Never Eighteen

  "Of course you don't want to fight. Look at you," he says, sizing me up again. "I've been working out. I'd wipe the floor with you." He puffs out his chest, beats it with closed fists like a gorilla. I almost expect him to belt out the Tarzan yell.

  "Yeah, I can tell you've been working out," I say.

  "Are you being smart with me? Huh?"

  "No, really, I'm not, I mean it. I really just want to say I'm sorry. That's all." I back away slowly. Apparently, Bertie feels a latent hatred for me that has been awakened. Without warning, he punches me right in the face, tagging my nose and eye with one blow.

  I hear Kaylee's door open. She flies out of the car screaming, "Stop!"

  "Who's this, your bodyguard?" Bertie jokes, then gives me an uppercut to the chin, followed by a quick left hook to the mouth.

  "Please," Kaylee begs. She grabs his arms, trying to pry them from me.

  Bertie shakes her off and she tumbles to the ground. I hold back tears of frustration. I can't control anything. I have to watch Kaylee fall instead of protecting her. I'm useless and pathetic. Kaylee gets back on her feet and jumps on his back just as he's grabbed my shoulder and is about to punch me again. "Stop! You don't understand. You could really hurt him," she cries.

  Bertie finally looks at her. I mean, really looks at her. He immediately lets go, backs off as if I've become hot to the touch. I become lightheaded and fall to the ground. Kaylee bends over me as I bleed out my nose and mouth.

  "Austin, are you okay?" she asks. Her tears spill onto me, mingle with my blood, drip down my face.

  "I don't know. I think so," I choke out.

  She turns on Bertie. "You fuck head! What's wrong with you?"

  Bertie says, "He deserved it."

  "We're even," I say weakly once I fully regain my voice. Kaylee helps me to my feet and to the car.

  "You had some nerve coming here, asshole!" Bertie yells after us.

  Just as she's about to get in the car, Kaylee flips Bertie off, then peels away. He chases after us shouting obscenities until he runs out of steam and gives up. When we're well away from Bertie's neighborhood, Kaylee stops by an AM/PM for ice. My entire face and body ache, the ice stings my forming wounds, but to lighten the moment I say through my hugely fat lip, "I know I've already plastered her with puke, but do you think Scarlet will mind if I get blood on her upholstery?"

  Kaylee stays silent for a moment; she's taking long, decisive breaths. Suddenly, she unloads on me. "Goddamn it, Austin! What the hell are you doing! That guy could have killed you if he wanted to."

  "Kaylee, we're all gonna die someday," I say.

  "Yeah, we're all going to die someday. I didn't realize you wanted to do it today. Why don't I just drive you straight to the morgue and get it over with? And can you stop it with all your meditative 'Confucius Say' bullshit? What's the point, Austin? We all know you're a great guy. You don't have to prove it to anyone. Maybe you should just mind your own business. Let these people fix their own problems, live their own lives."

  "But they're not, Kaylee. They're standing still while the world passes them by. It's not fair. They have a life to live. They have a future. I want for them what I can't have for myself."

  "Austin, you can't take on the weight of the world. You can barely carry your own," she says, softer now.

  "I know, but maybe I can make it a little bit lighter."

  She expels a heavy breath, a deep sigh. She knows I'm right, knows this is something I need to do. She doesn't respond, and by saying nothing she agrees with me.

  We drive a few miles in silence before Kaylee says, "Austin, I..." Then she pauses.

  "What? What is it?"

  "I, um..." She's struggling, whether it's to find the right words or any words at all, I don't know. "I worry." She sighs. She looks disappointed in herself, as if she wants to say something else but can't. "I don't like seeing you hurt. I, uh, care about you."

  "Kaylee, can I tell you something?"

  She completely ignores the question. "I mean, we're best friends. I just want you to be okay."

  The F word again, the ultimate blowoff. "The stuff I'm doing, it's not just for them, you know. I have my own goals, my own needs."

  "I get that, but no more of this stuff, okay? I can't bear to see you hurt. I lo—" She stops herself short again, thinks, then says, "I loathe it."

  "You loathe it?"

  "Yeah, I loathe seeing you hurt." I raise one eyebrow at her. "What?" she says.

