Tell Me You're Sorry (9 page)

“Pass it! Goddamn it, pass it!” he heard his father bellow over all the noise.

Ryan ran.

He was so angry. All of his humiliation and rage were channeled into a fearless determination to win. He poured on the speed and ran right toward the Patriot tacklers. He just wanted to hurt somebody, most of all himself. But his blockers were looking out for him—and one by one, they cleared a path for him to the end zone.

The home team crowd erupted into a chorus of cheers and howls as Ryan ran past the goalposts. He hurled the football down on the ground, and it ricocheted off the turf. He didn't do the usual victory dance. Instead, he paced around, trying to catch his breath until his teammates closed in around him. They were all high-fiving each other and slapping him on the back. But Ryan was looking over at his father on the sidelines.

The old man stood there with his hands in the pockets of his Notre Dame jacket. He had a strange smile on his face.

After they scored with the extra-point kick, there were three seconds left in the game, not enough time for Stevenson High School to regain its lead. So while the Scouts' fans started gathering at the sidelines to storm the field, the players went through the formalities. The ref's whistle signaled the end of the game, aborting a last-ditch effort by the Patriots to score. The Lake Forest fans and cheerleaders swarmed over the field like locusts.

The throng merged with his teammates, and suddenly Ryan felt all these hands on him. They grabbed hold of his arms, shoulders, and legs. Then they lifted him in the air. Immediately, he started looking for his dad again. But he only caught a fleeting glimpse of him through the crowd. He was still there on the sidelines, waiting.

As he swayed from side to side on a throne made up of his classmates, Ryan imagined shaking his father's hand. He might not have followed the old man's instructions, but he wanted to tell his dad that he couldn't have done it without him.

Eventually, his friends set him down—amid more backslapping, cheers, and whistling. Ryan was making his way toward his dad. He took off his helmet and grinned at him.

His father still had that same strange smile, and he was shaking his head.

Ryan stepped up to him. “Dad, I—”

That was all he got out before his father slapped him hard across the face.

Startled, Ryan dropped his helmet. Several people in the crowd gasped.

“When I tell you to do something, you do it!” his father barked.

Ryan stared at him for a moment. The whole left side of his face throbbed, and tears filled his eyes. All of a sudden, he flew into a rage. “Fuck you!” he shouted, shoving his dad back toward the bleachers. The old man toppled to the ground and almost banged his head against a post. Ryan must have knocked the wind out of him, because for several moments he sat on the ground, stunned.

After that, it was just a blur. Ryan hardly remembered breaking away from the crowd and retreating to the varsity locker room for his clothes. At some point, he phoned his mother and said he wasn't coming home. Part of him was afraid to. Another part of him simply never wanted to see his father again. He spent the night at Billy's. The following night, he stayed at his grandmother's place in Highland Park, the house his dad had grown up in. Ryan chose to sleep in the guest room rather than his father's old bedroom.

His grandmother was a pretty sharp old lady. She was petite with auburn hair and a lot of energy. She didn't dote on him too much. She phoned his parents to tell them he was there. Neither his mom nor dad tried to talk him into coming home. The following afternoon, while his father was at work, Ryan came by the house to pack a couple of suitcases. He'd decided to live with his grandmother.

He wasn't too surprised to hear that his father didn't care. But he felt sort of disillusioned that his mother would go along with it simply to keep peace at home. It made Ryan realize that she'd always been pretty ineffectual when it came to curbing his dad's oppressive ways. She never stood up to him.

The only time Ryan had ever heard his parents argue had been about four years ago. It had something to do with a Father's Day card. He remembered trying to block out the sound of the raised voices and his mother sobbing in their bedroom down the hall. After a few minutes, his dad barged into his room, waving an envelope. “Did you send this to me and not sign it?” he demanded to know.

