Hurricane Season, page 9
“No,” Danny mumbled, then added for only Fig’s ears, “I don’t even sit here.”
Mrs. Beckett finished taking attendance, and she then told them all to take out their homework, which she would walk around the room to check. Fig pulled out her notebook, and—with Mrs. Beckett preoccupied checking the students’ work—Danny leaned back over to whisper, “Miss Williams is an artist, so she would appreciate your dad as a musician.”
“What would that help?” Fig asked. “And why would Miss Williams even want to date my dad? She’s the reason we’re in this mess to begin with.”
Danny frowned. “She was trying to help. That day in art class—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Fig interrupted. “Besides, my dad has me. Vincent van Gogh only needed his brother. His love life was doomed, but he always had Theo. It’s the same with me and my dad.”
“Finola and Danny,” Mrs. Beckett said, “do I need to repeat myself?”
“No,” they both said. Fig slumped in her seat. She hated extra attention. Especially when Ava turned around to look at her.
“Have you thought more about Ava’s party next weekend?” Danny whispered. “It’s supposed to be a Halloween party, even though it’s before Halloween, so you gotta wear a costume.”
Mrs. Beckett came to check the homework in their row, so Fig didn’t answer him. Instead, she looked over at Ava, who was writing notes to Haley again. Sometimes it felt like a different lifetime from when she might have been whispering and writing notes with them. They didn’t seem to talk much about her dad anymore, but as they moved on from gossiping about him, they also moved on from her.
“Put your phone away,” Mrs. Beckett said as she reached Fig’s desk. Fig had forgotten it was still in her lap, had forgotten for a moment that Mark was home alone with her dad.
She slipped the phone into her backpack and looked back at the clock, the second hand ticking much too slowly for her liking.
Fig didn’t know what she should expect when she got home. She had never left her dad with anyone else during an episode before, and while she wanted to believe Mark wouldn’t lie and call CP&P on them, she barely knew him. He barely knew them. There were a million ways in which things could have gone wrong in the hours she was at school, and by the time the last bell rang, she knew this because she spent the rest of all her classes imagining each and every one.
The school bus doors slid open with that awful screech, and Fig started walking down the stairs, squinting in the bright sun, but then stopped in her tracks, nearly causing Mikey Ramirez to crash into her back. She stumbled to the side, out of the way, and continued gaping. Her dad and Mark stood there, waiting for her, as if this were a normal occurrence. She couldn’t remember the last time her dad had met her at the bus stop, which was only up the street from their house. But there he was, his hands buried deep in his pockets (though she could still see the movement of his fingers tapping against his legs). He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, and he definitely hadn’t shaved, but he was there, and he was whole. He smiled sheepishly at her, and she found herself running the short distance to him.
“How was school?” he asked, as if this were their regular routine.
She played along. “Fine.”
He looked at Mark and back at her again. “I was hoping we could take a walk. There are some things we want to talk to you about.”
We? Fig thought, looking at Mark.
Mark held out a hand to take her backpack from her, and she let him as her dad led them all down the road toward the shoreline. They walked quietly along the boardwalk, the sounds of the crashing waves their background music. She wanted to suggest they find a bench because her dad seemed so small, so jittery, but she followed his lead. She tugged at her earlobe, which had been sore all day, until another hand pulled hers away. She looked up to find Mark watching her, looking at her ear, but she shrugged him off. She couldn’t help it lately, even if her ear was starting to hurt, and she didn’t want Mark knowing that.
Finally her dad stopped walking. They faced the Atlantic view he loved so much and that right now made Fig feel so much smaller, so much farther away from him, and the kids at school, and Vincent van Gogh, and art, and everything.
Still, he said nothing.
“Are you feeling better, Dad?” Fig asked.
He chuckled softly. “I don’t deserve you, Fig.”
