Man, I’d like to take all the worry from her, and we were doing okay, but now this.
With the rest, it’s yet to be determined. It will depend a lot on how we—the three eldest siblings—did raising them and I honestly have no fucking clue. I don’t have a lot of faith that we’re doing things right. Most of the time we were kids ourselves and we haven’t had great role models.
“You have. We’re family. God wanted us all together. This is His plan. You’ll see.”
If I had to hear the “God doesn’t make mistakes” TED talk one more time …
God doesn’t have to pay for Dad’s babies, and I bet they’d feel a lot differently if they did and would make Dad impotent or something.
“First of all, how do you know God’s not a woman or even non-binary or hell everything?” I said because I always point that out.
“True,” he conceded as he does. “But it’s stillTheirplan. You watch, Mercy. One day you’ll see how much everything happens for a reason.”
The problem with Dad is he fucking believes that. It’s not just some bullshit he’s trying to feed me. He’s a hopeless romantic in all things. Being left shipwrecked with an army of children, he could have let depression swallow him. Instead, every situation solidified his determination to be the sunny-eyed optimist he always has been.
Trouble with optimists is they’re often blissfully naïve. I wish I could be like them, but I’m a realist so at times his optimism grates my nerves, but other times, I want him to be right.
In his voice that day was the same tone I’d heard when he’d spoken of any new Meyer about to come into the family, the one that has just the right mix of hope, excitement, and love. It’s always made me want to jump on the bandwagon, unable to resist because I love him so damn much despite everything.
“Ari and I have plans to castrate you,” I told him.
He laughed. “Nah. Bea’ll stop you.”
“Maybe not this time.”
“Guess we’ll see.”
I don’t know why I bother attempting to lecture him. He’ll never stop, and I’m too deeply enmeshed in abandonment trauma. I’m gonna cave. I’m gonna help him.
“Ari and I were talking earlier. We’ll figure something out. In the meantime, please cut your dick off.”
He laughed again, his rough tone whipping against his throat. “Good one. Thanks, Merc. We’ll talk later. I’m so excited. We’ve got ultrasound pictures to show everyone.”
Dad treats every child like they’re his first. He loves us, he’s just such a goddamn hippy even though he was born well after that era. It doesn’t help that he was conceived on Wreck Beach by actual hippies—before it was called Wreck Beach—in a little shelter Grampa built from sticks, stones, and a tie-dye patterned Baja hoodie.
“Yeah, just getting groceries,” I said.
“Oh, are yah? Can you get me some of those ginger shots? I think they really help keep the pipes clean.”
Just what he needs. “Yeah. I’ll get you fucking ginger shots.”
“You’re the best. Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite.”
He says that to all of us.
It was after five by the time I was home, unpacked, and had dinner started. So much for my only day off. I still had muddy footprints to scrub out of my carpet and wanted to do some general maintenance on my bike. Yeah, a Harley. Another piece of history left from my glory days.
I was elbow deep in grease when I got the third call, bathed in the fading glow of a summer sunset and my own carefully cultivated pit of resentment for my half-lived life. It was an old buddy of mine, Edward Ardovini, but we called him Razor—Raz for short—because his eyes narrow like the knife edge of a blade when he’s chasing something. He also had the sharpest slapshot in the NHL for the year he played, but like me, his hockey career was hobbled; his with a catastrophic knee injury and it was a damn shame.
He was something to watch. We grew up playing hockey together. His parents have money and they sponsored kids like me whose parents couldn’t afford expensive hockey fees, equipment, and road trips.
Now, he coaches the New York Eagles, and it suits him. He and I were always better at the strategy side of the game.
“Hey buddy, how’s living the dream?” I said.
“It’s definitely the dream. Hard work, stressful, but worth it.”
“Did you call to gloat?”
