you're dating Sarah,” I say. Dad accepts my reassurance.

“And you really like Sarah?” he asks, as he always asks. Do I like Sarah? I like her when she doesn't drink too much. I like her when someone else has to talk to her instead of me. Do I like her? Not really.

“I like her if you like her, Dad,” I tell him. “I want you to be happy.”

I don't tell him that I wish Sarah would crawl back under the rock she came from. I don't tell him that I wish something absolutely awful would happen to make Dad dump Sarah and those miserable larval lizards she calls children once and for all.

“I'm glad you like her, Preston,” says Dad with a smile. “We're all going to be very happy.”

“That's right,” I say. Or at least we'll all pretend to be.

On a Saturday night, while my grandparents are away, I have a little party at their house—Jason, me, and a bunch of other friends.

I see less and less of my father lately—he's always doing odd jobs for Sarah. He's at her house today fixing something up or building a wall or putting up wallpaper. She monopolizes his time as if she owned his soul.

“She's not a woman, she's a career,” Grandpa says.

But if Dad likes her, fine. Dad can do what he wants.

And so can I.

Downstairs, the music is blasting, and somebody mans the blender, making chocolate shakes. At least I think it's just chocolate shakes. I know some people brought beer, but it's not my job to tell them they shouldn't do it. I watch
out for myself. It's not like
I'm
drinking or anything.

My friends dance in the living room and lie around on the sofa talking. The place gets a bit messy, but as long as I leave everything the way I found it, Grandma and Grandpa probably won't mind. They probably won't even know.

Before it even gets dark, my dad appears at the front door.

“What's going on here, Preston?” he asks.

“What does it look like?” I say, trying to look cool. “It's a party.”

“Did Grandma and Grandpa give you permission to do this?”

“They're not here; they don't care,” I say.

Dad looks around—kids with beer, loud music.

“No,” says my dad. “No, I don't think so. This party stops here.”

And for the first time in as long as I can remember, Dad looks me in the eye.

“You're coming home, now.”

“No,” I tell him. He's humiliating me in front of all my friends. Nobody does that. I don't care who he is.

Dad goes over and turns off the stereo. It's amazing how all that noise can just collapse in on itself with the flick of a switch, leaving a room full of people who don't know what to do.

“Everybody out,” he says.

But everyone just lingers there. Like they all stood and
watched on the day I pounded Jimmy Sanders's head into the sidewalk.

“This isn't your house!” I yell at him.

“You're coming, Preston. If I have to drag you out by the roots of your hair, you're coming.”

“Why don't you just go back to Sarah? Doesn't she need you to clean between her toes or something?”

Some friends begin to snicker. People start whispering. Gossiping. “That's Preston's dad,” I can hear them say. “He's the one who . . . you know.”

“Preston, say good-bye and we'll clean this mess up.”

But I don't move. Not yet.

I should give in. I told myself I would. This doesn't matter, I tell myself, I can just let it go.

But my friends are here around me watching. And it's time to take sides again.

It's over, I tell myself. The party was over the second Dad walked in, so just give in, and walk away with my tail between my legs.
It's over.
But if it's over, then why am I so angry? If it's over, then why can't I stop yelling at him? Why can't I stop?

“Who do you think you are!” I scream at him.

“I'm your father!”

“Well, that doesn't seem to mean much anymore, does it?”

He is not going to take this party away from me. He's never going to take anything away from me ever again. If he
can marry the flying lizard lady, then I can have this party.

Dad turns beet red in the face like Tyler does when he cries. Only Dad's not crying.

“You have no respect for me, do you?”
Dad screams.
“Why don't you respect me? Why?”

It almost makes me laugh. Why? Do I really have to tell him?

“Why do you think?” I growl, and then I explode out the back door and head for the garage.

•  •  •

My dirt bike flies through the Saturday twilight at a breakneck pace. I take turns at full speed, not caring if I fall. I rev the rude buzz-saw engine to annoy everyone in the neighborhood.

I can do what I want. For weeks I've had to ride this stupid thing in parking lots and closed-off streets with Dad supervising me. But I'm fifteen and can do what I want, and he's not going to stop me ever again.

I race through a red light. I don't care.

He thinks he can fall in love and be happy. Then why can't I be happy? Why? No matter what I do I still feel something is missing. Why is it that no matter how hard I push it down, Mom's face always comes back up? It's all I think about when I see Dad with Sarah. I can tell myself it's all right, but I'm lying. It's
not
all right.