I go through all the explanations for where the toy car came from—whether they’re possible or not, even Judith’s theory about an inter-dimensional rift, which this thing might have somehow fallen through. Of all the options, my own complete insanity seems the most likely. I have fainting spells, why not schizophrenia with hallucinations? When I told myself I had to let go of things more often, I didn’t figure on this.
But once the room stops spinning, I feel so normal. Shouldn’t I feel different? Wouldn’t a psychotic break be more uncomfortable? Something?
I don’t tell Denby. I just pocket the toy car and look worried. Sleepy, she figures I’m freaking out about everything else, and repeats in a slurring drawl that I should go talk to my father.
Sure, tell Dad: “Hey, Dad, as long as I’m psycho, how about the two of us get a bottle of the cheap stuff and keep drinking until everything goes away? I’m up for it!”
No. There’s got to be an answer. I just have to find it. And I do have to see Dad. I can’t keep him in the dark anymore. If I show him the toy car and he doesn’t see anything, he should be the one to take me to the psychiatric hospital.
As I drive toward Java Hut I briefly think I should have disguised myself or borrowed Denby’s car but, really, at this point, this is a roller coaster to hell, so what the hey? My vague stab at letting go is rewarded by an utterly normal trip. No sedans, no security cars, no suspicious helicopters. Not so much as a daredevil squirrel. Why would there be? Finley must know I blew it by now. If I’d run the sim, there’d be a record on the terminal, and he’s had plenty of time to check.
Java Hut, a brick-and-mortar establishment and the most popular coffee place in town, invades my field of vision. Hell, it’s the only coffee place in town. There was some dive for a while in the seedy section of Rivendale, The Mouse? But it closed after a year. Java Hut’s upscale, courtesy of Prometheus, which secured the loan that got the business started. Good investment. The morning crowd’s so big, I have to wait for a spot. I’m afraid I’ll miss Dad until I see his cranky old Honda, and snag the space next to it.
Espresso is bad for his blood pressure, but so’s being miserable, so I adopted a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy. Coffee won’t kill you as fast as booze, and he likes to have a bit of a private life. My being here, scoping the long line for his familiar close-cropped head, breaks a boundary. Sorry, Dad, but I’ve crossed a lot of those lately, especially if you count the whole dream/reality thing.
I’m inside less than ten seconds when a familiar hand grabs my shoulder. I know who it is before I see his face. Instantly, I relax and feel at home, safe, even if it is an illusion.
“Prodigal son!” Dad says, grinning. “You couldn’t call?”
“Prodigal dad,” I say, with great somberness. “I could not. I need to talk to you.”
He nods, still mostly pleased to see me. “I was going crazy wondering where you were. It’s not like you to have a good time. I’m next in line. Want anything?”
“Chamomile tea.”
He makes a face, like I’m missing the whole point of Java Hut, so I add, “I’ve had a lot of coffee lately.” To prove it, I show him my hand. My fingers shake.
“Whoa,” he says, and goes to order the tea.
We’re soon at a table in the back, me smelling my tea, him sipping his espresso.
“You’re not hassling me about my blood pressure. This must be serious. What’s up?”
The words stick in my throat. “It’s hard.”
“You kill someone?”
I look down.
“What? You did kill someone?”
“No! It’s just that it’s pretty bad, and…” I hem. I haw. I finally spit it out. “I’m worried you’ll start drinking again.”
He sighs. “I’ve told you before, I can’t promise I’ll never drink again. I can only promise to try. But being your father is one of the things that makes me try. That means I want to be able to help when you’re in trouble, whatever it is. I barely do anything for you anymore, you’re eighteen, but at least I can listen.”
So I talk. I tell him about my fainting spells, about Finley, about breaking into Prometheus, about Anthony’s e-mails to Denby. I even tell him all my recent weird dreams. I tell him everything, except about the diamond toy in my pocket. I’m enjoying feeling like his kid so much I don’t want to get to the part where it’s time to haul me off to the loony bin.
He listens, waiting until I’m through. When I am, he leans back and says, “‘Brief as the lightning in the collied night… so quick bright things come to confusion.’”
The quote makes me smile. “Right. Mom said that whenever she gave up on a project.”
