Who are you?
Pushing past him, I felt my breaths growing heavier and heavier.
Entering my room, I shut the door behind me. My back landed against the closest wall, and I pounded my hand against my chest, over and over again.
Cancer.
Cancer.
Cancer.
I couldn’t go back to Alabama.
I couldn’t walk away knowing that I was leaving him alone and sick. Plus, there was my selfish need to want to know more about him. What made him so cold? When did he shift from the playful guy I used to know into this mean personality? How could I fix it? Fix us?
I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t keep trying for a relationship with him before he…
I blinked and swallowed hard.
Time.
I need more time.
I came out of my bedroom an hour later and saw him sleeping on the couch. I knew if I walked away now, there would be no possibility of me ever learning about this stranger who shared my DNA. I also knew that if I left, he had no one. He would never admit it, but he had to be afraid. Cancer had to be scary, and he was going through it alone.
Maybe people said terrible things when they were afraid. Maybe Dad was always afraid.
I can’t go back to Alabama.
I called and told Mom. She cried a bit and told me she didn’t understand. Truthfully, I didn’t completely understand either, but in my gut I knew if I walked away now I would regret it forever. So, I would stay.
I headed out to the woods around eleven that night with a flashlight and my violin. I loved the smells of the woods, the calmness of nature. Back home whenever my mind was clogged, Mom would have me step barefoot into the woods, my toes curled against the grass, and I would just breathe.
There was something otherworldly about nature that made my problems feel less important, made my situation feel less dramatic.
I stared at the house that was hidden in the trees. The father who built that place with me still had to exist. I wouldn’t give up on him. Not now. I climbed up the rungs, and sat inside of the wooden house. I lifted my violin out of the case. Music would help me through this. Mom used to tell me that the violin strings were able to tell stories through the way the violinist played them; stories of grief, of suffering, of beauty, of light.
I started playing quietly at first.
The bow rolled back and forth against the strings, the sounds of my best friend bouncing through the sleeping trees, touching the resting woods. The plan was to play until I stopped worrying about Mom back home. I wanted to play until my father was my dad again. I wanted to play until cancer was just a word and not a death notice.
Yet it turned out I couldn’t fulfill those goals because at three in the morning, I was still worried about my mother, my father was still far from my dad, and cancer was still the most messed up word in the history of words.
By that point, I felt like I was crashing down.
10 Aria
For Sunday dinner Dad grilled out while Mom made potato salad, corn, and homemade applesauce. There weren’t many more days left for barbeques in Wisconsin since winter would be here soon enough, so I was pretty excited. Dad made the best hamburgers, adding his secret ingredient that he would never reveal.
We sat around the table, and Mike went on and on about the homecoming game coming up in a few weeks. “We’re playing against the Falcons and coach said a few scouts from UW-Madison are going to be there. Plus, next weekend recruits from Ohio State are coming up here.”
“You think you’re ready for this? Have you been getting your extra workouts in?” Dad asked, placing a tray of his hamburgers in the middle of the table.
“Yes, sir. Coach said I have nothing to worry about, though, he said I’m pretty much guaranteed a few schools. So, I should be able to pick the one I want the most.”
“Don’t let it get to your head, though. You have to keep your grades up, too. You need a backup plan.” Dad lowered himself into his chair and glanced toward me before turning back to Mike. “People should have a backup plan.”
Mike agreed with him, and Mom just frowned at me. I tried my best not to draw any attention to myself during dinner. After all, during the last Sunday dinner I’d dropped the ‘I’m pregnant’ situation and things had gone downhill pretty fast. This time I just wanted to enjoy my favorite burger.
I took my first bite and my nose scrunched up. “Did you do something different to the burgers?” I asked.
Dad’s eyes locked with mine for less than two seconds before he looked away, adding potato salad to his plate. “Same as always.”
Nodding, I took another bite. My nose scrunched again. It didn’t taste the same as always. It tasted…bad, actually. I placed the burger down and pretty much lost my appetite for everything sitting in front of me.
“Why aren’t you eating?” Grace asked me, stuffing her burger into her mouth. Just seeing her eat that thing was making me want to gag. How do they not taste it?! “When Mrs. Thompson was pregnant she ate like a cow. She looked like a cow, too.”
“Grace, that’s not a nice thing to say,” Mom scolded. I hated that the conversation was slowly turning to my pregnancy; I didn’t want to ruin dinner for Dad, again. Mom crossed her arms and gave me a pity smile. “It’s called dysguesia,” Mom said. “Your taste buds are just off due to the baby.”
Dad cringed and pushed his chair from the table. Whenever he was annoyed the redness in his face deepened. “I think that’s enough.”
“Adam…” Mom’s voice was low. “Sit back down.”