My Heart Insists I Will Find a Way to Mess It Up
Being with Hannah is both joy and torture. The joy is in the reinforcement of what I already suspected. It has always been about Hannah for me. Now that I can see it, I can’t see any other possibility. That alone is terrifying. But when I could have messed it up, she wouldn’t let me. I’ve got it in the back of my mind that I’ll somehow fuck this up, but I’ve shared the darkest stuff, and she still loves me. Which contributes to the torture.
Not only realizing there’s so much more to lose, but the physical torture of not being with her all the time takes added effort. It’s forced me to be more present, which is what I figured would happen, but fuck if it hasn’t backfired and made the physical feel more urgent. Sex with Hannah is addicting. Necessary. I need her. But then, who am I kidding. I think it would always feel urgent with Hannah. All that physical awareness wrapped up in an amazing package that I’m always eager to open.
After having dropped her off at her apartment, I park my car in my designated spot outside my apartment building, but I don’t go in right away. She’s spending some quality time with Jewel, and I figure I’ll hang with Trace if he’s around. I know that’s a good thing for both of us, even if I miss her like crazy when we’re apart. She needs friends to process her life with, and I need them too. When I climb from my car, I’m smiling, and take the stairs looking forward to seeing what Trace is up to. I’m just so fucking happy.
My phone rings.
I pull it from my pocket, hoping it’s Hannah.
It’s Mom.
“Hi,” I say, and the words did he fall off the wagon ride the tip of my tongue, but I push them away. It’s time to let it go.
A strangled sound accosts me.
“What is it? Mom?”
“Bad news,” she says through tears.
I turn to sit on the stairs. “What is it?” I know it’s about my dad. My heart crash-lands in my belly, burning with dread, though I’m conflicted by the feeling. So much of my identity is wrapped up in the trauma with this man. And sure, I’m in therapy. And sure, I’m working through my shit, but he’s still my father. As much as I want to divorce myself from that, it’s impossible. The threads that weave us together are mixed up with love and hate, mistrust, and reconciliation, with hope and forgiveness, but anger and struggle too.
I feel sick and take a deep breath, unsure where she’s about to take me.
“Cancer,” she says, and the sound of a sob catches on the other side of the phone.
“Shit.” I breathe the word, and close my eyes. “Where is it?”
“The liver.”
“Has it spread?”
“They aren’t sure. Tests weren’t clear–”
“Could that be good?”
“No.”
“What? Why? There’s a possibility–”
“His liver is a mess with all the–”
“–drinking. Shit.”
“There’s a lot of unhealthy tissue which makes it more complicated. The doctor said this kind of cancer is tricky.”
“Chemo?”
“We haven’t talked about it yet. But I don’t think he wants to get treatment.”
“What does that mean?”
A sob breaks her words. “He says he deserves this–”
I cough—nearly gag—hearing my own words in those of his she’s shared. “Mom?”
I hear voices, the muted give and take between varied tones. There’s a rustle of the phone.
“Seth?” My dad’s voice.
I open my mouth to say something, tears burning my eyes. All that comes out is a strangled, “Yeah.”
“Mom can’t really talk.”
“I get it.”
“She’s told you?”
“Yes.” I look up and out at the parking lot, the buildings beyond, the naked trees scratching the surface of the steel-colored sky.
“Just, well, I don’t want you to worry.”
I want to yell at him, to rant, but there isn’t a rhyme or reason. I want to yell about him spending so much time drinking and fucking up our life. I want to yell that he’s still fucking up everything. I want to yell at him for trying to tell me what to do. I just want to yell, but I don’t. I press my teeth together and stand instead, I walk down two steps and turn and walk up three, then turn and walk back down to the platform between the stair sets. Dr. B said anger is a secondary emotion. Why am I angry? I’m sad. I’m scared. Even with all the pain associated with his man, he’s still my father.
Leaning over the railing, I stare down at the evergreen bushes and melting snow around them. “What’s the plan?”
“There are more tests I need to take to decide a course of action. Chemo might be an option, but they aren’t sure yet. Maybe they put me on a transplant list, but there might not be enough time for that. We’ll know more after the next appointment.”
Words I might say lodge in my throat, scrambling up and losing meaning.
“Don’t worry,” he repeats.
When we were in the thick of his drinking, and I was in the thick of the abuse, I think I wanted him to die. Dr. B and I have talked about this. I remember her asking me one time if it was really the death of him I wanted, or the death of the behavior, and while I wasn’t able to make the distinction at the time, I understand what she means, now, facing his possible death. Despite all the shit he put us through, there are still threads of love there, of forgiveness I haven’t tied off.
“Well, it’s a little late not to,” I say. “Will you do the treatment if it’s an option? Mom seems to think you won’t.”
He sighs.
“And don’t tell me some fucked up shit about deserving this. That’s messed up.” I’d said the same thing to Hannah and tell myself this as much as I’m telling him. But I realize it isn’t just about him and say, “I think you owe Mom more life, you know. She chose to stay with you. For better or worse.”
There are several extra beats of silence before he clears his throat. “Well, that’s probably true.”
“It isn’t a fucking probably,” I say. “It’s a fact. She deserves for you to fight because she’s fought for you. You get that, right?”
