Page 23 of Beautiful Small Things

“That’s a sad commentary on society,” I reply dryly, to which he chuckles. “How do you have more energy than I do?” I remark.

“You can-”

“Sleep when you’re dead,” I say, finishing his sentence. My dad predictably loves that saying and lives his life accordingly.

“I saw Uncle Callan today.”

“I figured,” he nods. “I need to call that asshole.”

I laugh at how they refer to one another but would readily give their lives if needed. “He was telling me some interesting things about you.” His eye roll in response to that statement indicates his annoyance with this subject.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “It was good. He told me you saved his life.”

Drawing his brows together, he appears confounded.

“Not literally, of course,” I clarify. “He said he couldn’t have survived childhood without you. Especially Nolan’s death.”

I watch my father exhale and lean back against the couch. “That was a dark time for everyone.”

“I didn’t know you were there. That must’ve been horrible.”

“It was. I’ve seen some pretty messed up shit. I worked in the emergency room in the busiest hospital in Los Angeles, but that was, by far, the worst thing I’ve ever seen.

“Can you tell me about it?” I ask.

“What I saw in the emergency room? Sure,” he says with a look of concentration on his face. “Gunshots, knife wounds, strange objects shoved in people’s asses-”

“Dad! That’s not what I was talking about. I meant to tell me about the night Nolan died,” I reply, shaking my head in disgust.

“You really want to hear this?”

“It was such a pivotal moment in all of your lives. I’d like to hear about it from your point of view.”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “We had just returned from this God-awful summer camp that our parents sent us all to. But, being me, I had made the most of the experience.

Actually, your Uncle Callan and Aunt Colby had just reconnected at that camp. It was a good time,“ he chuckles, and I’m not sure I want to hear what constitutes “the most of that experience.” from Marcus Sinclair. Thankfully, he pivots.

“We were having the best summer. I had gotten my driver’s license. We were happy. Callan was happy. Then it happened.“ His voice is shaky, and my ordinarily relaxed father is sullen as he continues.

“We turned the corner to our neighborhood and saw the ambulance and firetruck. Callan jumped out of the car before I had a chance to stop. I vaguely remember parking up on the curb. I ran after him, into the house, and up the stairs. I watched my best friend fall to the floor in a pool of blood while his parents were losing their minds.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “It was like a dream. I felt like I was floating above everything and watching from outside my body.”

“You disassociated,” I remark. “It’s never happened to me, but I know peritraumatic dissociation is a common response to events that the brain finds too distressing to process.”

“Yes, that’s right. I’ve often seen it happen when patients and families are given bad news. It’s a dreadful experience.”

I nod my head in agreement. The closest thing I can imagine needing to disassociate from is my dumb cousin telling me he wants to kiss me. It’s great that he has the ability not to remember saying it. I have no such luck.

“So I watched and tried to make myself as helpful as possible. I will never forget what I saw in that room. The image is forever burned into my brain. Afterward, Callan couldn’t stay at home. It was horrible. So he came to live with me.”

“How was that?” I ask.

“I did my best to distract him,” he shrugs. “I felt like I had a legitimate reason to goof off for once, not just because I felt like it. And we got into some shit.”

“How so?” I dare to ask.

“The same way moody teenagers who want to escape reality do. Alcohol, parties, drugs, stupid stunts, girls.”

“How did you manage to play football and succeed in high school?”