almost insulted. “Nina believes me. Why can’t you trust like she does?”
“Nina’s… different,” I sputter. “She’s different from the rest of us.”
“You speak of her triplicated chromosome?”
“Sure,” I say, suddenly forming a plan. “Why not? Let’s speak about that. Why would your God allow that to happen to her? Why would he let her be like that?”
He looks confused. “Like what?”
“Disabled.”
“She looked perfectly able to me.”
I scowl at him. “You know what I mean. She has a mental handicap. Why would
he allow that to happen? Why would God do that to her?”
“Is she not happy?” he asks, leaning against the wall, my father’s jacket
bunching up as he crosses his arms.
“This isn’t about her happiness,” I snap at him. “Answer the question.” “I just did,” he says. “I asked you if she was happy, and you implied by
deflection that she was. If she is happy, who are you to say she’s not how God
wanted her to be?”
“She doesn’t know any better!”
“And how can you? Do you think you know better than she? Than God? That is
a sin, to presume the will of my Father. For all you know, she’s exactly the person
she is supposed to be, even if she is different. You of all people should know that,
Benji.”
Tears sting my eyes. This is too much. All of this is too much. “Don’t you dare
talk to me like you know me, you bastard.” He takes a step toward me, but I shake
my head and take a step back. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, aside from your
creepy-stalker bullshit. I want to go to bed so I can open my eyes tomorrow and see
that this was all a dream, because it is a dream. I’m going to wake up and I’ll still be
at the station, or I’ll be lying by the river, but you will be gone, because you’re just a fucking figment of my imagination. Things like this don’t happen. Things like this
aren’t real. You’re not fucking real.”
“And yet, I’m here. Because you called me,” he says, his voice hard. It sounds
like an accusation.
“Don’t you dare put this on me. I don’t fucking know you!”
A memory, rising: Oh, someone please help me. I can’t do this on my own. Not
anymore.
“You’re lying,” he says, dawning comprehension lighting up his eyes. “This is
you lying.”
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
“But—”
“Get the fuck out of my house!” I bellow at him. Without waiting to see what he
does, I go into my room and slam the door behind me.
Memory.
My earliest memory is from when I was three years old. My father had taken me to the park, affectionately named the Blue Park, given the color of all the equipment. It sat on the edge of the Umpqua about ten miles upriver from where he would drown thirteen years later. I don’t remember going there. I don’t remember getting out of the car or walking to the park. I don’t remember what happened after we left. I can’t even be sure what my next real memory is. What I can be sure of is my father sat me on his lap on the merry-go-round, kicking his feet in the sand, causing us to spin slowly. In his other hand, he held a paper cup that was orange and white, containing a vanilla milkshake. He put the straw to my lips as we spun in a lazy circle and I took a deep drink. Cold flooded my mouth and a sharp pain pierced my head, a brain freeze from the ice cream. I cried out. My father whispered soft words that I can no longer remember, then pressed a large hand against the top of my head and rubbed the pain away.
We kept on spinning.
For some reason, it’s this memory I think about as I lie in my bed, still fully
clothed, unable to sleep six hours after I’ve slammed my bedroom door. Nothing about that day pertains to anything that’s happening now, but it’s the only thing I can focus on that makes sense. That flash of pain I felt that day has never slipped from my mind and even now I can remember what it felt like, blinding and cold. It let me know I was alive, that I was real. It tethered me to my father in such a way that only death could break. Maybe not even then.
I don’t know why I thought the touch on my shoulder that I knew wasn’t there was my father. I don’t know why I assumed the