Chapter 11
Hot, twitchy feet kept me awake. I kicked one foot out, both feet out, one back under, but could not cool them off. When this had happened in the past, Dad said it was because my feet would rather run than sleep. He suggested closing my eyes and thinking about running a circuit, and in no time, I’d be dozing. Some people counted sheep; I did laps.
I tried to imagine running the route around the school, but I couldn’t shake what Mom had said about Dad. This isn’t like last time. That should’ve been good. I thought back to all the things that started when I was ten: my parents split up, Daddy got sick, had a chunk taken out of his lung in a major operation, chemo, baldness, then he got better. Life was pretty normal the past two years. So, what was it they couldn’t figure out this time?
There was an episode, just before Dad’s operation, that I hadn’t thought about in a while, until tonight, when Mom came into my room. Dad had been flying off the handle over all kinds of small things: not picking up stuff or closing a cereal box. The jam incident, though, was the worst.
It was a Saturday morning at Dad’s house that started with the usual cartoons—Lucas in a TV daze, and Dad in his leather chair, drinking coffee.
“Dad, can I make toast and have it in here?” I asked.
“Sure, just don’t get anything on the couch.”
“I won’t.”
I made the toast, brought my plate and the jam jar into the living room, and set everything on the coffee table. I kneeled on the floor, and started putting jam on my toast. It was such a treat to eat in front of the TV, like getting room service or something. By the second or third knife-full, some jam plopped on the table.
“What did I tell you?” Dad’s voice boomed.
“Oh, sorry, I’ll clean it.” I got up and started walking to the kitchen, wishing I’d been more careful.
“Hurry,” he called, and I picked up the pace. “And make sure to squeeze the sponge out.”
I came back in with the sponge and bent down.
“I told you to be careful,” Dad snapped.
“I know. Sorry,” I said, just as I accidentally smeared the jam on the table. The glob was bigger than I thought, and as I went to wipe it again, Dad’s hand swooped in and whack! He hit my hand so hard, the sponge flew across the room, and my hand smacked the table. Stunned, I held my hand and cried. When I looked at Lucas, he was hugging his legs.
“What are you doing?” Dad shouted over me. His face came close; his expression was as sour as his breath.
“That water will ruin the wood!”
“I’m sorry,” I cried. He picked up the sponge and wiped.
“Stop crying, and go get a towel to dry this up!”
Lucas was still frozen on the couch, when I ran back in with a towel. I stared at my pink hand as I wiped, holding in tears. It still stung. I couldn’t believe this was all over a little blob of jam. It wasn’t like I’d stained the couch. Dad handed me the sponge, and I brought that and the towel into the kitchen, scared and angry at the same time.
I pretty much hated Dad after that incident. I wasn’t just a little miffed, like when he or Mom wouldn’t let me do something. I was mad at his lashing out all the time, and whacking my hand over a little jam. I didn’t want to see him, and when I told Mom why, she gave me the “he has a lot on his mind” explanation. It felt like more than that. He’d changed. He didn’t act like the Dad that loved me. He never even apologized, and I wasn’t ready to forgive him, even if he did.
The jam incident happened just before Christmas. Normally, the only time we went to church, after Mom and Dad got divorced, was on the weekends we were with Dad, but for some reason, Mom brought us to church on Christmas Eve. She definitely wasn’t religious, but she liked the songs and decorations.
The church was modern and didn’t feel like a church, though the huge crucifix was a dead giveaway. As the organ played, I looked at the expanse of stained-glass windows that fanned out from the altar. It was like an abstract collage of people, kneeling and facing the humongous cross. All the people in the church were doing the same, like they had conviction. They believed in something so clearly. They had faith. At that time, I was very confused about my feelings for Dad, and I wasn’t sure what to believe.
Why had Dad gotten so mad? The way Dad acted had made it seem like he didn’t love me anymore. It hurt, and I hated him for that. And I couldn’t understand how I went from loving him so much to hating him. So, as I sat there in the church, and the Christmas song played, I made a wish. The eleven-year-old kind. I wished that if I still really loved Dad deep down, that he would get better and back to normal, and obviously, my love for him would be back to normal, too. But if I really hated him, like really, really, deep down hated him, then I wished he would just die.
It was a twisted wish, but it turned out all right. Dad got healthier and stronger, and my warm, fun Dad was back. And I loved him, of course. I didn’t think about if it was magic or God, or anything, that made it happen. I just knew we were back to normal.
As I lay in bed, my feet no longer twitchy, I felt relieved that it was the good wish that came true. I wondered what came first, me realizing I loved Dad and he got better, or he got better and was lovable again. I understood how he was really afraid when he got cancer, and it took over. Like Mom said. But being in the hospital again, he wasn’t mean, or mad all the time. He didn’t seem scared; he just got a little sick over a bacon smell, and laughed at what I said. It didn’t seem the same as before. And even though he was back in the hospital, Dad was still fun and happy. The bacon thing must have been a blip, like a stomachache. It had to be.