when she did, it was kind of a relief in some ways, because finally the agony was over. That feeling of helplessness, watching her suffer…that was what made me want to be a doctor. If I could help anyone, lessen anyone’s suffering, help them heal, bring families back together when mine was ripped apart…”
“What was your mom like?”
I stared out the window, watching the green fields pass by. “She was…amazing. She was a therapist. She could make you feel better just by being in the same room as her. She could get anyone to talk about anything, and when you were done talking, everything just…made more sense.”
“And your dad?”
“Oh, Dad. Dad is something entirely different. He’s Samoan. He grew up there, lived there until he was…thirty? Moved to the States on a scholarship to FSU in ecology. Met mom at FSU, had me when he was…thirty-five? Thirty-six? Spent most of my childhood studying the ecology of the Everglades. It was always an obsession with him, part of the reason we always spent the summer down here. He loved it. Mom used to joke that he’d retire to the Everglades, and never come back out. Well…when Mom passed, he did just that. Couldn’t handle life out here, the people, the questions. He’s this massive guy, you know? Like your typical huge Samoan guy? That’s my dad. Not quite as big as you, but close. I guess that’s partly why I’m so attracted to you, if you want the real psychology behind it. You’re nothing like my dad, but the sense of size, being close to you, it makes me feel safe. Comforted.
“My dad is…private. Hates people, hates crowds, hates civilization. When he speaks, it’s softly, and you listen, because he’s got this way of just…cutting to the heart of things. He’s this big guy, but he’s painfully shy. Mom was really the only person he ever actually got close to, but that’s how Mom was. That’s why they worked together, I guess.”
I had to stop, because it was just so hard to think about Mom, and how Dad just sort of fell inward after she died. “Dad taught me to lift, taught me to love working out. I look like him. I’m nothing like Mom, physically. She was small, petite, like five-five and thin. She was so tiny next to Dad. I’m like her in personality in some ways, though. People like to talk to me, but I’m more like Dad in that I don’t really want to talk to them.”
“You lift?”
I laughed. “It figures. Out of everything I just spilled, that’s what you seize on.” I patted his bicep, which was sort of like patting a tree trunk. “Dad loves to lift. He was religious about the gym until Mom died, and I’m the same way, even still. It’s all that keeps me sane, some days. Can’t handle people anymore, and if I can’t deal with the bullshit—I go to the gym.”
He nodded. “Damn straight. Gym is life.”
I extended my fist and he tapped his knuckles against mine. Honestly, I was grateful he’d let most of the painful shit go without comment.
“Gym is life,” I repeated. “So, it’s my turn. Your family, go.”
He twisted the steering wheel leather with his fist again, which I was starting to recognize as a nervous gesture. “Well, Dad was a sick fuck, let’s just get that out of the way first. I say ‘was’ but, as far as I know, he could be alive somewhere. I just got no fucking desire to lay eyes on the evil bastard ever again.
“I had one of those stereotypical abusive childhoods, I guess you might say. Got beat on the regular, but it sometimes went beyond a mere beating. Got my size from him, and he never pulled his punches with me, starting from when I was just a kid in diapers. He’d break bones on bad days, but there wasn’t ever money for a hospital, and he wasn’t about to let me go anyway, since I might talk.
“Mom had been a nurse, so she’d set my bones when he broke ’em. Mom was my…she was the only light in my life. The one thing I ever had that
“What was your mom like?”
I stared out the window, watching the green fields pass by. “She was…amazing. She was a therapist. She could make you feel better just by being in the same room as her. She could get anyone to talk about anything, and when you were done talking, everything just…made more sense.”
“And your dad?”
“Oh, Dad. Dad is something entirely different. He’s Samoan. He grew up there, lived there until he was…thirty? Moved to the States on a scholarship to FSU in ecology. Met mom at FSU, had me when he was…thirty-five? Thirty-six? Spent most of my childhood studying the ecology of the Everglades. It was always an obsession with him, part of the reason we always spent the summer down here. He loved it. Mom used to joke that he’d retire to the Everglades, and never come back out. Well…when Mom passed, he did just that. Couldn’t handle life out here, the people, the questions. He’s this massive guy, you know? Like your typical huge Samoan guy? That’s my dad. Not quite as big as you, but close. I guess that’s partly why I’m so attracted to you, if you want the real psychology behind it. You’re nothing like my dad, but the sense of size, being close to you, it makes me feel safe. Comforted.
“My dad is…private. Hates people, hates crowds, hates civilization. When he speaks, it’s softly, and you listen, because he’s got this way of just…cutting to the heart of things. He’s this big guy, but he’s painfully shy. Mom was really the only person he ever actually got close to, but that’s how Mom was. That’s why they worked together, I guess.”
I had to stop, because it was just so hard to think about Mom, and how Dad just sort of fell inward after she died. “Dad taught me to lift, taught me to love working out. I look like him. I’m nothing like Mom, physically. She was small, petite, like five-five and thin. She was so tiny next to Dad. I’m like her in personality in some ways, though. People like to talk to me, but I’m more like Dad in that I don’t really want to talk to them.”
“You lift?”
I laughed. “It figures. Out of everything I just spilled, that’s what you seize on.” I patted his bicep, which was sort of like patting a tree trunk. “Dad loves to lift. He was religious about the gym until Mom died, and I’m the same way, even still. It’s all that keeps me sane, some days. Can’t handle people anymore, and if I can’t deal with the bullshit—I go to the gym.”
He nodded. “Damn straight. Gym is life.”
I extended my fist and he tapped his knuckles against mine. Honestly, I was grateful he’d let most of the painful shit go without comment.
“Gym is life,” I repeated. “So, it’s my turn. Your family, go.”
He twisted the steering wheel leather with his fist again, which I was starting to recognize as a nervous gesture. “Well, Dad was a sick fuck, let’s just get that out of the way first. I say ‘was’ but, as far as I know, he could be alive somewhere. I just got no fucking desire to lay eyes on the evil bastard ever again.
“I had one of those stereotypical abusive childhoods, I guess you might say. Got beat on the regular, but it sometimes went beyond a mere beating. Got my size from him, and he never pulled his punches with me, starting from when I was just a kid in diapers. He’d break bones on bad days, but there wasn’t ever money for a hospital, and he wasn’t about to let me go anyway, since I might talk.
“Mom had been a nurse, so she’d set my bones when he broke ’em. Mom was my…she was the only light in my life. The one thing I ever had that
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