The next day, Los Angeles
Melanie clutched her father’s leather-jacketed waist. Shooting across the overcrowded highway, her dad weaved his motorcycle between the cars. The engine roared like a ravenous dragon. She pressed her face into his back, smiling. The comforting scent of worn leather blocked out the smell of gasoline.
As the shimmering Los Angeles tourist attractions raced past at the mind-blowing speed of seventy-five miles per hour—then eighty, then eighty-five—Melanie’s fearful-yet-excited grin widened to the point where her cheeks hurt. The wind whipped her clothes around like flags in the heat of battle. The other vehicles became mere blurs of color.
The ride was terrifying, thrilling, and wonderful, all at the same time, like a rollercoaster but better. Back home in New Hampshire, she never experienced anything like riding with her dad.
“This is awesome!” Her voice was drowned out by the motorcycle’s guttural roar. She squeezed her dad tighter. If anyone else had been driving, she would have been afraid for her life.
Dad looked back at her in his mirror and raised his hand a little to give her a thumbs-up. Together, they conquered the 405. But LAX was fast approaching. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky with beautiful pink highlights and sending long, dark shadows across the city. The motorcycle roared down the Howard Hughes Parkway exit.
Dad pulled up to the airport and parked. He climbed off the motorcycle. With her backpack strapped to her shoulders, Melanie followed suit, handing her helmet to him. He stashed it in the back. He never wore a helmet, though he insisted that she do so. For some reason, she was willing to forgive him the hypocrisy, but she still wished he would wear one, just in case.
Dad looked up at the glorious sunset, an enormous smile on his face. His crow’s feet were all crinkled up again. His Hawaiian shirt—the same one he’d worn the previous night on the sailboat—peeked out from beneath his motorcycle jacket.
Last night, Melanie had been able to hold back her tears. The ocean had been so beautiful, the moon glorious. But standing there, she felt her eyes well up. She rushed toward her father and hugged him, wrapping her arms in a tight loop around his waist. She didn’t want to wait a year. She didn’t want to go through another cold New England winter, away from the sunshine and oceans of her dad’s life. Sure, she loved New Hampshire. Sure, she was looking forward to seeing that shy-but-cute Craig Lewis again, and she absolutely loved her mom and Eric, her stepdad. But she hated being separated from her father. Both coasts contained different sides of her. Different lives. She was always half a person instead of a whole one.
Holding her father for one more painful, gut-wrenching moment, she savored the protected feeling of being in his arms. Tears ran down her face. Finally, she stepped away, fingering the straps of her backpack so that her hands would have something to do.
Then, she saw something in her dad’s eyes that she had never seen before. Tears. “Dad?” she whispered.
“Take care out there.” His voice trembled. “Tell your mother I said hi, okay?”
“Okay. I… um… I—”
“I love you, Melanie.” He smiled, his dimples showing, and winked at her. He looked older somehow. His shoulders weren’t as straight, and his movements were shaky. Taking a deep breath, he climbed back onto his bike.
Inside the airport, Mom’s friend Phyllis waved through the glass, and Melanie raised a hand in acknowledgment. Phyllis, who lived in Long Beach, was going to be flying back with Melanie. Melanie liked her, but the immediate transition from one parent’s life to another’s was overwhelming.
“Wait, Dad!” she called. “Now that the summer is ending, will you—”
“Hey, listen, nothing ever ends!” He laughed. “Let’s just turn the handle of the next door, hold our breaths, and see what happens, okay?”
He started his motorcycle. The sun was just beginning its nightly plunge into the ocean, and he raced right toward its center. Melanie watched the tiny figure of her father speeding away, red hair and leather jacket whipping in the wind behind him. The sky’s radiance was blinding, so bright that it made the farthest vanishing point of the highway appear white.
And as the road touched the sky, her dad disappeared in the light of the dying sun.
Chapter 3:
Fog
Spring 2018
Gabriel Schist stood motionlessly in his linoleum-floored bedroom at Bright New Day. At the top of his paper-chalk-ink-dust-cluttered bureau, thrown into the corner like a used Coca-Cola can, was a little gold medal from Sweden. He studied it, trying to remember how marvelous it had once felt to hold the Nobel Prize in his hand.
It had felt marvelous. Once. A long time ago. Long, long ago, back when he used to have goals. Back when he had something else to look forward to other than three meals a day, a constant stream of stupid TV shows, an absolutely obscene amount of sleep, and of course, the most important distraction of all: pills.
Pills, pills, and more pills. The parade never ended: 10mg of Donepezil. Coumadin to prevent clot formation—couldn’t have another stroke, now could he—5mg of Oxy IR, 100mg of Trazadone, 50mg QD of Seroquel XR, orange-flavored Metamucil. His life had become utterly dependent on little plastic cups filled with multicolored Skittles.
Gabriel sat down on the hard, tiny bed. Even the bed in the cabin of his old sailboat had been bigger, and more comfortable, too.
Outside the room, the Crooner continued his twenty-four-seven song routine. “Laaaa-deeee-dah. La-la-laaah. Bring me upstairs, please, please, please. La-la-la!”
Gabriel considered stuffing cotton in his ears to block out the noise. It was only mid-afternoon, but he already wanted to go back to sleep. There was nothing else to do. His supposedly castrated new roommate seemed to concur, as the entire room echoed with the rumble of Robbie Gore’s snores. Somehow, even the Crooner’s relentless singing was easier to take than that.
Gabriel took off his fedora. Just as he was about to lie down, he was startled by a knock on the door.
A face he didn’t recognize appeared around the corner of the jamb. “Um… hi there. Mr. Schist?” The young man stepped into the room with a pile of bleached-white sheets and some blankets tucked under the crook of his arm. Dressed in brown scrubs, he looked to be anywhere from nineteen to twenty-two. He had a military haircut and pale, splotchy skin slightly reddened on his cheeks and forehead: facial erythema. His glasses were too big for his face.
“Hello,” Gabriel replied. “How are you?”
“Good, sir. Very good.” The boy kept leaning his weight from foot to foot, weaving back and forth as if he needed to use the bathroom. He seemed nervous, but he had a charmingly likable face.
A call bell went off in the hallway. The boy glanced back, worriedly.
“Sir,” he said, “I, uh… I came here to check if you wanted me to change your bed. If you don’t mind.”
Gabriel slowly rose to his feet, his spine as stiff as an unlubricated driveshaft. The pile of bedding he’d wadded on his mattress was still there, right where he’d left it that morning. So was the stench of urine. He cringed at the double realization that not only had he forgotten about his accident that morning, but he’d also almost climbed into a wet bed.
The boy awkwardly extended a spaghetti-like arm, offering a handshake. His mouth was pulled back into a tight, fearful line.
Gabriel took the proffered hand and was amused to find that his new LNA had a surprisingly strong, confident grip. “What’s your name, son?” Gabriel asked.
“Harry Brenton, sir. I recently transferred here from… from another facility. So would, ah… would it be okay?”
