The Art of Breathing

  It’s almost summer now. I’m at my desk in my room in New Hampshire. The window is open and I can smell the grass outside. Boxes are piled up around me, filled with the little things I’ve accumulated since last fall. It’s not much, but that’s okay. The school year is done. The movers will be here soon. So will Dom and Ben. We’re taking a trip together for a few days. Just the three of us. Getting in a car and driving just to see how far we can get. I think we’ll get pretty far, don’t you?

  I’m leaving Dartmouth.

  Going back to Seafare.

  But, Tyson! you’re thinking. You’re leaving a prestigious school to go back home? You’re giving all of this up?

  I know how it sounds. I know how it looks.

  But I’m standing, aren’t I? I can stand on my own. I know that now.

  I’m not giving anything up. At least, not in the way you think.

  Yes, I’m saying good-bye to Hanover. Leaving the Big Green to become a Duck.

  No, I’m not addicted to quack (ha!).

  In the fall, I’ll starting up at the University of Oregon in Eugene. About an hour away from Seafare. It’s a decision I did not make lightly. I came out here to prove something to the world. It turned out I just needed to prove something to myself.

  And I’ve done that.

  I had big plans. Grandiose ideas. I was going to change the way people think. I was going to alter the future of mankind. I was going to be an astronaut. A rocket scientist. A furniture salesman (because I do love couches so). I was going to run PETA and every human being on the planet was going to convert to vegetarianism. I was going to become an ecoterrorist (the good kind) and thwart the diabolical plans of Big Oil and corrupt CEOs who dumped their wastes into the marshlands that were the home of the rare Bicknell’s Thrush so that these magnificent birds would once again flourish. I was going to do it all.

  And who knows. I still might.

  But first, I’ve got different plans.

  To change the big, you’ve got to start small. Or rather, you just have to start different.

  Which is why I’ll be going to school in Oregon to become a social worker. To work with kids to make sure they know they’re not alone. So they know everything is going to be okay. The scared ones. The lost ones. The angry ones. All of them. I’ll start there. One at a time. It’s not going to be easy work. I’ve talked with Georgia Ehrlichman, my former social worker (and Dom’s), many times about it. She tells me that the job makes her cry a lot. That there are times when bad things happen and there is nothing you can do about it. Where kids are put back into situations that aren’t good for them and there’s nothing you can do about it. She says those are the ones that are the hardest. And that it happens more than she cares to think about. And there’s nothing that can be done about it. As a matter of fact, she did everything she could to try to talk me out of it. “It’s a hard life,” she told me over the phone, “for the kids and those trying to help them. You’re underpaid, underappreciated, and see the worst in people on a daily basis. I’ve seen a child whose mother put her cigarettes out on her arms. I’ve seen children who’ve been pimped out by their parents in exchange for drugs. This isn’t easy work, Tyson. It never is.”

  “But is it worth it?” I asked her, my voice shaking.

  “Every bit of it,” she said. “If you can help one kid, then yes. It’s worth it.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll work for.”

  She sighed. “And you’ll do great at it.”

  And I will.

  It’s not fame. It’s not glamor. It’s doing what’s right.

  And hell, I have the rest of my life to take over PETA and the rest of the world. I’ve got to start somewhere. Might as well be where I’m needed the most.

  Bear wasn’t pleased about this decision, but I think he understands now. I think part of him was just relieved that I’d be coming back home.

  Yeah. I’m not moving in with Dominic. At least not yet. We’ll get there. Eventually. We want to get Ben used to the idea of me in his routine again, though Dom seems to think it’ll happen quickly, just like it did before. I’m not going to be his father. He already has one of those. And a mother too. Instead, I’ll be whatever he needs me to be. His friend. His brother. His caretaker. I’ll watch over him as if he were my own. Because he is. He’s a part of me now. Bear said once that family isn’t defined by blood. It’s defined by those who make us whole, who make us who we are.

