Bear, Otter, & the Kid 03 - The Art of Breathing (27 page)

But, of course, that’s not what happened. By design or by blood, she left and my brother did not.

I need to remember that. Above all things, I need to remember that.

Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.

There’s laughter then, rusty and broken. I recognize it immediately, and I wonder when I heard it last. I rack my brain, trying to think of any moment in the days before I left that Dominic (
Dom
, it whispers,
his name is Dom
) laughed. I remember hearing it so many times, but not the last time. I can’t think of it, no matter how hard I try.

But here it is, now, and here he is, now, with his son, who laughs along with him, bright and high-pitched in a way that complements his father’s low tones. If I’d heard that without knowing who they were, I’d still think they were the same, that they came from the same blood.

I could walk away. Now. Leave them to their laughter. Leave them happy and free because that’s what it sounds like they are. I could.

I open the gate. Walk around the side of the house.

I hear the Jeep pull away from the curb and roll down the street.

I turn the corner of the house, and Ben is a few feet away, wearing board shorts and a plain white shirt. No shoes on his little feet, his toes and knees covered in flecks of grass. His arms are over his head, and he’s opening and closing his tiny fists. Opening and closing. The smile on his face is wide and toothy.

The backyard is small, and as Ben calls, “Here, here, here,” I see Dom (
always Dom
) bending over, picking up a foam football up off the ground. He’s dressed like his son. Board shorts. Plain white shirt, stretched tightly over the arms and the back. No shoes. For some reason, I notice the flecks of grass on his knees. On his feet. Just like Ben.

“Good throw,” he says, and I can hear the laughter in his voice. “That was a good throw.”

“Big, huh?” Ben says. “Big throw.”

“Yeah. Big throw.”

“Football!” Ben says.

Dominic stands upright and smiles, and fuck remembering how to breathe. Fuck remembering how to do anything. Fuck it all because it hurts my heart. It hurts like I’ve been stabbed in the chest, and all I can think is
four years? Somehow, I let this go on for four
years
?

He doesn’t see me.

Ben does, though.

“Hi, Ty!” he says and jogs toward me, pumping his little legs. There’s a moment I think he’s going to fall, but he catches himself in that way that only children seem to do. I can do nothing but open my arms as he hurtles himself at me from three feet away. There’s the moment of impact when his body strikes mine, and he wraps his arms around my neck and shoves his hands into my hair and pulls gleefully, and he just
babbles
, he just
talks
and
talks
and
talks
, and I can only make out bits and pieces like “Daddy” and “football” and “Ty, Ty, Ty.” The rest is lost to the rush of his voice. That’s okay. That’s fine. I hear what I’m supposed to. There’s such a weight to him, such a presence, that all I can do is look him in the eye and nod. That seems to suit him just fine, and on and on he goes.

Eventually, he cranes his neck around to look behind him. “Daddy,” he says. “Look who I found!” He tugs on my hair.

I almost can’t look across the yard. I’m afraid of what I’ll see. It takes all I have, but I look away from the kid in my arms and raise my head toward his father.

Dominic stands watching us both. The expression on his face is unreadable. His eyes lock on mine, and I think in the voice of my brother,
Breathe. Just breathe. In. Hold for three seconds. Out. Hold for three seconds. You are bigger than this. You are
more
than this.

“Look who you found,” Dominic says finally.

Where Tyson Asks Some Questions

T
HE
HOUSE
is neat inside, if a little sparse. The colors are dark and muted, almost somber. It’s small, this house, but big enough for a family just starting out. I tell myself I’m not looking for any signs of a woman’s presence (specifically Stacey’s), but I obviously am, even though in the end, it’s really none of my business what he does. It hasn’t been my business for a long time. That still doesn’t stop me from looking, though. There’s not much to say one way or another.