Baffled, Ryan took the envelope and pulled out a sappy Father's Day card—with a baby's hand clutching a man's finger on the cover—and no signature inside. “No, sorry,” he murmured, handing the card and envelope back to his father. “Father's Day isn't until Sunday. I was going to get you something tomorrow. Who do you think—”

“Forget it,” his dad grunted. He threw the card and the envelope into Ryan's Notre Dame wastebasket, and stomped out of the bedroom. “Sweetheart!” he called, heading down the hallway. “Sharon, listen, it's just some stupid mistake or someone playing a joke . . .”

He never asked his parents about it. But Ryan couldn't help wondering if that card meant his dad had another kid out there somewhere—a kid who was illegitimate. Maybe that was why his mother had been crying. He tried to imagine his secret half-sibling, disowned by their common father.

The lucky bastard.

If this kid was really out there somewhere, Ryan now had something in common with him—or her. For the last six weeks, their father hadn't wanted anything to do with him, either.

He and his dad hadn't spoken since the game against Stevenson. Ryan had returned to the house several times to visit his mom, Ashley, and Keith—always while his dad was at work. He'd even had dinner with them one night two weeks ago, when his dad had been out of town on business.

His mother had made a lame attempt to reconcile them for Thanksgiving. But neither he nor his dad would budge. So while his grandmother celebrated Thanksgiving with his family over at his house, Ryan went to Billy's and had turkey dinner there. It wasn't so bad.

This morning, he'd talked to his mother. She'd wanted him to come by and pick up his wafflestomper hiking boots, because it was supposed to snow soon. Plus she wanted him to take the two-feet-tall fake Christmas tree she'd been putting in his bedroom every December since he was a kid. It had white lights and multicolored ornaments. She was going to dig it out of the attic so he could have it in his bedroom at his grandmother's. Obviously, she didn't have much hope for a father-and-son Yuletide reunion.

Ryan pulled into the driveway and parked behind his mother's maroon Acura Sport Wagon. The house was a huge Victorian relic—with a big front porch and a turret. Inside, it was bright, graceful, and elegant. But Ryan had to agree with Billy's assessment: “Shit, man, I'm sorry, but from the street, looking at your house, it's right out of
The Amityville Horror.
” With the neglected front lawn, the place seemed even a little more sinister lately. He wasn't around to rake the leaves anymore. Walking up to the front porch, Ryan pulled out his keys. Though he hadn't seen his father's car, he was still wary when making these clandestine visits. He didn't want to run into the old man.

He took the mail out of the box by the front door. He always used to bring in the mail. He wondered who did it now—probably Keith.

Slipping his key into the door, Ryan found it was unlocked. He opened it and glanced toward the living room in one direction and the dining room in the other. Empty. He closed the door behind him. “Mom?” he called out with uncertainty.

He didn't hear a sound. Wandering into the kitchen and family room, he looked around and then set the mail on the kitchen counter. He'd expected to find the little Christmas tree there. Maybe his mom hadn't taken it down from the attic yet. She knew he was coming over. Where was she?

“Mom?” he called, starting up the stairs to the second floor. “Mom, are you home?”

Still no response.

He stopped by his parents' bedroom. The door was closed. He knocked. “Mom, it's Ryan . . .” The hinges squeaked slightly as he opened the door. He looked across the room toward the master bath. The door was open and it was dark in there.

Frowning, he retreated to his own room, which seemed less and less
his
with every return visit. He'd already moved so many personal things to his grandmother's. But there were still some clothes to collect—and a few old
Playboys
and
Penthouses
he wanted to smuggle out. He figured he might as well take advantage of the fact that no one was home now.

He couldn't help feeling a little ticked off at his mother. He didn't come over that often. He hadn't seen her since before Thanksgiving. What was so important that she couldn't wait around a few minutes for him? The car was still here. She must have walked uptown for something. She could have at least left him a note.
Typical.
She was probably running an errand for his father.

Sitting down at his desk, Ryan opened the bottom double-drawer and started digging past some papers for the adult magazines. He found four envelopes amid all those papers—each one addressed to his dad. Ryan had stashed them in here a while back.