She glanced at Mark, and then back at her dad as the wind off the water picked up. Now October, the air was already colder than it was last month. Fig shivered, and her dad pulled off his favorite West Ham scarf and wrapped her up in its burgundy-and-blue stripes.
“Mark and I talked after you left.” He paused, then laughed and shook his head. “Actually, Mark talked. I was rather belligerent.”
That made Fig smile. “I’m shocked.”
“Don’t be cheeky,” he said, then became serious again. “Anyway, long story short, we went through the referrals CP and P gave me and found a doctor, a regular one, who will see me and sort of, you know, help figure things out from there. Sort of like a checkup. I’ll go chat with her, and she’ll point me in the direction of what to do next.”
Fig didn’t like the sound of that. “A doctor? You’ve done that before, it just upset you. It made things worse. It was too hard and you couldn’t afford it. We can’t afford it.”
“You don’t worry about that.” He looked over at Mark again, then back at her, and Fig felt strangely like a third wheel, the spare part, even though this was a conversation between her and her dad. “It’s just . . . just to see,” he continued. “To find out options. It’s a start.”
She shook her head. “Why can’t we talk about this? Don’t I get a say?”
“It’s a good thing, Fig,” Mark chimed in.
Fig shot him a glare. “He doesn’t need a doctor. They won’t understand, like Miss Williams didn’t understand and CP and P doesn’t understand. And what if they try to take you away from me, Dad—”
“That’ll never happen.”
“What happens then? Where would I go? Would they look for my mom?”
“No,” he practically growled.
Fig didn’t relent. “And what if it doesn’t work? Vincent van Gogh got help, he went to doctors and a hospital and an asylum, and he still died. He shot himself and he died.”
“I’m not Van Gogh, love.”
“He didn’t want to be sick, either. He checked himself into the asylum. It didn’t work. No one understood him. He was scared of being sick, and he didn’t get better and he died.”
“But I’m sick!” His voice was loud on the empty boardwalk, and Fig stopped, tears dripping down her face. He reached out to wipe them away before continuing. “If I wasn’t, social services wouldn’t need to come back to check in on us. If I wasn’t sick, your art teacher wouldn’t have had to worry about you. But she was right to worry about you.” He looked over again at Mark, who nodded, and then took a deep breath.
“I know we don’t talk about . . . You asked me if I’m feeling better, yeah?” He stood in front of her, his hands reaching out but not yet touching her, his fingers trembling slightly. Fig nodded, and he continued, his fingers moving more against the air, playing music that, like always, was only in his head. “I feel . . . I feel like there is something vibrating inside me. I feel anxious and jittery and scared, Fig. And this is me when I do feel better. You do such a wonderful job of taking care of me, but we need help, both of us, because it can’t be all on your little shoulders. And I need to stop feeling this way.”
She looked out at the ocean, at the view in which her dad so often sought solace, trying to find whatever it was he saw in it that made him keep looking. Her nose began to burn as she fought back more tears. It was weird to be having this conversation after all these years in front of the very view that, because of her dad’s mind, caused them so much trouble. Weirder still, with Mark standing there, too.
“As for your mum . . .” He paused and looked out toward the water. “She’s not coming back, Fig. She gave up her right long ago.”
“Where would I go, then?” Fig asked again.
“Right here. You’ll stay right here,” her dad said. “That’s the point of all this. That’s why the doctors. So we can make sure we both stay right here.”
She tried again, fiddling with the frayed edges of her dad’s scarf. “But Van Gogh—”
“Lived over a hundred bloody years ago,” he interrupted. “Try and have a little faith that things have changed.”
Fig said nothing.
“All right?” he prompted.
She paused, staring at the ocean. She didn’t think any of this was all right.
“Okay,” she breathed, and the three of them walked home.
10
Undergrowth
“That’s beautiful, Fig.” Miss Williams’s smile was big and full of teeth and directed right at Fig. Fig averted her eyes to her paper.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, her voice soft and cheeks warm.
