Hewas going to cry. I scraped my teeth over my bottom lip and ran a hand throughmy damp hair. “Uh … Well, they were younger than my mom’s parents, so they werea lot more active. You would’ve liked Grampa. He was awesome. Really into music,and he wasn’t scared of technology, you know? Like, my dad is terrified of hisiPhone, but Grampa was on the computer and downloading music before Dad ever embraceda cellphone. Gramma was a fucking badass too. She actually had a tattoo andtook me to get my first when I was sixteen.”
Greysonturned to me, disbelief blending with the tears in his eyes. “You’ve beengetting tattoos since you were sixteen?”
Inodded. “Yep. Mom was pissed when I came home with thePunisherlogo onmy arm.” I laughed, pointing to the old faded ink. “I’ve gotten a lot of myolder ones touched up or covered over the years, but I won’t do a damn thing tothis one.”
“Iwant a tattoo whenIturn sixteen,” Greyson told me. It wasn’t aquestion, it was a demand.
Icaught his eye and asked, “When’s your birthday?”
Itwas the wrong question to ask. I realized that immediately, when one lone tearslid over his cheek, catching on his lip. “You don’t know,” he uttered thebitter statement, and what was I going to do? Lie to him? So, I shook my headand said, “No, I don’t.”
“You’resupposed to know.” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat, swallowingrelentlessly. “You’resupposedto fuckingknowwhen mybirthdayis, and sheneverfuckingtold you.”
Ileaned my elbow against the window ledge, balled my fist and pressing it to mycheek. “Greyson, it’s—”
“It’snot fucking fair!” he shouted, giving up the fight. “It’s not fucking fair.It’s not. Why didn’t she think I’d want to know you? She knew how to find you,she had your fuckingaddress—sheknew, and she never even gave methe fuckingchoice! Why didn’t I get a fuckingchoice?”
Iwanted answers to give him. But I didn’t have any. “I wish I knew, kid.”
“Ihate that I’m happy,” he admitted in a whisper, his tears unrelenting.
“You’rehappy?” I couldn’t help myself from asking.
Hefaltered in his nod. “And I fucking hate it.”
Everythingmade sense. His backpedaling. The flip-flopping.
“Greyson,you shouldwantto be happy,” I told him. “It’sokayto behappy.”
“No,it’snot,” he cried, shaking his head. “The happier I am, the more Istop thinking about her.”
JesusChrist. I never knew that parenthood could be so uplifting and yetso soul-crushing, all at the same time. “So, you think that by being with me,you’re forgetting about her,” I offered, glancing at him to watch him nod. “Kid,I won’t ever let you forget about your mom, okay?”
“Whynot? She made you forget about me.”
Ibreathed the words in, clotted my throat with them and struggled to find air. Icouldn’t drive, not like this, so I pulled to the side of the quiet countryroad. Leaning my elbows against the steering wheel, I pinched the bridge of mynose, listening to the Foo Fighters sing “February Stars” mixed with the soundof Greyson’s tears.
Godknows I’d spent time being angry at Sam for what she’d done. God knows I had hurtand mourned. But no amount of anger could take any of that time away, and noamount of guilt was going to change the way things were right now.
“Greyson,”I turned to him, laying a hand against his shoulder. He reluctantly looked tome, his face sodden. “Bad shit happens. Unfortunately, that’s a part of life,and unfortunately, we just have to deal with it the best that we can. And Ithink that sometimes, good things come our way in the middle of that bad shit,to help us cope and get through it and become happy again. And I know that, by feelingless sad, youthinkyou’re forgetting your mom, but I promise you’renot. You’re just moving past the part that made you sad in the first place, sothat you can remember the good stuff again.”
Greysonsobbed, and while I looked at him in those moments, with his hair mattedagainst his forehead and the never-ending tears streaming down his smoothcheeks, I thought I could envision him as a little boy. I was reminded of whatI didn’t know—God, there were so many things I didn’t know. I didn’t know whathis first word was, or if he walked before he could speak. I didn’t know whatmovie he couldn’t stop watching when he was a toddler, or how old he was whenhe lost his first tooth.
Howcould I possibly be his father, when I didn’t even know when he wasborn?
Inadequacyand helplessness sat over me like a two-ton elephant, hunching my shoulders andpressing every last bit of air from my lungs. I couldn’t do anything, otherthan press my hand to his cheek and wish I could be more than just some guythat stumbled into his life.
“I… I miss her, Dad,” he whispered around another sob, and just like that, Icould breathe again.
Myhands clutched to him as he threw his arms around me, pressing his face againstmy shoulder as he let himself go, gripping my back with his fingers and audiblysobbing. I rocked, closing my eyes and pressing my cheek to his hair, the samecolor as mine, and all I could promise was that it was okay, I’ll make sureit’s okay, it’s all going to be okay.
Andas his tears quelled and his sobs calmed to quivering breaths, he sighed withspent relaxation and said, “I love you.”
Icouldn’t remember the last time I told my dad that I loved him, but I wouldalways remember the first time I whispered “I love you, too” to my son.
27
tabby