There’s a lengthy pause followed by a sigh. “Yeah.”
I imagine he probably wants to tell me to fuck off and know my role, but to his credit, he doesn’t. “When’s the next appointment?” I ask.
“Next week.”
“Need me there?”
“No. No.” I hear something beyond him. The click of a door or the sound of a pan on the stove. I have no idea what it is, but there’s something comforting about the normalcy of it. “Stay where you are. Mom and I will fill you in, and–” He stops.
“–and?”
“Just come home when you planned to.”
“I’ll come home when I’m needed.”
“Fair enough.”
“Mom okay?”
“She’s strong,” he says.
“We both already knew that. That’s not what I asked.”
He sniffs. “I’ll make sure she’s okay. As best as I can. You keep doing your part.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“I’m going to go check on her.”
“Talk soon?”
“Yes.” He hesitates a moment as if he wants to say something else, but he says, “Talk soon.”
We hang up, and I lean against the railing staring out at the landscape, as if maybe the stasis of it will impact the dynamic fluctuation of all the emotions moving through me.
Cancer.
My dad has cancer.
I roll the thought again, tears filling my eyes, and I swipe them away with the back of my hand. I need Hannah, but I don’t want to interrupt her with this awful mess.
I google liver cancer.
Fuck.
Then I take the rest of the stairs to my apartment. There are loud, raucous voices drifting from our place before I even make it in through the front door. When I walk in, there are more people than usual in the front room, and a few heads turn.
One of which is Sebastian.
Fuck. Awful timing. I see red.
I take a deep breath instead.
“Seth!” Trace yells. “You’re back. How was the date?” Then he presses his lips together as if he realizes who’s sitting in the room.
I don’t know if this is by design—that he’s throwing me under the bus—or if it’s an unintentional slip up. Trace has only been supportive of me and what I’ve got going with Hannah. I choose to believe the latter for now. Rather than comment on it, I change the focus. “Is DeShawn kicking all your asses?” It’s all I can do, my mind drifting in a weird space of disbelief, of needing to feel like I can do something.
“You know it,” DeShawn says from the couch, without looking away from the TV screen.
“You coming with us to the party?” Marco asks.
“Naw. I’m good,” I say, knowing Sebastian is staring without even looking at him. “Got some homework to do before Monday. Have fun though.” I slip down the hall and into the bathroom, then lean forward to stare in the mirror at my reflection as I wash my hands. I splash cold water on my face.
My dad has cancer.
I need to talk to Hannah, but it can wait until she calls. I don’t want to ruin her night with Jewel.
I take a fortifying breath, though it seems to move through the holes that have formed in my foundation. I feel shaky, as if a strong wind might whip through and break me apart. The breath seeps through me, and I don’t know which way is up. But I know that Sebastian is out in the living room. I can avoid him. The prick. Except when I open the door, there he is, waiting.
“Hey,” he says. He’s got a smile on his face, all ease and friendliness. I don’t note any animosity in his countenance, which feels like a massive lie. He reminds me of my father, way back when—unpredictable. I’m wary, and I hate that I revert to feeling small. With a deep breath, I offer him wary acknowledgment, returning to normal size, and continue down the hall to my room.
“A friendly word of advice,” he says from behind me.
I turn at the door. “Is that what this is?”
He hasn’t moved. “There’s just some stuff I think you should know about Hannah.”
Anger rears its head. Sebastian might remind me of my father, but I’m always fighting that monster. That rage is innate. I take a deep breath. “Take that shit somewhere else. I don’t give a fuck what you’re about to say.” I start through the doorway to my room again.
“She’s not telling you everything. She’s still seeing me.”
It’s as if he knows my immediate weakness—a quick study, or a great researcher. He’s pressed two of my buttons with a single line. First, it’s about Hannah, who is mine now, not his. Second, he’s implied she’s lying, or using me, or whatever conclusions I can jump to with his lie. Logically, I know this. And logically I know I can’t trust him, but emotional me slips back to seventeen-year-old me who felt insecure, lied to, and used by the girl I’d liked then. Add to it the precariousness of my emotions, I can’t seem to talk myself off the ledge. I start down the hall toward Sebastian, intending to fuck him up.
“You need to take her name out of your mouth.”
He grins, and I see the snake underneath the charm; I’m playing the tune perfectly.
I freeze.
“Bash,” Trace says, appearing between us. “Marco and them are going.”
Sebastian gives me a condescending look, and I hate that he made easy work of me. “Thought you were joining?”
Trace glances at me, and it seems like he sees something there, and says, “Nah. I got homework.” He waits.
“Catch you later then,” Sebastian tells him, glancing at me one more time. “I got somewhere to be–” An insinuation I know he’s trying to make about him and Hannah. He disappears down the hallway.
When he’s gone, Trace looks at me. “Dude. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he was coming with Marco. Then I fucking slipped.”
“It’s okay. Bound to cross paths. I thought you were going?”
Trace claps a hand on my shoulder. “You look like you could use a friend, bro. What’s up? You look like your dog died.”
“If only it were that.” And suddenly I want a drink so bad, I look at Trace and say, “Do we have any alcohol in the house?”