“You should be ready to start painting soon. I can’t wait to see it finished and to hang it at the festival,” Miss Williams said. “Your dad is going to love it.”
That made Fig look up into Miss Williams’s eyes. Part of her wanted to yell at Miss Williams, to tell her not to talk about her dad, to tell her that she had made things harder for them, not easier. She wanted Miss Williams to know that Fig was angry with her for hurting her dad, and hurting her, and that no stupid painting was going to fix any of that, no matter how hard Fig tried.
The bigger part of Fig did try, though. She wanted to show Miss Williams that she was fine, that Miss Williams was wrong, that Fig could learn art and learn her dad, and they would both be all right.
But Fig also knew that she had told her dad about the Fall Festival more than once now, and still, she had no reason to believe he’d be able to make it, didn’t know what version of her dad she would get even if he did. His doctor appointment was that afternoon, but even so, if Fig was being honest, she didn’t trust his mind—only his heart. When push came to shove, the broken bits of his mind often won those battles.
Miss Williams placed a gentle hand on Fig’s shoulder, and Fig felt her body grow stiff. “Keep up the good work, Fig,” Miss Williams said, her smile fading.
As Miss Williams stepped aside to talk to the next student, Danny leaned over to talk to Fig. “Have you figured out how to set up your dad and Miss Williams yet? When my dad got a girlfriend, he became way happy way fast.”
Thoughts of the festival, and doctors, and mental health made Fig’s jaw clench. She didn’t want to set up Miss Williams with her dad and didn’t understand why Danny kept pushing it. She nearly growled in response, “No. My dad doesn’t need that.” Vincent van Gogh needed only his brother. Fig’s dad needed only her.
“All right, all right. But anyway, I was also thinking,” Danny began, and Fig bit her tongue to keep from snapping at him, because of course he was. “If you want, maybe you can come over after the party tonight. If you can go, I mean.”
Madison, from the other side of her, leaned over Fig’s desk to get into the conversation. “You’re going to the party tonight?” She sounded surprised.
That caught the attention of Ava, who was texting under her desk. “Who is? Fig?” she asked, then narrowed her eyes. “Who’s taking you?”
“I am,” Danny said, and Ava and Madison exchanged glances.
Fig blushed, gripped the edges of her desk. “Maybe. I mean, if that’s okay?”
“My sister’s got people coming over, too,” Ava said. “So everyone will be there.”
It wasn’t really an invitation, but it wasn’t a rejection, either, and it was much more than Fig had gotten from Ava in a long time. “Oh. Cool. Yeah, I mean. I have to ask . . .” Fig stopped herself from mentioning her dad. “I have to make sure, but I mean, it sounds fun.”
“What are you going as?” Madison asked.
“I’m going as Wonder Woman,” Ava chimed in. “So I hope you weren’t planning on that.”
Fig shook her head. Her palms were starting to sweat against her desk. She hadn’t thought at all about what she would be, and now it was too late to think up anything good.
Danny was looking at her with his big eyes and gap-toothed smile, and Ava and Madison were watching her expectantly. Maybe, she thought, this could get her back where she was with them before. Her dad wouldn’t be alone, now that he had Mark right across the street, and plans to see doctors, and real plans to get better. (Plans that he made with Mark, and not her, but if he could make friends and make plans . . .)
Fig realized she really, really wanted to go to the party.
“Okay,” she told Danny. “Yeah, I’ll come.”
When Fig got home from school, Mark was outside her house, mowing the lawn. “Why’re you doing that?” she asked.
He wiped at his forehead and turned the mower off. “Just helping out. I have to do mine anyway.”
“Is my dad home?” She cut to the chase. “Did you two go to the doctor?”
Mark leaned up against the lawn mower and smiled at her. “We did. He’s inside resting now. He was pretty exhausted when we got back. Try and let him sleep some, okay?”