“Yeah. Shakespeare, I think. Wade, wow. Just as you think you win, your hopes get destroyed and you get gutted by your best friend. No wonder you’re having panic attacks,” he says. He leans over and grabs my wrist. “Just means you’re human, like the rest of us poor slobs.”
“But I’m always almost passing out. Sure, this time it’s the end of the world, but it’s always something. First time it was a math test.”
“It could be biological, too.”
“Mom used to faint?”
“No, me.”
“You?”
“Don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not exactly a rock, emotionally. It started after high school. I’d graduated top of my class and was accepted to Yale. For me, life was politics, so that summer I became involved in a local election. My guy was a reformer, a saint who could do no wrong. I canvassed, I called. Person by person, I was going to convince everyone to vote for him.”
“And?”
“We were still way behind in the polls, but then I heard a rumor that our opponent was accepting bribes. If I could prove it, we’d win. I went berserk trying. I stalked him. I took secret photos of him. I stole his trash. I even tried to break into his house. I could not, would not let it go. Days before the election, I had chest pains, hyperventilating, the works. Then we lost. That weekend, I went to a bar and, for the first time, I started drinking to feel better.”
“That’s hard to imagine.”
“That I could faint?”
“No, that you were ever eighteen.”
“Ha!” He swats his hand toward the side of my head, but I duck. “See that? You do have a sense of humor buried in there somewhere.”
“But how do you not take it too seriously if you’re the only one who can prove the world might end?”
He shrugs. “How could I not take it too seriously when I was the only one trying to stop some corrupt asshole from being elected? Or when I had a six-month-old baby and a job I hated? I grew up worried about a nuclear war between the United States and the Soviet Union. Now we’ve got global warming. But if you stop living because you’re so afraid, you forget why anything’s worth saving in the first place. You have to. Some things in life aren’t just out of our control, they’re out of any control. They’re ridiculous, absurd. Part of you knows that. That’s why you keep dreaming you’re a jokester. You have to let go.”
“Dad, the dream I had? The one about the diamond-encrusted toy car?”
“Exactly. You’re dreaming about a toy. That’s how the stress comes out. You have to take it easy, be kind to yourself. Try to—”
I pull the car out and put it on the table between us.
“Holy shit!” he screams. “Is that for real?”
Guess he sees it. He backs away from the table, his calm falling away like a mask.
“It’s… it’s…”
His hands shake. People stare.
“Dad, calm down. Please.”
He looks around, sees all the eyes on him, then sits again fast.
“Where the hell did that come from?” he whispers.
“Probably the same place the flash drive went. Meaning, I have no idea.”
He picks it up, holds it in the air between us. A few people are still staring, so he hands it back to me. “Put it away.”
I shove it in my pocket.
“I’ll ask one more time. Where’d it come from?”
“As far as I can tell, it’s from my dream.”
He stares at me, scans my face for the longest time, looks at my eyes, then tries to look behind them. After a while he gives up. He knows he either has to accept that I’m telling the truth, or accept the fact that he can’t tell if I’m lying or crazy.
“Some things in life are just ridiculous, huh?” I say.
“I didn’t mean that ridiculous. Either you’re screwing with me, someone’s screwing with you, or the gods are screwing with everyone. I… I don’t think it’s you.”
“So what should I do?”
He holds his palms up and exhales. “When things get crazy, I try to follow the AA program, the Twelve Steps. We don’t usually deal with things falling out of dreams, but the DTs can get just as crappy, so I guess it still applies. It’s all I’ve got to offer, anyway. The first step is to admit that you’re powerless over something and your life has become unmanageable. In my case, alcohol, in your case… stuff falling out of your dreams, I guess. So, stop trying to fight it. Accept it.”
“Accept it? How.”
He exhales again. “Whenever I need to be reminded of something important that I was totally powerless over, I go talk to your mother. Puts me in my place, and once I’m in my place, it’s a comfort to remember her.”
He means I should visit her grave. It’s been a sore spot between us for years.
“You haven’t been there since the funeral. You’ve never seen the headstone.”
“She’s not there! She’s gone. It’s a stupid, gaudy ritual.”
“Wade, sometimes stupid, gaudy rituals are all we have.”