Page 65 of Finding Delaware

Standing on the front lawn, I watch him drive away, continuing to stare long after his car has faded from view. Only then do I pull out the bottle and swallow a pill. With the way my hands are shaking, I should take two, but I get nervous doing more than the prescribed dose for obvious reasons.

Taking several deep breaths, I let the cold air sting some clarity into my lungs before I pick up my bag and walk into the house that almost became my tomb.

Did this dining room always feel so small?

Sitting at the table across from Dad, listening to him speak, all I can think is how it feels like the room has shrunk since the last time I was here.

“I’m glad you’re here, son, but you didn’t have to come all this way just for me.” He looks the same, only skinnier. Tired. More drained. The glasses keep sliding down his nose like they no longer fit his thin face. His shirt hangs off his shoulders.

I guess stage-two bladder cancer will do that to a person.

“Yes, I did.” Swallowing hard, I glance away toward the fireplace where all the pictures of Mom still sit. “At least until you get better.”

Because this isn’t permanent. I’m not back in Utah forever, and Dad will beat this.

He smiles, but it seems weary.

Maisie reaches out across the table to take my hand. “Well, we’re just glad to have you back for however long we get you.”

I squeeze her fingers, nodding but can’t look at her. Can’t force myself to meet those blue-green eyes and dark hair that are like the ones that have been haunting my dreams for four years. So I sweep my gaze around the room, taking in all the photos of me hanging on the walls since I was in youth soccer. All of my sports accomplishments, school pictures, family photos. It’s like a monument to my childhood, but all I see behind those happy smiles is a kid being crushed by expectations. However, something’s missing…

With a frown, I realize for the first time that there’s only me in here. No pictures of another dark-haired boy anywhere to be found. And now that I think about it, I don’t think there ever was.

“When is the surgery?” I ask, pulling at my collar. It suddenly feels too hot in here, the fireplace stifling.

Dad leans back in his seat, removing his glasses to clean them on his shirt. “Next month.”

“What?” My eyes fly to him, slightly panicked, and I don’t miss the way Maisie’s lips thin. “Why so far away?!”

“That’s the earliest they can get me in.” His tone is calm and gentle, but there’s an edge to his voice that you’d only notice if you’ve spent twenty-two years with the man. “It’ll be alright, Huck. The doctors say it’s a slow-moving cancer. We’ve got time.”

But it doesn’t feel like we do.

It feels like that night at prom when I felt like my world was about to come crashing down around me. A wave of dizziness makes my head spin, and I tune out Dad and Maisie’s explanations of his treatments to focus on my breathing.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

I am me. I have control.

My fingers start to shake, so I fist my hands, nodding along to the conversation like I’m taking it all in, but I’m not here. I’m on a dark stage, spilling my heart out as the curtain opens, hundreds of eyes watching me bleed onto the floor. And just like that night, the walls feel like they’re beginning to move in on me. I can’t breathe. I need outoutOUT.

“Is my old dirt bike still in the garage?” I cut Dad off mid-sentence, and he blinks at me with a frown.

“Yeah, it’s still there. I’ve been keeping fresh gas in it and starting it occasionally, just in case, you know...” In case I ever came back. “Why, son?”

Inhale. Exhale.

“Think I might go for a ride on the track.”

He raises a brow. “It’s covered in snow.”

“I’ll throw the snow tires on.”

Leaving my seat quickly, I head toward the garage as Maisie tells me she’ll start lunch. Less than thirty minutes later, I’m sitting on the track, gazing over the white powder-covered field. It’s been years since I’ve ridden a dirt bike. Even longer since I’ve ridden one in the snow.

I don’t have moto gear anymore, and my fingers are frozen to the handlebars, but it feels good. Kicking on the bike, I start slow, re-adjusting to the feeling of my heavier body on the two-stroke. I’m almost jostled off when I hit a jump, but muscle memory takes over, and I correct myself.

A small chuckle leaves me at the sight I must make. I definitely won’t be winning any races anytime soon, that’s for sure.

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