He wondered if his mother would be so compliant toward his dad if she knew about these envelopes. None of them had a return address, but the handwriting was the same on each one.

Four years ago, he'd fished that unsigned Father's Day card out of his wastebasket and saved it. He was curious about this thing that had caused a skirmish between his parents. He couldn't stop thinking about what the card might have meant—that he could have a half brother or half sister somewhere out there.

The following June, when the Father's Day card selections started surfacing in the supermarkets, he remembered that mysterious, unsigned card to his dad. If he hadn't taken it out of his desk and studied it again, he might not have recognized the handwriting on the envelope when another just like it arrived the week of Father's Day. Bringing in the mail that afternoon, Ryan had slipped the envelope under his shirt. Later, he'd steamed open the envelope. Inside, he'd found another unsigned Father's Day card—of a dad and his little boy flying a kite by the lake at sunset.

Ryan had decided to spare his mother any further grief. So he'd stashed the second card in his desk—along with the first. After two more years, he had two more unsigned Father's Day cards hidden in his desk. His father's bastard wasn't giving up.

As far as his parents knew, there had been no other anonymous Father's Day cards after the one his father had thrown into Ryan's wastebasket four years ago. Sometimes, Ryan wondered if he was really trying to save his parents' marriage. Or had collecting and hiding those potentially harmful cards given him a certain, satisfying sense of power over the old man?

He studied the most recent card, with an envelope postmarked from someplace in New York. On the cover was a cartoon of a man's shirt and a gaudy tie. “For a Very Special Dad . . .” it said, over the illustration. “Fashions come and go . . .”

Inside, it read

Like the others, the card wasn't signed.

He almost wanted to show his mother these cards now. He considered just leaving them on the kitchen counter for her. He imagined her finding them when she returned from whatever she was doing that was more important than being here for him.

“Oh, the hell with it,” he muttered, shoving the cards back into his desk. “And the hell with them.”

He decided to pick up the magazines some other time. He just wanted to get out of there.

Ryan grabbed his boots from the closet. Then he dug into his dresser drawer for some T-shirts. He'd left behind one of his favorites—with Tintin on it. He hadn't worn it in a while, because the shoulder was ripped. He found it along with a couple of others. As he started out of his room, he looked down at the Tintin shirt and noticed the neat threadwork along the shoulder. Without saying anything, his mother had sewn it up for him.

Clutching the T-shirts to his chest, he backed up and plopped down on his bed. He started to cry. The truth was, he missed her—and he missed his family so much that he physically ached sometimes. He missed this room, and what it used to be to him. Hell, there were even times when he missed the old man. But he'd be damned if he apologized to him. It was his father who should apologize. His dad owed him a lifetime of apologies.

Ryan wiped his eyes with the shirt and pulled himself up off the bed. He smoothed out the Notre Dame spread and headed out of his bedroom. He decided he'd go up to the attic and get the little tree. He'd leave his mother a note in the kitchen, saying he was sorry he'd missed her.

He wandered down the hallway and opened the door to the attic. It was always a bit jarring to go from this clean, carpeted, elegantly appointed hallway to, just beyond one door, a gloomy old staircase to the dusty, unfinished attic. It was a vast space with cobwebs on the beams across its ceilings. The Christmas stuff was stored up there—along with old furniture, suitcases, wardrobe bags, and toys and games no one wanted anymore.

Ryan stood at the bottom of the stairs and gazed up. The light was on.

He set his boots and the T-shirts down on the hallway carpet. Then he started up the old, creaky steps. Halfway up, he saw a shadow swaying across the unfinished attic wall. “Mom? Mom, are you up there?”

There was no answer. He continued up the stairs.

The sun streamed through the one attic window. A shaft of light—with specks of swirling dust—spilled across the top of the staircase. He glimpsed the little fake tree by the top step. His mother must have taken it out of the storage bag and set it there.