Page 72 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
“Of course I do,” I say. “I’m just…not ready forthatyet.”
“Whatever you want,” he always says. But each time he does, I see his eyes harden just a little bit more, as if patience is a softener and I’m watching it drain away.
23
NOW
AFTER PRYING AS MUCH CLEANflesh from Manuel’s mangled skeleton as I could, I wiped all the soft webbed fillets down until the meat shone clean and white. He offered to help, but I just laughed at the green tint in his cheeks and told him to go wash up.
I dumped the blood and guts and bones, brittle like pine needles, back into the lake. Back where they came from. Then I sealed the meat into a plastic bag, wiped down both knives, and carried it all back up the steps onto the porch.
When I reached the top, I found my father parked before the railing, staring out at the choppy water. The Nurses were nowhere in sight. I walked over and stood next to him. We stared out at the water for a few quiet moments. Then, before thinking about what I was going to say, I asked, “Dad, do you ever think about drugs anymore?”
He looked over at me in surprise. I was about to apologize, to take back the question, but then he started to laugh. Big, rattling cackles, the kind that make you gasp for air.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh,” he said, still laughing.
“I don’t…”
“I forget you’ve never been a drug addict before.”
I smiled awkwardly. “I don’t understand.”
“Asking an addict if he ever thinks about drugs is like…” He cast around for a suitable comparison. “Is like asking a priest if he ever thinks about God.”
“Oh. So…” I laid one hand on the railing. A sliver of wood pressed into my palm, not quite piercing the skin. “The answer is yes.”
“The answer is yes.”
“And…” I picked at the sliver with one finger. “It never goes away?”
He sighed and looked back out at the lake. “There’s a reason addicts are only calledrecovering, neverrecovered.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
We became quiet again. The lake was now well stirred up into its evening churn. I watched the wind make wrinkles across its surface.
Finally, Dad cleared his throat. “How have the, uh…” He drummed two fingers on his padded armrests. “You know…how’ve they been?”
“How have who been?”
“Not who, not who.” He waved one hand. “The thoughts, the Worries. Thestuff, you know. Has all of that…has it been okay?”
Now it was my turn to look over in surprise. Dad never asked me about my mental health. Not since the first time he drove me to therapy.
“They’re…” I wasn’t sure what to say. “Yeah, they’ve been okay.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not really. The Worrieshadbeen okay for almost three years. Just as I’d hoped, the move to New York—a city where I knew no one, and more importantly, no one knewme—let me start fresh. Stuff that portion of my life into a little box. Wrap it in cinder and chain, sink it to the bottom of the East River.
It was only now, away from the safety of the city, that I felt them starting to creep back in.
He nodded. “Good. Your mother…she worries about you living all alone in New York.”
I almost laughed.Oh, does she? Doessheworry?
“I’m fine, Dad. Really.”
“You know…you’ve always impressed me with your independence, Eliot,” he said. “It’s remarkable. You never ask anyone for anything. Never. Not even when you were little.”
