Dear Pa,
I guess it’s been a couple of weeks since my last letter to you. There didn’t seem to be much worth writing about for a while, except maybe the weather. It’s a gorgeous day out, apparently. I got my piano exam results in the mail a few days ago, and I did really well, but somehow I didn’t care all that much—partly because I knew no one else cared. So I decided to hide the letter in my desk drawer and wait to see if Ma ever brings it up, even though I know she won’t.
The other night I dreamed I was in the hospital because my tonsils had grown back for some reason and I had to have them removed again. But this hospital paired patients by procedure rather than by age, so I was stuck in a recovery room with a bunch of kids who openly made fun of me for having to go through this a second time. To get even, I tried to scare them by telling them about a made-up disease that was a cross between syphilis and chicken pox and caused people to lose their sanity temporarily, but no one believed me. When I turned my head, I discovered that I’d teleported to another room where people spoke Danish, and since the only Danish word I knew was the equivalent of “thank you,” everyone was perplexed when that’s all I could say in response to their questions about why I was walking around in a hospital gown that wouldn’t close properly.
I wouldn’t have bothered writing you just about the hospital dream, but something random happened at school today, and a thought popped into my head: I’ll have to tell Pa about this. Just for a second, I think for the first time in these seven years, I forgot you were dead. And when I remembered again, I fucking lost it. I’d always thought “bursting into tears” was a figure of speech, but that’s exactly what I did. It was like I puked, but through my eyes. And the more I tried to stop, the worse it became. My whole body was shaking, and I kept hearing these awful heaving sounds coming out of me. Before I could calm down, I looked up to see every single douchebag in my class staring at me, along with my teacher, Ms. Montrose, who demanded to know not if I was okay but what had happened in her class to cause this outburst. I looked inside my desk for a tissue and didn’t say anything, but when she kept badgering me, I finally broke my three-year vow of silence.
“Why can’t you just mind your own business?”
A few guys let out audible gasps, probably because I’d thrown in an F-bomb—for emphasis or whatever. Anyway, I had to go downstairs to the office, where they gave me a three-day detention and added a note to my file. But I still wouldn’t tell anyone what happened, so technically I win.
And the worst part is I don’t remember anymore what it was that I wanted to tell you.
Everyone avoided me like the plague after that. When the final bell rang, I went back to the main office to ask about making an appointment with the school counsellor, but before the administrative assistant could answer my question, the principal spotted me, stormed out of her office, and started yelling at me about getting to detention. Now I wouldn’t go back there if it was the last office on earth.
So I don’t know what to do. I can’t say I’m surprised that my school is useless, but I really think I need to talk to someone. A little while ago Rusty Friesen called—apparently Sophie gave him my number—to ask me something about our media studies quiz, even though it’s a week away. And, naturally, I made a total ass of myself.
“Dale? It’s Rusty Friesen calling.”
“Oh. Hey. Fine—and you?”
“What?”
“Huh?”
I braced myself for him to ask me about this afternoon—So like, you crying in math class for no apparent reason? That was pretty radtastic—but he acted like it had never happened. Instead, he told me a bit about this sketch show he likes—he didn’t call it radtastic, but he did use the term “scandalicious” at one point, although I forget in reference to what. I said it sounded cool, even though it didn’t, and then we wrapped things up.
Weird.
Besides that it’s been a pretty boring week. Choir practice got cancelled on Tuesday because Marty, the director, is out of town for something—I forget what, but it’s not remotely interesting. I haven’t been making much progress with all the orchestral music I’ve been listening to—I got stuck recently on Isaac Albéniz. There hasn’t been anything good on TV, and even my dreams have been reruns.
Oh, but something happened yesterday at Gonzo’s basketball game. The rule in our family is that everyone goes to my concerts and recitals and to Gonzo’s games—period. Which I guess is surprising given how weird Ma is when it comes to me and music, but Ma likes to think she’s treating Gonzo and me the same out of fairness. Except we’re not the same. No one thinks Gonzo will ever be good enough to play professionally or to get a sports scholarship or anything, not even Gonzo. For him, basketball is just something to do in the time between more important things, like studying and work. I wonder sometimes if that’s why Ma’s upset with me: because with music, I want to go far beyond where Gonzo’s going with basketball, but she sees it as a distraction from what’s really important, like my last algebra test.