  He’s a smart one, that Bear. Sometimes.

  So, you see, I’m not giving anything up. I’m gonna do what I think I’m meant to do surrounded by the people I’m meant to be with. I think it was inevitable. I can stand on my own, and I can carve my own path, but I’m not whole without my family. They’re the ones who have made me who I am and have helped me to see who I’m supposed to be.

  Creed and Anna. JJ. Jerry and Alice Thompson. Stephanie and Ian Grant. Stacey. Ben.

  Julie McKenna, my mother.

  Mrs. Paquinn, my real mother.

  Izzie, my sister, who I have not forgotten.

  Otter, my almost-father.

  Dominic. My love. My life. My future.

  But if you were to strip them all away, if you were to reduce this story, my story, to the most single common denominator that there is, what has this been about? What has it been about since you and I met so very long ago?

  My brother and me. That’s what this has been about. The whole time.

  There are others to our story. Great people and grand loves. They surround us just as surely as we surround them. But it always comes back to Derrick and Tyson McKenna. Bear and the Kid.

  He is the reason I can breathe. He is the reason I can stand on my own. Not because he did it for me, but because he taught me how. That’s what brothers do. That’s what he’s done for me. I hope he can say I’ve done the same for him.

  Someone once said, “I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three.” Bear told me that a long time ago.

  We were scared, once.

  We’re not scared anymore.

  I can hear them through the window: Ben and Dominic. Dominic is laughing about something, and Ben is saying something back. I can’t quite hear what they’re saying, but that’s okay. I’ll find out soon enough. His voice. How my heart beats. How my fingers tremble. I wonder if it will always be this way. I think it might be.

  Bear was right, though. Saying good-bye is the hardest part.

  But I guess it’s time. For now.

  They’re knocking at the door. Can’t keep them waiting. Them and whatever else awaits.

  One more thing. I scribbled this down on a bit of paper I found. I don’t remember when. I was going to give it to Bear, but I chickened out. I don’t know why. Probably because it’s so damn cheesy and blah, blah, blah. I’ll just leave it here with you, okay? Don’t make fun of me too bad for it. It just seems fitting to end this with a bit of bad poetry. Feels like tradition, I guess. Like Bear before me, I give this to you.

  I’ll see you later. Okay?

  Brother

  You are my protector.

  Holder of the secrets that we shared.

  You chased away my dark monsters,

  and allowed my heart and soul to be spared.

  The life we’ve lived. The times we’ve had.

  You’ve picked up the tatters, put the cloth to mend.

  There is no one stronger than who you’ve become,

  and we are brothers until the very end.

  Epilogue: Or, Bear’s Perspective, As It Were (Yeah, He’s Gonna Freak)

  ADMIT IT. You missed me.

  Well, if you must know, I’m perfectly straight edge now. Normal as normal can be. Just a typical half of a normal married couple from the suburbs. Nothing to see here. Nothing’s going to happen. Move along, move along.

  Yeah, I don’t believe me, either.

  Today’s a big day, if you must know.


  Why?

  Tyson (no longer really the Kid, is he? God, that hurts to say) is coming home today. He and Dominic and Ben have been traveling back across the country together. They rented a big RV and have been stopping at all these random places like The Biggest Ball of Twine In the History of Ever and following decrepit billboards in backwoods America proclaiming You’ll Never Be the Same After You’ve Seen THE THING!!!! JUST TWO EXITS AWAY!!!!! (Which, Tyson reported back to me, turned out to be nothing more than a pile of what looked like animal bones glued together to make a weird-looking fetal alien mummy. Très disappointing.)

  And (go me!), I didn’t even have any of my normal freak-outs when he announced they were coming back cross-country, off the beaten track. Well, not a complete freak-out, anyway. I didn’t let it get as far as them getting raped by hillbillies in West Virginia and then strung up on trees and sacrificed to some mountain wood god. I do have some restraint these days. I guess that’s what happens when you get older. You tend to focus less on the unnecessary and more on the practical. I mean, it’s more likely they would get RV-jacked and left on the side of the road and then get raped by hillbillies.

