But here’s the real problem. When there’s only one parent, that parent can obsess or be neglectful. Without the other parent, there’s no counterbalance. The heavy end of the scale drops. The kid flails and drowns. Sure, you can argue that some kids do fine with only one parent. Yeah, and some blind people manage to find a job. But some have to be taken care of their whole lives. Look at my mother. If Dad weren’t there to keep her grounded and realistic, we’d be eating mushrooms in some godforsaken mountain village. Maybe wearing coffee plant leaves. Good intentions.
I love Mom, don’t mistake this for anger. But she’s working with a huge disability here. She loves me. She doesn’t want me to be in pain. She could never make the hard decision to amputate. But Dad has a different perspective. It means that they can talk about possibilities and make decisions without the whole weight being on one of them. When Mom loses it, Dad takes over. When Dad blows something off, Mom keeps bringing it back up. It’s a good system, one I never noticed before when they were yelling at me for jumping all over Nick or forgetting to write Grandma a thank-you note.
Which brings us back to the humongous danger of a parent being absent. Not that I’d change a single thing about the one perfect night in my life—my night with Meredith—but someone wasn’t paying attention. I’ve never met Mr. Rilke. From Meredith’s descriptions of her visit with him over Thanksgiving break, he loves her. Even if he couldn’t stay faithful to Mrs. Rilke. But what if it hadn’t been me, what if it had been Leonard or some fugly football player who took Meredith home after the Halloween party and just used her? Mr. Rilke dropped the ball. He wasn’t there to remind Meredith or her mom that curfews are set for a reason. And beautiful girls like Meredith need protecting.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not making a moral judgment about sex before marriage. I didn’t take advantage of Meredith. We’re in this together. That’s the point in spades. If her father knew how messed up her life is going to be when the boy she loves dies before he turns seventeen, her father should have been here to enforce the goddamn curfew. And he sure as hell ought to be around after I die when she falls apart.
How come I’m so sure she’s going to fall apart? I mean, I’m not trying to kid anyone. Daniel Solstice Landon is not the most incredible sixteen-year-old guy in the world. My hair’s too long and stringy. I’m bony. I can’t run worth a damn. I get freaked out under dark bridges. I think phragmites and having a little sister like Phoebe Caulfield to talk to are more interesting than playing spin the bottle or winning a soccer game. I fall off bridges, for chrissake.
Apart from the fact that I love the way Meredith lets the last word of a paragraph drop into silence and that thing she does, rubbing her bare feet on the rug when she’s worried, and apart from being sure she loves me because, although she knows my favorite song is a hymn called “Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning,” she would never, ever reveal that to anyone…apart from all that, I know she’s going to fall apart when I die because our sleeping together was the first time. There’s only one first time for everything. And when it happens at sixteen and then one of the people dies, it’s traumatic. For both people.
Meredith calls on Christmas Eve, but she doesn’t talk to me. Mom comes into the kitchen where I’m drying dishes as Joe washes. The turkey carcass hulks on the counter. The leftover stuffing odor of onions and spices fills the room with the comfort of the familiar.
Joe’s holding court. “In my geography seminar about colonialism, Professor Abelard says it’s all economics. You’d like him, Daniel. He uses novels to teach history.”
Mom nudges Joe, elbow to elbow. He shuts up as if they planned this. The silence is telling.
“What?” I say.
After a sharp nod from Joe, Mom speaks. “That was Meredith on the phone just now.” They’re looking anywhere but at each other, another dead giveaway.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I ask.
“Joe can drive you over to Meredith’s house. I’ll finish here.”
He grabs the towel from me and dries his hands, halfway to the door before he turns and lobs it overhand toward the sink. I catch the towel before it lands on the floor.
“What if I don’t want to go?”
Joe snorts. “Don’t be an idiot. She’s waiting for you.”
“How the hell do you know? What is going on?”
Mom’s swiping at her eyes with her fingers, pretending to laugh, fooling no one.
“Okay, okay. I’ll go see Meredith, but I don’t get why my life has to be everyone else’s business.” I wipe the perspiration off my face, but when I put the towel down, there’s red stuff all over it. I look at my hands. Streaks of red.
“What the…”
Mom starts screaming. I’m trying to remember what I ate with cherries or tomatoes in it. When I turn to grab the sponge, Joe pivots back into the kitchen, his head peeking out of the fleece as he tugs it into place.
“You cut yourself?” he says.
“I was drying plates, cups, like I’ve done a million times before. I didn’t cut myself.”
Enter Dad. “Oh, my God. Sit down, Daniel.” Arms open, palms up, he steps close in one long stride, arches my head back and assesses my face, then puts both hands on my head and pushes it down between my knees. “Okay, okay. He’s going to be okay. It’s a nosebleed, folks, that’s all. Sylvie, calm down.”
“A nosebleed? Since when do I get nosebleeds?” I garble the words and watch the drops splatter in rapid succession on the scuffed linoleum.
Nick’s sneaker toes poke into the edge of the picture and then a towel is thrust up from my ankles.
“Thanks,” I mumble, slime thick in my throat. A choking cough sprays crimson across my boots and Nick’s sneakers.
With Mom’s sobs as background noise, I wait for Nick’s “gross,” but it doesn’t come.
“Sylvie, call Misty. She’ll know what to do,” Dad barks. “Joe, ice in a plastic bag. Nick, another towel.”
Basic nosebleed care, I had no idea Dad knew anything about medical stuff beyond how to treat poison ivy from the Scout manual. Once Joe’s back and Dad gets him into position with the ice pack, he leaves to check on Mom.
Joe talks in my upside-down ear. “Your timing stinks. Mom was trying to make your Christmas perfect. She and Meredith planned the whole thing and you had to screw it up. How does Meredith put up with you? Falling off bridges and bleeding all over everything.”
The fake rant is meant to fill the time and I appreciate it. Joe tells me about a date where the girl threw up on him between dinner and dessert. When Nick laughs from the other side of the table, I realize they’re all just standing around, waiting for me to stop bleeding. Like so much else in my life, we’re all just waiting for frigging Daniel to straighten up and fly right.
By the time the bleeding stops, Dad’s back. He and Joe walk me to the bedroom where extra pillows draped in towels form a sultan’s throne. I’m half asleep before they’re done propping me up.
Meredith’s voice in the living room floats into my conscious. I hope it’s not just a dream.
“Can I come in?” she asks from the doorway.
“Better ask the border patrol if you can cross into the ‘no flu zone.’ Though I’m not too dangerous right this minute.”
“Your mom said it was okay.”
“I heard you and she were buddies.”
She pulls the desk chair over so she’s facing me. “Merry Christmas.” She’s fighting tears.
“Meredith Christmas, you mean.” I will her to laugh. “It was only a nosebleed.”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry’s back again? And no bridge in close proximity?”