The weird part is that Ma, Helmut, and I will sit at one end of the bleachers, and Gonzo’s mother will sit by herself at the other end. Sometimes she and Helmut wave to each other, but we don’t ever talk to her. I can’t understand why. I mean, I don’t get the sense that she and Helmut hate each other or that their marriage ended because one of them did something unforgivable. One time I asked Gonzo why his parents don’t talk much and he grunted and unleashed this tirade about both his parents. Then he said—I remember this so clearly—“The whole divorced parents thing sucks. You’re so luck—” And then he bit off the rest of his sentence.
I knew what he was about to say. “You’re so lucky that your parents aren’t divorced.” Even though he can be a jerk to me sometimes, I’m sure he just forgot temporarily that one of my parents is dead. And I do feel bad for Gonzo sometimes. I don’t suppose it’s any fun to have to keep moving between one parent’s house and the other’s, never feeling totally at home. And sure, in that way I am lucky: this house where I live with Ma and Helmut is always my home. But it seemed like such an odd thing for Gonzo to think, let alone say.
Then again, I know how quickly things can change. If Ma had been in the car with you, I guess I’d be living with Uncle Scott and Uncle Joe now. And that would’ve been fine, too. If Ma died now, I’d probably go on living with Helmut. I know Ma updated her will after they got married, but I forget what it says.
Anyway, usually at Gonzo’s basketball games we wait around for him outside if it’s nice or in the foyer of the arena if it isn’t, but never close enough to Iliana that I can get a good look at her. Gonzo’s at his mother’s this week, so after he got out of the locker room he waved to us and walked out with her. Helmut handed me some mail that Gonzo had received about his driver’s licence and asked me to run it over to him before they drove away. I caught up with them in the parking lot, handed him the envelope, and smiled at Iliana.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Dale. I’m Susan’s son.” It seemed a better thing to say than the alternative: I’ve been your son’s stepbrother for nearly three years, yet somehow we’ve never met.
“Dale, it’s so nice to meet you finally,” Iliana said, shaking my hand. “Gonzo’s told me so much about you.”
I was taken aback by how friendly she was. She really seemed to mean what she was saying. And I realized I was dying to get acquainted with this woman, who’d been such a mystery to me for so long. The trouble was, I couldn’t think of anything to say. So—you used to be married to my stepfather. What was that like? I’m not that stupid. So I complimented her on her car instead.
Somehow that broke the ice, because soon the three of us were having a fantastic chat about school, basketball, the weather, Iliana’s work (turns out she produces a local news show), and upcoming summer plans. I think Gonzo and I exchanged more words in those fifteen minutes than we have in all the time we’ve known each other. Iliana even gave me a hug before I managed to drag myself away.
When I got back to Ma and Helmut on the other side of the parking lot, Helmut asked me what had taken so long. “Oh, I was talking with Gonzo and Iliana. She’s awesome. I can’t believe it’s taken this long for me to meet her.”
Helmut smiled at me in the rear-view mirror and drove off. Ma sat there and said nothing, but the way she said nothing was incredibly loud.
I don’t know what her problem is. Actually, I think I do. But I don’t get what her problem is, so I didn’t ask her about it.
Once we got home there was some sunlight left, so I decided to go for a bike ride. I didn’t have a destination in mind. I just rode through the streets in this neighbourhood that’s become home. And somehow, because of the combination of the setting sun and the wind and the fact that my thoughts weren’t fixed on anything in particular, I had these vivid flashes of memory of the way things used to be when I was a child, like my old room and kids at my old school and my curiosity about everything, and the fact that I was happy then. The feeling was gone almost as soon as it started, but I missed you so much in that moment. I looked around for the cardinals, but I guess it was their night off.
When I got home I texted Jordana a funny cat video from YouTube that I thought she’d like. I could see that she’d read the message, but I haven’t received a reply yet.
Just now I let my mind wander for a minute, and for some reason the memory of the day you died popped into my head. But I don’t want to think about that, and I’m finding the symphony I’m listening to pretty exasperating since it’s basically “I’m a Little Teapot” in a minor key, so I’ll stop here.
Your loving (and apparently shit-disturbing) son,
Dale