  "Is that really what you were going to say?" I'm ribbing her, I know, but it seems like she wants to say so much more.

  "Yeah, sure. Why?"

  "It just seems like a weird thing to say. 'I loathe when you get hurt'?"

  She looks at me and giggles. "Shut up."

  "Fine. I'll shut up." For the first time that weekend, our entire relationship in fact, I think maybe, just maybe, Kaylee might like me as more than just a friend.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I stare out the window admiring the Tacoma skyline as we head back to the more familiar parts of town. I pull out my camera and start filming video aimlessly as the sights speed by. We pass the Tacoma Dome. The once pride and joy of downtown Tacoma was host to now defunct Sabercats hockey, Tacoma Stars soccer, and even one season of the Seattle Supersonics. A bit rundown these days, but grand still, it now sees home and garden shows, art and craft fairs, concerts, and high school sporting events.

  We take the 705 toward the north end, over the railroad tracks, past the museums, homes to history, art, and glass. I look over the Thea Foss waterway, new condos lining the west side, though nearly empty, having been built right before the recession. I look back over my shoulder at Mount Rainier. It seems like days instead of the few hours since Kaylee and I have been there.

  I ask Kaylee to take the Stadium Way exit so I can absorb mighty Stadium High School, the castle on the hill. We drive back down to the waterfront, where beyond the docks, restaurants, and the Puget Sound sit Federal Way, Browns Point, and Vashon Island.

  We pass through a tunnel under the old smelter site, the aluminum smokehouse, once a landmark of Tacoma's waterfront, now just a fading memory, demolished just a few years back. That smelter was vital to many families in this area, including mine. It paid the bills for my grandfather on my dad's side. After it closed, he drank himself to death.

  We enter Point Defiance Park and roll down the long, windy hill to Owen Beach. We get out of the car to walk across the beached logs and stick our feet in the icy water. Kaylee, Jake, and I used to come here a lot during the summers. We would just sit on the logs and talk, or walk down the beach and carve our names in the clay cliffs. Sometimes Jake would climb the steep hill leading up and away from the beach and try to ride his skateboard down. He crashed every time, even broke his arm once.

  With daylight fading fast, we climb back into the Mustang. I have Kaylee drive me through Five Mile Drive, where we take in views of the Cascade and Olympic Mountains, the Narrows Bridges, and Gig Harbor. A sadness sets over me as we cruise past the now empty, rundown Never Never Land, once a fantastical haven of life-size nursery rhyme and storybook characters. I brighten a little as we pass its neighbor, Fort Nisqually, an interactive living history museum that was once a Hudson's Bay Company outpost. This park holds many memories for me. They come rushing at me, full force, the picnics, the bike rides, the trips to the zoo. I begin to cry, to weep for them, these memories soon to be lost.

  Kaylee pulls into a parking spot near the end of the park, next to the rose gardens and duck pond. She turns to me, puts a hand on my shoulder, and waits silently until she thinks I'm calm. "Are you okay?" she asks.

  "I'm scared."

  "Me too."

  "I wish we could just hit the road and drive forever into nowhere." I look up at her, hot tears still stinging my eyes. "Until the end of time, just you and me."

  "I wish we could too."

  We sit in silence for a moment, just breathing, just being. "We could keep driving tod
ay. Did you have someplace else you wanted to go?" she asks, although I'm sure she already knows the answer.

  "My dad's," I say.

  Kaylee shifts the car into drive, as she's done so many times already this weekend, and heads toward the Narrows Bridge.

  My dad moved out to Gig Harbor after he and my mother separated. They've been apart for five years now, though never brought themselves to divorce. Seems hopeful to me.

  I've driven this bridge a million times, this old steel bridge built after the wind took the Galloping Gertie, the first bridge to span this section of Puget Sound. I respect its height and length. I know it's not as big or long as the Golden Gate and others, but it seems huge to me.

  We cross, heading west toward Purdy, a drive of fifteen to twenty miles. We reach our exit; come to yet another bridge, this one diminutive and quaint, the kind you find in a small rural town. We pass a tiny grocery, ice cream parlor, and video store and continue across the spit through the windy, wooded roads leading to my dad's house.

