He leaves, and I sit there alone. For the first time in my life, I really understand what it means to “lose face.” The waiter approaches and asks if I’d like anything, and I can’t turn my face toward them. I can’t stand being seen right now. I can’t look anyone in the eye.
I haven’t eaten and I like this place, but I throw a twenty on the table and go, keeping my head down. Outside, I plow down the sidewalk until I reach my bike and then I jump on it and hit the streets. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m going to get there fast.
As the world flashes by quicker and quicker, I think, Fuck that guy. Michael and I made this company—both of us. I know what I did, what I accomplished. I’m not replaceable. Michael won’t let them break us apart. We’re partners. We stay together. MLA was fine before they came along. We’ll be fine without them.
I’d rather burn it all down than hand it to that jackass.
Michael would burn it down with me if I asked him to.
We’re that close. Closer than brothers.
But I’d never ask him to do that.
And I’d never ask him to give up his dreams. Not for me.
I turn onto the freeway and push my bike to its limits as I weave in and out of the traffic. I can get a speeding ticket for this—if a cop can catch me. At this point, I’d welcome the chase.
I want to break rules, destroy things, watch smoke blacken the sky. I don’t give a shit if I get hurt in the process. Maybe I even crave the taste of pain. It couldn’t rival this gaping sense of betrayal.
But there’s someone who would care if I got hurt, someone who likes it when I drive with my hands precisely at ten and two and signal at every turn.
My heartbeat is crashing in my ears, my blood is rushing, rage is howling in my chest, but still, when I think of Anna, I slow down.
When I realize I’m headed south on the 101, I’m not surprised that I’m going straight to her. My compass always points to her.
THIRTY-ONE
Anna
TODAY IS MY DAD’S BIRTHDAY. THAT MEANS I’M SUPPOSED TO perform, and I’m not remotely ready. I haven’t practiced at all. Tonight should be interesting. I predict it’s not going to involve me actually playing the violin, but I haven’t figured out how I’m going to accomplish that yet. Appendicitis would be convenient.
Priscilla returned last week, but that doesn’t mean things have been any easier. Her New York trip must not have gone well because she’s been foul-tempered and caustic to everyone but Dad, whom she’s been treating more and more like a newborn, speaking to him in baby talk, kissing his face all over, and pinching his cheeks as she tells him how adorable he is. I don’t think my dad appreciates it. In fact, I’m fairly certain he hates it. He’s a proud old man, not an infant. But I don’t say anything.
The party is scheduled for this evening, but my uncle Tony has been here since early morning. He tried to tell my dad about the costly divorce their doctor friend is going through because he had an affair with a thirty-year-old and got her pregnant, but my dad moaned/ slept through the story. After that, Uncle Tony got out aviator-style reading glasses and a book—Ringworld by Larry Niven. He’s spent most of the day quietly reading at my dad’s bedside.
In his mid-sixties, Uncle Tony is the youngest of my dad’s siblings and the least successful. He can’t hold down a job for longer than a few months and lives off intermittent unemployment checks and family handouts. All my life, my parents have used Uncle Tony as a model for failure, saying things like Don’t pursue a career in music or you’ll be like Uncle Tony. But he comes to see my dad every week, is unobtrusive and doesn’t expect to be entertained, and always brings Ferrero Rocher chocolates. Now and then, he gives a red envelope with precious wrinkled twenties in it, to help take care of his brother.
I’m returning to my dad’s room with a new bag of diapers from the garage when I see Priscilla outside the doorway looking in.
“I don’t know why he bothers coming,” she says, speaking in a low voice so it doesn’t carry into the room.
“He comes to spend time with Dad.” It’s obvious to me.
She sneers. “He’s so lazy. He could try harder to get Dad to talk, or show him videos, or FaceTime their friends, or give him a massage, or wash the dishes. Something. But all he does is sit there.”
“Sometimes it’s really hard just being here,” I say quietly. I think he’s doing as much as he can, and I don’t expect more from him. I can’t understand why she looks down on people when they’re trying their best.