Home Is Burning by Dan Marshall Read Free Book Online Page A

life. Everyone expects to tend to their parents eventually, usually when they’re in their eighties and have dementia and are writing their names in shit on the wall. But my dad was in his early fifties. Were my siblings and I going to have to derail our lives to try to help him manage this unlucky turn of events?
    I took a big swig of my eggnog and cuddled up even closer to Abby’s warm body. My dad was in for a long year, so I figured he finally deserved the first present of Christmas.
    â€œDad, you got the first present this year,” I said as I grabbed a gift for him and tossed it his way. He caught it with his still-strong hands.
    â€œThanks, DJ,” he said. He paused and looked over his family, then ripped it open.

 
    THE YEAR BEFORE THE WORST YEAR OF OUR LIVES
    My dad and I always had a great relationship. He was my pal. My buddy. My friend. It was never like, “Oh, fuck! I’ve got to hang with my dad.” It was always more like, “Oh, fuck yeah! I get to hang with my dad.”
    We were guys who liked guy things. We didn’t get too emotional about anything. I had only seen him sort of cry once—when his dad died. Even then, he cried for only a few seconds, and then he said, “It’s part of life, and he was suffering. Let’s get packed for his funeral.” My dad trooped through life hardly ever showing grief or sadness. To him, life was short, so he thought we should enjoy it without unnecessary stress.
    Our relationship was built on these laid-back, easygoing principles. We were in this mess together—a couple of goofballs who liked sex jokes, basketball, and trying to make sense of the complexities of our existence.
    Over the years, he didn’t get much of a break from caring for his children and his sick wife, but occasionally we’d sneak up to the mountains to ski—leaving all our problems back in the Salt Lake Valley. Some of our best conversations took place on the chairlifts heading up the mountain. He’d always start off the day by saying something incredibly blissful, like “There’s no place I’d rather be right now,” and “Boy, it’s so beautiful up here,” and “God, being up here makes me forget all of life’s worries.” We’d then get chatting about the small stuff: the Utah Jazz, the stock market, The Sopranos , the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, or how crazy my mom could get.
    But as the day progressed, we’d both open up in ways we wouldn’t when we were back in that grimy, polluted civilization. He’d encourage me to talk about whatever was troubling me: school, planning for the future, dealing with my mom’s cancer. When I was feeling especially courageous, I’d even ask him about girls.
    â€œHow do you get a girl to like you?” I’d ask while knocking the snow off my boots with a ski pole.
    â€œJust be you. And if she doesn’t like you, fuck her. Move on. It’s her loss,” he’d say with a smile and pass me hand warmers to stuff into my gloves.
    I loved how things were between us. I loved our meaningful, open conversations. I loved knowing that he had my back. I wanted that to last forever. The thing that scared me the most about Lou Gehrig’s disease was that it would change our relationship. I liked having my dependable dad looking after me no matter what.
    *   *   *
    â€œYou went fucking helicopter skiing?” I asked over the phone as I drove through L.A. traffic on my way home after work.
    â€œYep, they took Tiff and me up around Snowbird, dropped us, and we skied completely fresh powder,” my dad said. “We did seven runs.”
    â€œBut you have Lou Gehrig’s disease, remember?” I said as I thought about honking at some dickhead who’d cut me off.
    â€œYeah, I struggled a little with some of the deeper powder, but it was absolutely fantastic,” my dad replied.
    I