  We roll slowly, twisting and turning down the long unpaved drive, gravel grinding beneath the tires. Giant trees mark the edge of the driveway, stand as sentries guarding a hidden kingdom. Kaylee swerves to avoid a squirrel, almost smashing into one of the tall, impressive cedars.

  "Smooth move, Ex-Lax," I say. She smacks my arm.

  We come to a stop outside my father's little cabin. He lived in a travel trailer on the five-acre property, while building this place with his own hands. It's perfect for him, really; he always loved nature more than he ever loved people. I climb the stairs to the homey porch, one you might see in a Norman Rockwell painting, complete with swing, muddy work boots, and my dad's bulldog, Dog. I asked my dad once why he named him Dog, and he said, "Because that's what he answers to. I say 'Come here, Dog,' and he comes. Seems silly to call him anything else." Reasoning I was unable to argue with.

  I pat Dog on the head, approach the knotty pine door, and knock. No answer. I knock again just to make sure. Again, no answer. My dad's truck sits in front of the house, so I know he's home. I begin to hear a thunking sound coming from around the back of the house. I work my way back and find him chopping wood. I think he might be the only person left on the face of the earth that still chops wood. Everyone else just buys Duraflame. Yes, he's quite the outdoorsman—strong, rugged, wears flannel a lot, and always smells of Irish Spring. I've inherited his mouth, his height, and his outlook on life. He used to be clean-shaven, but since moving out to the woods, he's grown a mustache and beard. I hate the facial hair. I think I'll tell him.

  "Hey, Dad," I say, approaching slowly. I don't want to startle him while he's holding an ax.

  "Austin!" he greets me, throwing the ax dead center into a stump twenty feet to his right. He approaches me, arms outstretched, but stops short when he sees my face, recently beaten in by my old friend Bertie Brewster. "What happened to you?"

  "I got into a bit of a fight."

  "A bit of a fight? It looks like you got hit by a bus!"

  "He was slightly smaller than a bus," I say.

  My father looks at me with disappointment and concern. "You shouldn't be getting into fights," he says to me, as if I didn't know.

  "It's not like I planned to get the shit beat out of me. Anyways, I had it coming," I say.

  He puts an arm around my shoulders and leads me around to the front door. Upon seeing Kaylee relaxing in her car, he says, "What's Kaylee doing sitting out there in Glory? Does she want to come in?"

  "No, I've asked her to stay in the car," I say. He lowers an eyebrow. "And the name is no longer Glory, it's Scarlet. Glory was like three names ago."

  "How many times is she going to change the name? That poor car is going to have an identity crisis." We laugh.

  "I guess as many as it takes to find the perfect one."

  "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" Dad asks.

  "I came here to talk to you," I answer. "Okay, let's talk." He leads me into the cabin.

  I do love this place, so close to the world just beyond the trees, yet so secluded, so quiet. The woodstove in the living room, set inside a hearth created out of nothing but river rock and pine timbers, already blazes with heat from the fire within. Above the stove hangs a picture of my parents and me during one of our hiking trips at Mount Rainier. Mowich Lake, if I remember right. The Comet Falls hike has nothing on the Mowich Lake hike. Switchbacks all the way up then down again to the lake. Once you enjoy your picnic and the view, you have to do it all over again to get back to your car. Takes the entire day and is quite painful. Well worth it, though.

  It's rustic for sure, this cabin, almost looks as if it's been here one hundred years instead of four. I take a seat in the antique rocking chair next to the fire; my dad sits on the couch across from me.

  "So, what is it you want to talk about?" Dad asks.

  "Mom," I answer.

  "Mom? Austin, there's nothing to talk about there. That chapter of my life is closed."

  I said that two bad things happened in sixth grade: the first was Kaylee's dad dying, the second was my dad leaving.

  "If it's a closed chapter, why haven't you two ever divorced?"

  "It's just easier not to. Divorces can get sticky. You know—paperwork, custody, property division," he answers. "If your mom ever wanted to remarry, I would gladly sign the necessary papers."

  "She doesn't want to get remarried," I say, getting irritated. "She still loves you."