Ben grabs me by the hand and pulls me around the house, showing me every little thing that belongs to him. Here is
his
room. Here are
his
toys. Here is where he goes to bed at seven thirty every night, and here is where he brushes his teeth before he goes to bed. His daddy helps him but he can do it himself because he is old enough now. Do I see all the posters on the walls? I do. Those, he says, are his too. All the animal posters. Lions walking against a setting sun. Giraffes. Ducks. Beavers. Rhinos and deer. Dozens of them. I glance back at Dominic, who trails behind us only steps away. He stares at his son with a look akin to wonder on his face, as if he’s never heard him speak this much before. Even I’m a little awed by Ben, who speaks as if he’s far older than he actually is. There’s a queerly flat tone to his voice, but his vocabulary is through the roof as he shows me his favorite book, his favorite ball, his favorite shoes. Each is in its appointed place, and I watch as Ben frowns when he sees a couple of Legos lying near a toy chest against the wall. He lets go of my hand and picks them up off the floor. He opens a small container to the side of the chest and drops them inside. The line that creased his forehead smoothes out, and he grabs my hand and shows me the little table where he colors, and do I see the picture he drew? Do I see it? Do I want him to draw one for me, because he wants to. He needs to know my favorite animal first and then he can draw it for me and do a good job, too, but it’s hard for him sometimes. He’ll do it if I want.

“Sure,” I say. “That’d be great.”

He lets go of my hand and sits in his chair at the table. “What’s your favorite animal?”

“A bear,” I say. “Or maybe an otter.”

Ben frowns again, and that line forms in the middle of his forehead. His eye twitches as he stares at me. For a moment, it’s like he has forgotten who I am.

“You have to pick one,” Dominic says from behind me. “You can’t give him a choice.”

“A bear,” I say.

Ben turns and grabs a crayon.

Oh, Ben. Oh, Dom. This isn’t fair. This shouldn’t have happened to either of you. I’m sorry. I’m so—

“Autism,” Dominic says before I can ask. He says it in a quiet voice, one with an air of acceptance and challenge, as if he expects me to say something to the contrary. “High-functioning. Diagnosed a few months ago. Explained a lot when we finally heard what it was.”

I wonder who “we” is, but don’t ask. Not yet. “I thought as much,” I say.

“Oh?”

“They thought I had it too. When I was three or four.”

“You never told me that.” I can hear the surprise in his voice.

I shrug, but still don’t look at him. “Didn’t seem important.”

“Julie?” he asks.

“She thought something was wrong with me,” I say, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “I talked about strange stuff. I could list off dozens of constellations.” I remember something Dominic said before I knew who Ben was. “I had to have my routines.”

“It wasn’t, though?”

“No. There was no real explanation for my weirdness.”

“Ben’s not weird,” Dominic says coolly.

I turn to look at him and see the anger on his face. I instantly feel like shit. “That’s not what I meant. I was just saying that about me.”

He watches me for a moment before he nods and looks away. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s been tough.”

“He has his routines, too, huh?”

“Yeah. Everything has a specific place. Everything has a specific time. Everything has to be done in a specific way.”

I look back down at Ben. The bear he’s drawing is better than anything I could hope to draw, down to the tiniest details: the fur, the claws on its feet that are the same color as the nose.

“Ursidae,” I hear Ben mutter.

I look back up at Dom, a question in my eyes.

“Scientific name for bears,” he says. “You had constellations, he has his animals. He can name quite a few. He learned Bear first, though. Because of your brother. And Otter.”

“Mustelidae,” Ben mutters.

“I didn’t know,” I say to Dominic. It almost sounds like an apology. I don’t know what else to say.

“About?”

“This. Ben. Everything.”

“I know. I made sure.”

“Why?”

“You left.”

“I was always going to leave.” Such a bullshit response.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“Would it have mattered?” he asks. He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head at me, giving me a look that I’ve known forever. That look says he’s calling me out.

“What?” I ask, trying to get more time to get my thoughts straight.

He sees right through me. He always has. “If you’d known. About Ben. Everything.” It almost sounds like he’s mocking me.

I want to say,
Of course. Of course it would have. Had I known, I would have come running, and all the bullshit of the past four years wouldn’t have happened. That’s how much you meant to me, Dom. I would have gotten over my own self and come running, because that’s what friends do. And regardless of what else we were or what I wished I could be, we were friends above all else, and I would have come running just for you. You helped me breathe and I would have helped you see that it would all be okay.

