Page 41 of The Ruin
After she returns, and I’ve got Mr. Kibbles wrapped up in a nest of softness, I can’t help adding, “Maybe get a bowl of ice chips, too. And what about his pain pills? Did we forget his pain pills? Brook, where are the pills?” To the dog, I whisper, “You’re gonna be okay, bud.”
“Luka, the meds they gave him for the surgery haven’t even worn off yet. We’re not supposed to give him any more drugs until tomorrow. Okay? Try to relax.”
“Are you sure he needs to wear that cone? It looks uncomfortable.”
Mr. Kibbles gives me a lethargic blink and then lets his eyelids fall, clearly still out of it.
“He’s so zonked out he doesn’t even know he’s wearing it,” she points out. “The cone stays on.”
I shoot another concerned look in his direction, and Brooklyn puts her arm around me.
“This is actually kind of adorable,” she says sweetly. “You’re going to make a great dad someday.”
“Pfft, am not!” I scoff. “I amnotparent material. I just care ‘cause it’s his balls! I have sympathy for the little guy.” But inside, I feel all kinds of warm from the comment.
It makes me wonder: Do I really not want kids, or did I always think that was the case just because my own father shouldn’t have had any? With someone like Brooklyn, would things be different? Or would my cursed genetics kick in? Stefan must have had these same thoughts, yet now Tori is pregnant…although my brother and I don’t have any precedent for discussing this kind of thing, so I’m not exactly going to call him up right now and ask him about it.
Brooklyn’s planning to spend a few hours volunteering at the Heart and Home shelter, leaving me to keep watch over Mr. Kibbles. While she’s getting ready, I get the dog up gently and take him outside to do his business. He’s cautious about it. I cringe just watching him.
“You know, you’re turning into a helicopter parent,” Brooklyn teases me when we come back in and she sees me covering Mr. Kibbles with his blankie. I make sure the back corners aren’t tucked too tightly around his backside.
“What’s a helicopter parent?”
“It means you’re hovering. Like,reallyhovering.”
I just shrug and feed the dog an ice chip. I wouldn’t know. No one ever hovered over me. No one really gave two shits about my well-being as a kid. We had plenty of nannies when I was young, but most of them didn’t stick around long enough to get really attached to us. When I got sick, I stayed in bed and took care of myself. Minor injuries? I learned early the benefit of the first aid kit under the kitchen sink. My father only took notice of us kids when we misbehaved, and we either got spanked, verbally humiliated, or sent to our rooms. Sometimes all three.
She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll be home in a few hours, okay? Call if you need anything, or if you want me to pick something up for Kibby on my way home.”
“Sure. Have a good time.”
“I will.” And with that, she’s out the door.
Sinking onto the couch, I let out a deep exhale. The TV is on, but I barely pay attention to what’s on the screen. I still can’t believe Stefan is going to be a father. Despite everything we went through as kids…he’s going to be a dad. It’s hard to wrap my head around that.
I watch Mr. Kibbles for a while, making sure his breaths are steady and even. I secretly wanted a dog when I was a kid, but I never asked. My father wouldn’t have allowed it. I used to fantasize about sneaking one into my room, a little one, like a Chihuahua or something. But then I’d wake up from nightmares about my dad finding it and killing it. It sounds horrible, but it’s exactly the kind of thing he would have done.
We had a pet once, for two days. I was eight or nine. The fish’s name was Criminal and he was a betta with beautiful turquoise and bright orange fins. I’d won him at a school carnival, and when I showed Stefan, he helped me get him home on the bus without anyone noticing.
But our dad found the fishbowl hidden under my bed and made me flush Criminal down the toilet, to remind me of who was in charge of making the decisions in our house.
“Sometimes, it takes a lot of tough love to learn a lesson. You understand, Luka?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t do that again.”
I’d sat down on the floor afterward, cradling the empty bowl in my arms, staring hard at the carpet so I wouldn’t cry. My dad turned on his heel, didn’t say another word to me, and left. Most of my childhood was spent desperately wishing my mom (who I scarcely remembered) hadn’t died—not so we could all be one big happy family together, but so she could take me away from my father, and so my siblings and I could have grown up somewhere else.
The next thing I know, Brooklyn is softly shaking me awake and the light in the room has dimmed to the soft haze of early evening, the TV having turned itself off thanks to my inactivity.
“You think you can handle a little salmon and asparagus?” my wife asks. “I just threw together something quick—didn’t want to wake you.”
Looking over at Mr. Kibbles to find him still snoozing, I nod. “What time is it?”
“Just after five-thirty,” she says, leading me over to the bar in the kitchen, where she’s already plated our dinners and sliced up a fragrant loaf of fresh garlic bread. Classic rock plays from the smart speakers on the counter, Brooklyn’s go-to for when she’s doing chores.
“Want me to turn the music off?” she asks.