  "No, no, she doesn't. She made a choice, and she didn't choose me."

  "I don't even know what happened. Why did you guys fall apart?"

  "It's complicated."

  "Why do people always say it's complicated when they don't want to talk about something?" I ask.

  "Well, because it's easier," Dad replies.

  "So, is that your answer for everything? To take the easy way out?" I ask.

  "Sometimes things just aren't meant to be. We came from different backgrounds, different lifestyles. She couldn't get past our differences."

  "Or maybe you couldn't," I say.

  "You really want to know the truth?"

  "That's why I'm here," I answer.

  "It's not pretty."

  "Sometimes life isn't pretty, Dad," I say.

  "Yeah. It can be downright ugly, can't it?"

  "Yep. It sure can."

  "I loved your mother from the moment I met her. That pretty porcelain face, raven hair, deep green eyes. She was more than pretty; she was gorgeous. Still is. But she came from money, and her mom never liked me."

  "Peggy," I say.

  "Yeah, Peggy. I used to call her Piggy."

  "Not nice, Dad," I say, but laugh in spite of myself.

  "I know, but I can't stand that woman. We snuck around behind her back and finally eloped to Vegas. An Elvis impersonator married us."

  "Seriously? Elvis?" I had no idea.

  "Yes, seriously. Hang on a minute." He stands up, leaves the room, returns moments later, and hands me a photograph. Sure enough, the photo shows Mom, Dad, and Elvis under a white archway.

  "Your mom has the rest of the pictures. You should ask to see them sometime."

  "I will. Go on."

  "What it comes down to is that your grandmother hated the idea of us together so much that she sabotaged us."

  "How?"

  "By interfering, sticking her nose in, pitting us against each other. But one night, after we fought, she plied her with liquor and pushed her into the arms of another man. Your mom cheated on me," he says.

  "What!" I yell. "Mom had an affair?"

  "I wouldn't exactly call it an affair," Dad continues. "More like a fling. And don't judge her. You can never judge someone unless you've walked in their shoes. Her mom was pressuring her, and I was alienating her. She cracked."

  "What did you do?" I ask.

  "I left," he says. I bring up my memories of the day he walked out the door. After the yelling and crashing and things had quieted, I slowly opened
my bedroom door and went downstairs. My mom sat there on the couch, crying into her hands. I asked her what was wrong. She told me that she and Dad were having some trouble. That Dad left. I remember asking if he was coming back. She said she didn't know. He never did. After that it was every other weekend and alternating Wednesdays.

  "You left right then and there?" I say, surprised at how dejected I suddenly feel.

  "Austin, she cheated on me. In essence, she's the one who left the marriage, not me. Plus, she didn't try to stop me. I think if she had just said 'Stop' or 'Wait' or 'Don't go' as I walked out the door, I might have turned around. But she didn't, so I just kept walking."

  I stand, pace the room a few times, let myself simmer, relax, chill. Deep breath in. "You know, she hasn't talked to her mother since then."

  Dad seems surprised. "No, I didn't know that," he says.

  "How could you? You've barely spoken to her," I say. "She still loves you, you know."

  "She made her choice," he says.

  "She needs you now. Soon she'll need you even more."

  He looks at me thoughtfully, knowing I'm right. "We have our own lives now, Austin."

  "No, you don't. You hide out here in the woods away from people, the world. She does nothing but work and garden. She has no life outside our home." He looks as if this information wounds him.

  "You still love her, don't you?" I ask.

  "Yes. I've always loved her, never stopped."

  "Then fix this," I demand.

  "How? How do I fix this after five years have passed?" he asks.

  "Forgive her."

  He sighs deeply as if just relieved of a heavy burden. "I forgave her a long time ago, Austin, as soon as she apologized."

  "She needs to hear it, from you. Go to her. Tell her."

  "I don't know. It's been so long. I wouldn't even know what to say."

  "Say, 'I love you; I forgive you.' It's easy."

  "I'll think about it."

  "I guess that's all I can ask."

  We stand, walk to the door together; he hugs me tightly. "I love you," he chokes. He backs off, pats me on the arm, and brushes at his eyes to keep the tears from falling. I'm sure he wants me to leave before he cries.