takes dedication. Do you think you can dedicate yourself to learning this instrument?”
I laughed and nodded as I watched his fingers start tuning an invisible guitar. He hit play on the boom box and as the music filled the space, his fingers moved against the guitar and his lips mimicked the words, but he didn’t actually speak a sound. “More Than A Feeling” by Boston boomed through the room as he strummed and ‘sang’ every note, rocking his head along the whole time.
“Whoa,” I murmured as the song ended.
He smirked. “Yup. I got something for you, one second.” He turned around, opened the guitar case, and he lifted an invisible guitar. “My old man gave me this when I was a kid, and now I’m passing it down to you. Take care of it.”
I stared at my empty palms as he placed it in my hands. I cradled it as if I was holding the world against my fingertips. “Whoa,” I murmured again.
“All right. Are you ready? I’ll teach you the song I just played.” He hit play one more time on the boom box. We spent the night laughing, drinking beers, and learning how to become professional fake performers.
----
“ W hat are you doing today ?” Dad asked Wednesday morning. I had to make sure he was talking to me, even though we were the only two in the house. It was actually a miracle that we were standing in the same room. Most of the time when he saw me, he dodged in the opposite direction.
“Me?”
“Are you stupid? Who the hell else would I be talking to?” he grumbled as he opened the refrigerator.
I stayed up late each night since I found out about his cancer, researching and learning more and more about the disease. I also decided that I would blame the cancer for Dad’s grumpy personality—that way I wouldn’t feel like I was the one making him moody. “I have school.”
He grumbled some more, sounding conflicted. “You think you can skip? The doctor said I shouldn’t be driving myself after chemotherapy, and I ain’t got anyone else to take me. Lance normally takes me, but he’s off at some hippie music festival or some shit.”
It was the first time since I’d learned that he was sick that he’d actually admitted to having an illness. For some reason that made it more real to me. He really was sick. He really was fighting for his life.
“I can do that.” I nodded. I’ll do anything.
He cocked an eyebrow and poured a cup of orange juice. He slid it over to me. I thanked him. “You know how to drive stick?” he asked.
“Of course.”
----
O f course I didn’t know how to drive stick. Aunt Denise had helped me get my driver’s license in Alabama, but she hadn’t taught me to drive stick. Every other second Dad was cursing as I jerked us back and forth. “Jesus, Levi! I thought you knew how to drive stick? Switch the gear,” he ordered.
“I don’t.”
“What?”
“I just didn’t want you to have to go by yourself,” I said.
Jolt. Stop sign. Five inches past the stop sign. Jerk. Stop. Holyshitwe’regoingtodieeee.
“Well, that’s dumb. You should know how to drive. What the hell has your mom been teaching you down there?” He ran his hand against his chin. “I guess I’ll have to show you, seeing as how you can’t do shit right. In the meantime, just try not to kill me before cancer does me in.”
“I would like that,” I said, nodding. “I would like you to teach me.” He would’ve never admitted it, but I thought he kind of liked the idea too.
----
A nurse sat Dad in an open room and hooked him up to a machine that dripped liquids into his body. He hollered at them for missing his veins, calling them idiots, but the nurses remained unfazed by his attitude. I sat next to him in a chair, wondering if it was working, if those chemicals were saving him. Then I remembered what Aria’s mother had said about stage four lung cancer, and I tried my best not to get my hopes up.
I liked how Mrs. Watson was honest with me, but comforting at the same
I laughed and nodded as I watched his fingers start tuning an invisible guitar. He hit play on the boom box and as the music filled the space, his fingers moved against the guitar and his lips mimicked the words, but he didn’t actually speak a sound. “More Than A Feeling” by Boston boomed through the room as he strummed and ‘sang’ every note, rocking his head along the whole time.
“Whoa,” I murmured as the song ended.
He smirked. “Yup. I got something for you, one second.” He turned around, opened the guitar case, and he lifted an invisible guitar. “My old man gave me this when I was a kid, and now I’m passing it down to you. Take care of it.”
I stared at my empty palms as he placed it in my hands. I cradled it as if I was holding the world against my fingertips. “Whoa,” I murmured again.
“All right. Are you ready? I’ll teach you the song I just played.” He hit play one more time on the boom box. We spent the night laughing, drinking beers, and learning how to become professional fake performers.
----
“ W hat are you doing today ?” Dad asked Wednesday morning. I had to make sure he was talking to me, even though we were the only two in the house. It was actually a miracle that we were standing in the same room. Most of the time when he saw me, he dodged in the opposite direction.
“Me?”
“Are you stupid? Who the hell else would I be talking to?” he grumbled as he opened the refrigerator.
I stayed up late each night since I found out about his cancer, researching and learning more and more about the disease. I also decided that I would blame the cancer for Dad’s grumpy personality—that way I wouldn’t feel like I was the one making him moody. “I have school.”
He grumbled some more, sounding conflicted. “You think you can skip? The doctor said I shouldn’t be driving myself after chemotherapy, and I ain’t got anyone else to take me. Lance normally takes me, but he’s off at some hippie music festival or some shit.”
It was the first time since I’d learned that he was sick that he’d actually admitted to having an illness. For some reason that made it more real to me. He really was sick. He really was fighting for his life.
“I can do that.” I nodded. I’ll do anything.
He cocked an eyebrow and poured a cup of orange juice. He slid it over to me. I thanked him. “You know how to drive stick?” he asked.
“Of course.”
----
O f course I didn’t know how to drive stick. Aunt Denise had helped me get my driver’s license in Alabama, but she hadn’t taught me to drive stick. Every other second Dad was cursing as I jerked us back and forth. “Jesus, Levi! I thought you knew how to drive stick? Switch the gear,” he ordered.
“I don’t.”
“What?”
“I just didn’t want you to have to go by yourself,” I said.
Jolt. Stop sign. Five inches past the stop sign. Jerk. Stop. Holyshitwe’regoingtodieeee.
“Well, that’s dumb. You should know how to drive. What the hell has your mom been teaching you down there?” He ran his hand against his chin. “I guess I’ll have to show you, seeing as how you can’t do shit right. In the meantime, just try not to kill me before cancer does me in.”
“I would like that,” I said, nodding. “I would like you to teach me.” He would’ve never admitted it, but I thought he kind of liked the idea too.
----
A nurse sat Dad in an open room and hooked him up to a machine that dripped liquids into his body. He hollered at them for missing his veins, calling them idiots, but the nurses remained unfazed by his attitude. I sat next to him in a chair, wondering if it was working, if those chemicals were saving him. Then I remembered what Aria’s mother had said about stage four lung cancer, and I tried my best not to get my hopes up.
I liked how Mrs. Watson was honest with me, but comforting at the same
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