This starts him all over again, and he cries into my neck. I grip him tighter, speaking quietly into his ear until he stops sobbing and starts hiccupping. I rub my hand through his hair. It’s so long again. He needs a haircut. I’ll have to make an appointment. My hands start to shake. I don’t know why.
I look over his shoulder and see Anna standing next to Mrs. Paquinn, both of their eyes red-rimmed, their faces wet. And of course, next to Anna is Creed, eyes suspiciously shiny. He rubs his forearm over his face, and when he drops it, his eyes have lost the shine. What’s there instead is resolve. He knows. And if he knows, Anna does too.
Fuck.
I feel a tugging on my chin and look down at the Kid in my arms. His nose is snotty and his face is puffy, but he’s still the greatest thing I’ve ever seen. And if he can know about me and Otter and still look at me like I created the Earth, then I must be doing something right.
I sigh and turn my attention back to my little family standing in front of me. “I guess we have some things to talk about. Can we go inside?”
13.
Where Bear Comes
(Out) Clean
WE SIT in Anna’s living room, Tyson in my lap and the others sitting across from us on the couch. The Kid seems perfectly happy being latched tightly onto my hands, and I have to admit I’m pretty okay with that. I look over at the others, and they’re watching me silently, and in my head, I’m making it a game to see how long we can go before someone breaks the silence like it’s something fragile. The sweat that’s pouring down my back leaves no doubt in my mind that it’s going to be me. I feel a tug on my chin.
The Kid looks up at me with those big eyes of his. He motions for me to lean in closer, and he puts his lips close to my ear, and his breath tickles as he speaks: “I didn’t say anything to them.” The look he gives me is so miserable that I hug him tightly again.
“I know you didn’t, Kid.” And I do.
“Are you really going to tell them?” he whispers. “Does that mean we can go see Otter when we’re done?”
I smile sadly down at him. “I don’t know.” I take a deep breath. “I’m scared.”
His brow furrows, and he looks over at Anna, Creed, and Mrs. Paquinn. He appears to study them for a moment and then turns back to me. “Why?”
Why indeed?
Fully knowing the answer, yet still needing to hear it anyway, I ask, “After I told you, you still loved me, right?”
The smile that dawns on his face then is dazzling, and I can see more tears welling up behind his eyes. He wraps his arms around my neck and squeezes like we’ll both die if he doesn’t hug me as hard as he can. His breath is harsh in my ear. “More than you’ll ever know, Papa Bear. More than you’ll ever know.” I close my eyes and focus on his heart beating next to mine. He is my strength. He is my courage. If he tells me that it’s going to be okay, I at least have to take the chance and believe him.
“I can have both of you, can’t I?” I whisper to him. “I don’t have to choose?”
He rubs his hands along the back of my head. “You don’t have to choose,” he says quietly. “We chose you already.”
My voice startles me, as I don’t know I’m about to speak to the group before me until I hear my words come out loud and strong, rushed and firm: “Before I say anything, there’s one thing I would ask. One thing I need to have you all do.” I don’t take my eyes off the Kid, but I somehow know I have their attention. “Don’t say anything until I’m done. Let me say what it is I need to say without any interruptions. It’s… it’s the only thing I ask.” I finally look at them.
Mrs. Paquinn and Anna are nodding, but Creed looks like he thinks that’s the stupidest idea in the world. He starts to open his mouth, and Anna elbows him in the ribs, causing him to wince and glare down at her. A moment later, I’m the center of his attention again, and he nods, resigned. I hope you’ll still be willing to look at me when I’m done, I think. I hope you all will.
Wanting to delay
the inevitable as long as I can, I open my mouth to tell them about our mom’s visit or to wax poetic about how much they all mean to me and that I hope what I am about to say won’t change anything. But, as I’ve told you before, my mouth tends to cheat and start the race early, leaving my brain—whose legs have apparently been amputated—trying to catch up. So the words come out, and I should have realized what I was going to say. Maybe it means something. Maybe it means nothing. Who the hell knows anymore?
My immortal words? “Creed, I’m in love with your brother, and I think I fucked everything up.”
Boom.
Okay, well, nothing explodes. As a matter of fact, you know the expression so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop? Well, it was so quiet you could have heard a molecule fart three states away. Apparently no noise is needed to have three sets of eyes bulge out of their sockets. Scratch that, four sets. I look down at the Kid, and his eyes are just as wide. He snickers and says, “Wow, just straight for the jugular, huh?” He pauses and then snickers again. “No pun intended. Well, maybe just a little.” I smack him gently upside the head. Story of my life: lousy execution with color commentary by the world’s smallest vegetarian. This isn’t going to go well.
True to their word, the others don’t speak. Mrs. Paquinn has a smile on her face. Anna is unreadable. Creed… well, Creed’s face is red enough that it looks like he is going to shit an early-eighties Caddy. I look back down at the Kid, and he is smiling quietly, still clutching my finger. If anyone else saw his expression, they would think he’s just listening, waiting for me to continue. But I feel the rigidness of his little body, the way the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he stares at our family. I know him: he’s waiting for someone to say anything against me so that he can tear them limb from limb. Whether or not he’s capable doesn’t matter. I know now that this isn’t just for me. He needs this as much as I do.
“I’m in love with your brother,” I say again, stronger, faster. “He loves me, too, though I haven’t done anything to deserve it. I did almost everything I could to make sure it didn’t happen. As a matter of fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t run screaming back to California before now.” That takes root in my head. Oh, God. I look at Creed. “Has he?” I whisper, not really wanting an answer, but wanting it to be no all at the same time.
He shakes his head but doesn’t speak.
“Oh,” I say weakly. The Kid lets me have a moment of relief before motioning for me to continue. I decide not to think anymore and let the words come on their own. It’s easier that way, not having to choke through a saltwater and silt filter. It’s easier than drowning.