  Yeah, I know, I know. My students think that Mr. Thompson is a spaz. A good spaz, but a spaz, nonetheless. Some things never change.

  But other things do. In the strangest possible ways.

  I’m standing in the doorway of Ty’s old room. And what’ll be his room again, when he comes home to the Green Monstrosity. To be honest, I don’t know how much use this room is actually going to get, what with him and Dom. Ty says he doesn’t think they’re ready to move in together (“What if he finds out that I have the worst morning breath in the world? He’ll leave me for sure!”), but I don’t think he’s going to last as long as he thinks he will. Not if Dom has anything to say about it. Dom’s already confided in Otter and me that he plans on taking one thing out of Ty’s room a day until all of his things are in Dom’s house. Smooth, that guy. Of course, I had to threaten him that if he ever hurt my little brother in any way, there wouldn’t be enough of him left for his family to identify. Otter then pointed out that we’re his family, and then Dom pointed out that it’s hard to take a threat seriously when the person threatening is on the verge of tears. I called them both bastards, threw a couch pillow at Otter’s head, and fled the room before my emotions could get the better of me.

  And I should leave Ty’s room right now if I don’t want the same thing to happen again. I can’t seem to find the strength to do so, however. There’s so much here. So much about this place, this room, that causes me to stop and think. There were some nights after Ty went back to Dartmouth on his own that I couldn’t sleep, and I’d find myself sitting in this room. His room. I’d touch the books that still lined the shelves, thinking I should probably get around to reading Brave New World, seeing as how most of my students have. I’d look at the photos that line his desk. The walls. They tell his story. And mine too.

  There’s Ty (always the Kid) and me when he was seven years old. I’m looking at him, and he’s looking at the camera. Anna took the picture, I think. He’s smiling wide and there’s a tooth missing. I’ve never told anyone, not even Otter, that when he first started losing his teeth, I panicked, sure he was going to swallow one in the middle of the night and choke to death. There were a few sleepless nights whenever he had a loose tooth, as I’d camp outside his door, waiting to hear any choking sounds.

  There’s the Kid and Otter on our beach.

  The Kid and Mrs. Paquinn.

  The Kid and Creed.

  The Kid and Dom, arms around each other’s shoulders, mugging it up for the camera.

  Ty graduating.

  Ty his first day sober after the long dark, looking pale, but that undying spark still shining in his eyes.

  Ty, the day before he set out on his own.

  After he left, his room became a refuge for me. It was my place to hold on to something I knew I had to let go of. No matter how hard it was. No matter how much it hurt. No matter how much it terrified me.

  It’s gotten better. Or rather, I have. I think. I still find myself in here sometimes, though not as much as I used to be.

  But today is a different day. I’m allowing myself this moment, because of all the changes today is about to bring—and what the future holds for all of us.

  I’ll admit that under the relief of hearing Tyson say he was coming back to Seafare, I felt a twinge of disappointment. Not because of his reasons behind coming home or what he planned to do with his life, but more because I wanted him to get out of Seafare, to leave behind this place and all the memories that came with it. But then it hit me that all the bad can never compare to everything good that has happened to us in this place. In this town. We were knocked down, but we picked ourselves up. Every time. And we’ll do it again. So while I might have been just a tad bit upset, that left when I realized it was his life, and this is his home too. And if that’s what he wants to do, then I’m behind him on it. He is my brother, after all. That’s what we do. It’s the only thing to do.

  This room, though. These photos. All these things. There’s a lifetime of memories in here, even though we’ve barely begun.

  It’s easy to get lost in them.

  Otter comes up behind me, wrapping his big arms around my waist, dropping his chin on my shoulder. He kisses my ear and I squirm, trying to complain but unable to keep the smile from my face. Even after all this time, I get butterflies in my stomach when he touches me.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey, yourself,” I say back.

