Page 9 of Ryder: Shadows and Desires
Mom dramatically nods, wiping her eyes. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll call you later when I’ve collected myself.”
I know, by now, not to expect the phone call.
I hang up after telling her goodbye.
Sighing, I call Dad, who’s better at balancing his love for both of his children. Ever since my parents’ divorce five years ago, I always call him second, to end on a pleasant note.
Jeremy used to called Mom first because he was a mama’s boy, as we teased.
The joke doesn’t quite have the same effect anymore.
After Dad picks up and I break the news to him, he laughs and even takes a moment to hold back his tears before leaning into the camera’s frame, pushing his reading glasses up, and fixing his short, dirty blond hair. “Jeremy used to watch the crap out of Ryder. My god. That’samazing, Bear.”
I nod, loving that he still calls me by my childhood nickname. “Yeah, I know. I’m still stuck in shock.”
We chat some more about how the gym is doing and the state of my rundown rental home. Dad suggests, “I’ll try to make it out to you soon. It’s been a while. We can get hot dogs and maybe go see a movie.”
Damn, the refreshing offer is such a classic “Dad” move. He used to take Jeremy and me out for hotdogs and movies once a month when were kids. I nearly choke up at the thought of seeing him soon. “That sounds good, Dad. I’d really like that.”
“Alright, well, gotta go take care of dinner. Got a lasagna in the oven. Kind of smells like it’s burning—love you, Bear.”
“Love you, too.”
The falter of his smile mixes with the pain in his eyes just before hanging up, telling me he is about to join his ex-wife in crying over their lost son, even if they live in separate homes. I’m grateful my Dad at least puts on a parenting face for me, but the distance is insurmountable during times like this.
Hell, I don’t even remember the last hug I got.
I lay my phone on the countertop, and then place my face in my hands. I remain like that for nearly ten minutes before dropping my hands. My gaze wanders the room until I decide I can’t celebrate in my shitty house.
Glancing out the kitchen window—the edges lined with cracking paint—I watch as the rain pelts on the glass. The sky is dreary with heavy, dark clouds. A few older trees blow in the wind, my yard sectioned off by a chain-link fence that I share with the neighbors.
The yard is utterly flooded, especially near the sewer manhole, which is, of course, inmyyard. It all settles in a larger pool of water that birds like to bathe in. The scenario was cute at first, but every time the rain dries up, I notice a sizable hole keeps opening, one big enough to swallow a small dog. I’ve called the city about it, and according to them, they’ll be heresoonto fix it.
The last time I called them was four days ago. And the hole is only bigger.
I sigh, as it’s not my problem right now. I’ve placed a board over it in case someone’s pet gets into my yard and falls inside. That’s about as far as I care about following up with the issue, the board currently soaking with rainwater.
Rolling my head to stretch my neck, I hover when I glance at the ceiling and notice a crack is much larger than it was a week ago.Should probably call my landlord, too, just in case.
Not a problem for right now.
After gathering leftover dessert, I pack a photograph of Jeremy, some paper plates, silverware, and all the extra fixings for a picnic.
I exit my rental home and have to pull the door so hard that it rattles the shutters to get it to shut. Don’t know why the door doesn’t fit anymore—I spot a crack in the foundation near the door.Has that always been there?
That foreboding sense of anxiety swells, something I am all too familiar with as of late.It’s fine, it’s fine. These are not my problems. I’ve told the landlord, and called the city about the yard.My jingling keys mix with the sound of the questionable street I live on—someone blares their TV through a wide-open window, and a small fight can be heard from someone else’s porch.
I slip my hand into my jacket pocket to grip my mace as I near my car. These roads are fine during the day, and there’s even families that live here, but this place is prime groping and robbing grounds once the sun dips below the horizon.
Making awkward eye contact with some neighbors that I rarely talk to, I power-walk to my Subaru, splashing my feet in the standing water. At least it’s a warm rain.
The car beeps to unlock as I grab the wet handle, dropping into the driver’s seat, carefully placing the angel food cake on the passenger side. Water ricochets through the open door and onto my thighs before I shut it. The smell of fresh rain soaks my clothes, the heavy drops echoing against the glass.
My destination is a place called Simmons Park. It might be a gloomy day, but the moment is therapeutic. Heartbreak nearly makes me turn around when I pull into the parking lot, but I commit. This is important. Lightly jogging to a covered patio, I wipe the rain out of my eyes. The scene is of a valley of mowed lawns and trees, a walkway cutting right through.
It may be bleak and stormy, but it’sours.
Carefully setting my brother’s picture on the worn wooden picnic table, I position the standing frame a few times, even setting a plate for it. My wet hair sticks to my face and my ass is cold when I sit on the table, but it’s worth it.
