I crouch down to where she was, the vinyl still warm. Sticking my head under the sink, I catch the smell of bleach and something damp and musty. There’s a big crack in the u-bend of the pipe that takes the sink water out into the drain.
“We’ll have to call a plumber,” she says.
“We can’t afford a plumber.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do? We need a sink, Ev.”
“I’ll fix it.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“I know how to do it, Dadtaught me.”
She swallows and I look away, not wanting to catch the emotion on her face.
“The tools are in the garage. Do you think you can fight your way in?”
“Yeah, I’ll sort it.”
The garage is a fucking mess. No one’s been in here for years and I have to fight just to get past the door, stubbing my toe on old mildewing boxes. Looking inside everything to try and find the blue toolbox I remember Dad going around the house, fixing shit with. Most of the stuff in the boxes is old crap, like Stacie’s headless dolls and school projects Ma refuses to throw out.
There are boxes of photo albums, too. I put them to one side without looking too closely.
Old car parts are stuffed behind the boxes. Most of them rusted and no use to anyone but the junk yard guy. I make a pile of those outside the garage to take to the junk yard, maybe try and sell them as scrap metal.
Ma brings me a sandwich and a glass of Coke at lunchtime and I sit on a box and wolf it down before getting back to work. Dad always warned me how important momentum is. How hard it is to get back into something once you take a break. I push out thoughts of him in here, fixing up cars before he got sick, and carry on with my work. But I can’t help it. Being in here, surrounding by all this stuff. It has him all over it.
I force myself to focus. It’s a task. These are just things. They have no real importance. They’re in the way of me fixing the sink, that’s all.
I finally find the toolbox, hiding behind another stack of damp cardboard boxes. I recognize the dark blue color right away. Crouching down, I wipe the dust and grime off it and something catches in my chest at the familiar writing inblack Sharpie. My breathing is ragged, I can hear it in my ears, along with a rush, like the ocean, pouring in.
This is my writing. I did it when I was about six years old. Helping Dad fix something around the house. Looking up at him like he was the fucking moon and stars. It says:
Evan and Dad.
That’s it. Evan and Dad. Just two words.Fuck.
I have to sit down. My hand rests on the toolbox, like it’s gonna disappear if I let go. Everything forces its way to the surface. Every scrap I’ve been holding back behind some invisible wall. It all comes crashing down at once. Every memory I’ve ever had of my dad seems to seep out. Him teaching me and Nate to ride our bikes on this very street. How he’d dive on the ground so we fell on him instead of the hard concrete, to stop us from hurting ourselves. How he took us to the bike store as a reward and bought us any bell we wanted. I chose Mickey Mouse and Nate chose Ninja Turtles.
I remember sitting on his shoulders at the Fourth of July firework display in the park. His soft hair under my hands, the smell of Marlboros on his fingers. The way I’d sleep in his flannel shirts when he was away. The way he’d make a beeline for me when he came home from work and sweep me up in his arms. How I’d follow him around and how he didn’t mind. I’d sit in the passenger seat of his work van and play with the stereo with the broken dials. Sometimes I’d just sit out in the van on the driveway and pretend I was him, on my way to work. I’d see him peek out of the window every now and then and smile.
He was my world and I had to watch him slowly disappear before he finally left us forever. I was too scared to be there most of the time. It hurt to see a faded version of him, but he never made me feel bad about it. And now I’ve lethim down. I’ve failed him. He told me it was my job to take care of my ma and Stacie, and I’ve failed in the last thing he asked me to do for him.
Nathan
When calling doesn’t work, I take the initiative to go over there and talk to Evan face to face. Maybe I’ll have to start over? Build up fromGo back to your frat bros, Nate,toYou can come in until Ma gets home.
It felt weird to ask Ben to drive me to my old neighborhood, but when he asked where I was going, he insisted on taking me.
When he pulls up outside Evan’s house, the garage is open and Old Tom is looking through the blinds next door. And crouched in a ball in the open garage, surrounded by piles of boxes and old car parts, is Evan.
I know something’s wrong straight away. Something about the way he’s balled up like that.
“Is that Evan?” Ben asks.
“You can go back to the house, if you want.”
“Are you sure? I can wait. If you guys need a ride somewhere.…”