  He waits. He knows me well. He grazes his hand over mine and there’s that familiar clink as our wedding rings scrape together. It sounds like home.

  It’s hard to believe we’ve come so far, isn’t it? When you and I first met, things were… well. Things weren’t the best. I was a scared little boy in charge of another scared little boy. But, hey. No need to rehash old details. Chances are if you’ve made it this far, you know all this. It’s just strange to think where we’re at now, especially when you consider how we started out.

  Of course, it’s also strange to think how much things are about to change again. But this time, it’s by our own choice.

  And that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.

  “Did you finish?” I ask Otter. “Setting up the room?”

  “For the most part,” he says. “Want to come see?”

  I chuckle nervously. “I don’t know.”

  He kisses my neck. “It’s not as scary as you think. I promise.”

  “It’s very scary,” I remind him.

  He laughs in my ear. It’s a husky sound, and I consider whether we have enough time to allow me to climb him like a tree. Probably not. Besides, my nerves probably would ruin any shenanigans we could get up to. I’m kind of dumb like that.

  “You sure about this?” he asks me.

  “It’s a little late for that.”

  “Nah,” he says easily. “We can always just say no.”

  I shake my head. “And then what?”

  He shrugs. “And then we move on.”

  “What if…?” I stop. I told myself I wasn’t going to do this anymore.

  But I can’t hide it from him. “You’ll do good, Bear. We both will. Look at Ty.”

  I sigh. “I know.” Well, I think I do, anyway. Sort of. “Okay. Show me.”

  I take one last look into Ty’s room before I shut the door behind me. He’ll be home soon. I won’t have to worry much anymore. At least about that.

  I follow Otter down the hall to the spare bedroom next to ours, though I don’t know if I can call it the spare room anymore.

  Not when it’s going to belong to our son in another four months or so.

  Shit. That’s a thought I never believed I’d have.

  Otter opens the door, and inside is the result of his loving, painstaking labor over the past couple of weeks. What had once been a cluttered office we rarely used is now a bright and airy ro
om painted the palest of blues. Cartoon elephants and tigers are stenciled onto the walls, prancing in a field of green grass and pretty flowers. The ceiling above is painted with clouds, and in the corner is the sun. When you turn off the lights at night, little stars stuck to the ceiling shine down, put up by Otter and me as we followed along with the images of constellations off his laptop to mimic the night sky during summer.

  There’s a white dresser in the corner. A changing table. A crib. There are still so many things left to get, but the foundation is here. I’m pretty sure the ladies at the baby store rub their hands together gleefully every time they see us approach. This kid isn’t even born yet, and we’re already treating him like he’s the greatest thing in the world.

  Which, in a scary-real kind of way, he really is.

  The surrogate was a pain in the ass to find. Jerking off into a cup wasn’t my idea of fun, even when Otter was there to… help me out. The waiting sucked. The false starts were awful. We had one surrogate back out on us at the last minute. But it finally happened, and one day right around after Christmas, the phone rang and Otter answered it, and his face went white and then he said, “We’re pregnant,” and I don’t really remember much after that.

  You should have seen Otter’s face, though, when we found out it was a boy last week. It was a look of such wonder that it knocked the breath from my chest. That look has made it all worth it. That look is what I live to see.

  Jesus Christ, do I love that man.

  It’s been a bitch to keep secret, let me tell you. The pregnancy, that is. Our family knew we were trying. But they don’t know we’ve succeeded or how far along it is. This room is meant to be a surprise for them. For us. For Ty.

  They’re all going to shit a brick.

  Goddamn this baby room.

  And all this baby stuff.

  And having babies.

  And being a parent.

  Forever.

  And, of course, I start to panic.

  “Bear?” Otter asks. “You okay? You’re breathing funny.”

  “I’m fine!” I say, my voice high-pitched. My eyes feel like they’re bugging out of my head.