Drowning in You by Rebecca Berto Read Free Book Online Page A

you.” Dad grins with
glistening eyes. “I planned to have your mom fetch me a scotch and
Coke every time I watched a documentary. You see, I make a lot of
plans. I’m just terribly—” Dad usually does this thing where his
face gets pink while he tries to appear in control but in this
state he looks like nothing. My dad just looks like a slate of
nothing while his mind is worlds away. “I’m quite peeved they won’t
happen.”
    This question has been on my
mind for so long but now feels like the right time to ask. “So
you’re ready to die?”
    “ What?” Dad
shakes his head fast, which gives me hope his reactions are
improving—his comprehension and all those types of measures—which
is a good sign. “I’m going to fight death while I’m dead.” Dad
looks at me funny then says, “So all this time you thought…no. Of
course not. I’d never leave you and Darce, but sometimes things
happen and I just need to know you’re prepared because it’d kill me
to die and leave you unprepared.”
    “ You do
realize how embarrassing you are saying that stuff about ‘it’d kill
you to die’ because you’re too old to make jokes.”
    “ I’m
forty-nine!”
    “ Right.
Old.”
    “ Just not old
enough to die?”
    “ Right again,”
I say.
    “ All right, be
honest. I get the feeling I look like a Simpson these
days.”
    I have to recover from an epic
giggling fit. I savor the air, let it fill me up, and it calms me.
“You’re not that bad.”
    I move back to my chair after
that and we talk about some technical stuff which is so unemotional
even a wreck like me can handle it, and then we just go on to
recent news, how Nana and Pa are, how my swimming and teaching is
going and Darcy’s training, and it’s easy again. Being with my dad
is so easy.
    If he ever leaves me…

7. Making Mistakes
     
    Dexter
     
    My sugar must have been low
before to warrant the type of hypoglycemic attack where I craved
everything that had a high-sugar content. Half-dazed, I opened the
pantry, seeing a week-old package of cookies lying open, a bag of
potato chips, and some chocolate. After eating half of all of them,
I wobbled away, realizing I’d have to work all week at the gym to
get my shape back.
    I pick up my guitar, strumming
chords after a few minutes of abusing myself for being so careless
with my cravings. Sure, a hypo made any diabetic hunger-craved but
that was no excuse. I’m better than that.
    So for the
next half hour, I practice the sheet music I bought for Maroon 5’s
classics, Sweetest Goodbye, She Will Be
Loved and Harder
To Breathe .
    Everyone’s gotta be worth
something, be the best in this world at something and that, for me,
is music. This afternoon, I play some simple chords to start with
because my muscles are lethargic from the hypo. Even more so, it’s
drained my brain. And comfortable is easy because I don’t need to
look at music. I close my eyes, hum, and don’t even remember the
fingerings. The millisecond before my fingers press the strings is
the first time I remember what I should press. I think the melody
is ingrained in my muscle memory—not my mind.
    After the three Maroon 5 songs
I need another task. Maybe I should go to the gym after all. When
my muscles burn and my lungs are hungry for oxygen, I can’t wonder
about Charz.
    And that’s what I do.
    I strip to my boxers and then
change those for briefs, for, you know, less bounce. I pull out my
shorts and white tank and sneakers.
    As I pass the bathroom, I look
back in the mirror. Two symbols stamp my left inner forearm for a
person I’ll never forget, Jack. I hate my last memories of him,
though, because it isn’t his devilish ability to win over our mom’s
heart for favors. It’s his car, flattened against a tree, with two
perfect zigzagged lines where the wheels lead up to the wreck.
    The other
forearm is an ugly forest strangling things like a thorned heart, a
jellybean, and the death reaper’s scythe with the letter “J”