But I can’t say that. I can’t say that because it would be a lie. If I’d known that a kid was involved, that Dominic had a son who was almost as old as the length of time I’d been gone, that would have been the bit that broke it all away. I would have seen it as a betrayal, even more so than a wedding invitation in the mail. It probably would have broken me to pieces, because I would have made it about me. Had I known then what I know now, I probably wouldn’t even be standing in this room. In this house. In this town. Seafare and Dominic would have been nothing but a memory I would remember with faint anger.

Yes, it would have mattered
, I want to say.

“I don’t know,” I say instead. “I don’t think so.”

He nods like he got the answer he expected. It doesn’t stop disappointment from coursing across his face. I want to take it back and lie. I want to lie and tell him everything would have mattered.

“What do you want, Ty?”

Now that’s a fucking loaded question. “I—”

Ben tugs on my fingers, and I think of Bear and me when I was just a little guy. I look down at him and smile.

“Ursidae,” he says. “Bear.”

And it is. So very well done. I tell him as much.

“I know Bear,” he says. “You know Bear?”

“He’s my brother,” I tell him.

“He and Otter. Mustelidae.”

“Ursidae and Mustelidae,” I agree.

He looks up at me as if studying me. His lips quirk into a small smile and he sits back down at his desk, picking up another crayon.

“He likes you,” Dominic says.

“I guess.” I don’t know why. I haven’t done anything aside from questioning why he exists at all.

Dom shakes his head. “You don’t understand, Ty. It’s routine. Everything comes down to routine. Autism is about routine. Day in. Day out. You should have messed with that. He should be upset. He should be angry. He shouldn’t be talking.”

I’m confused. “He’s not, though. Upset, that is. And he’s talking just fine.”

“I know he is. More than I’ve heard in a while. He doesn’t do that with most people. Just with me. Sometimes with his mother.”

His mother? Where is she, Dom?

“Kids like me, I guess,” I say instead. I don’t really know how true that is. I don’t have much experience with kids.

Dominic laughs. God, that sound. “You still don’t get it. You’re a stranger to him, and yet he’s talking to you like you’ve been around his whole life. That doesn’t happen.”

“Oh.” I try not to read too much into that, because for all I know, it could really be nothing, even if Dom seems to think otherwise. “You’re… welcome?” Great, now I sound like a complete idiot. That’s just super.

Dom watches me. It makes me nervous. He’s got the whole cop-stare thing going on, and I’m pretty sure he can intuitively know everything bad I’ve done in the past four years without me having to say a goddamn word. My mouth desperately wants to fall open and babble to fill the silence, but somehow I’m able to keep it shut and stare right back at him, the only sound in the room Ben muttering to himself and scratching the crayon over the sheet of paper.

I break first. Of course I do. “What?” I ask nervously.

He shakes his head. Looks away. Whatever was there is gone. “What are you doing here, Tyson?”

And that’s the real question, isn’t it? What am I doing here? What do I want to happen? And whatever I want, does Dom want the same thing? He hasn’t kicked me out, not yet, but that doesn’t mean he won’t. He could very easily turn this around and tell me to leave, that it doesn’t matter that his son talks to me like he’s known me all his life. That Dom has known me practically my whole life. That none of any of that matters. That I should go and disappear back where I came from and never bother him again, because can’t I see he has his own life now? Can’t I see just how full it is? He has a son with a disability, and here I am, standing in front of him, pathetic words ready to fall from my lips.
Can’t we be friends again? Can’t we forget the past four years ever happened? I need you. I don’t want to need you, but I think I do. I want to know everything.

And it’s all about me. Again. What
I
want. What
I
need. I can’t breathe on my own, so here I am, ready to ask Dominic to help me do it. How egocentric am I? How positively
selfish
of a person am I? I came here with the foolish idea that I could get what
I
wanted from this and, really, nothing more.