“I always let him sleep when he needs to,” Fig said with a slight frown. “What’d the doctor say? Is he going to be okay? Can they help him? What’s going to happen?”
Mark glanced toward the front door before looking back at Fig. “Your dad wants to talk to you about all that, Fig. Let him rest, and he’ll explain it all to you.”
“You can’t just tell me?”
Mark sighed. “It’s really between you and your dad.”
If that was true, then he and I would be the ones to know, and you’d be on the outside.
Fig tugged her earlobe. Mark reached forward to pull her hand away, but Fig flinched and pushed him away. “Don’t touch me.”
He froze, his hands in the air. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .” He stopped and took a deep breath. “What can I do to get you to trust me, Fig?”
She didn’t know how to answer that. He had shaved her dad’s face. He had helped at the museum. He stayed when her dad needed him, and helped him call doctors, and went with him to the appointments. He saved him from that storm.
Fig shrugged, slumping her shoulders as she looked down at her shoes. “I’m sorry.”
Mark shook his head. “Don’t be sorry.”
She stood there with him for another moment. Fallen leaves blew around the lawn along with the newly cut grass blades. The crisp air caused Fig to shiver. Mark kept looking at her, and she almost—almost—told him everything. About how much she hated CP&P and the random drug tests, and how mad she was at Miss Williams. About her art project that she finally started and wanted, more than anything, her dad to see. About how the kids at school were finally, maybe, treating her normal again. About how sometimes she wished her dad were more like Mark because sometimes she just wanted to be able to depend on somebody.
Instead, as she stood there, watching him in his work boots and gloves, with the sweat dripping down his forehead in the crisp fall air, Fig got an idea.
“You can start by letting me borrow your tool belt.”
The house was quiet when Fig went inside. The sound of Mark’s lawn mower echoed from outside, where he was back to work on his own lawn after lending Fig some of his things. Her dad’s bedroom door was closed, and the house was dark, and she knew he was still sleeping. She pulled out her phone to text Danny, asking for the details. Once he responded, she rummaged for a piece of paper and a pen to write them all down, in case her dad was still sleeping when Danny’s mom came to pick her up.
Dad, she wrote, and then hesitated. She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined she was Vincent and Theo van Gogh, writing letters, telling each other how they felt, all their worries and fears and feelings. She liked to think she and her dad were as close, that they were all each other had and the only ones who understood each other, but she hadn’t felt so sure in a while. Dad, she wanted to write. I’m trying so hard to be what you need, but I don’t know what that is, and I don’t know what I need, either. Sometimes I worry that maybe Miss Williams and CP&P might be right, and I don’t know what happens if that’s true.
Sometimes, though, Vincent’s brother got angry. Sometimes Vincent asked too much. Sometimes it was too hard for Theo to balance his own life with taking care of Vincent’s. Theo had his own job, and his own wife, and eventually his own baby. Making sure Vincent was supported was sometimes too hard, sometimes too painful.
Sometimes Fig thought she could relate to Theo just as much as her dad could relate to Vincent.
So, instead of pouring out her heart, she wrote Ava’s address and a note saying that she had gone to Ava’s party with her friend Danny.
Her dad didn’t come out of his room, so she left the note on the kitchen table when Danny’s mom picked her up and drove them to Ava’s. Fig wore Mark’s tool belt (though he had taken out most of the tools) along with a pair of his safety goggles. She wore the pair of tan construction boots she got for Christmas two years ago, a little small but still manageable, and a flannel top over a white shirt.
Danny was dressed as a cop, and when Fig climbed into the back seat, his mom made a YMCA joke that Fig didn’t understand. Danny rolled his eyes.
Danny’s mom pulled up to Ava’s house, which was on the other side of the highway from where Fig lived, the side that had bigger houses with backyards and fences and pools. Orange fairy lights were hung along the perimeter of the house, the bushes were covered with cotton webs, and a large spider made out of black garbage bags sat on the front lawn.
Before Danny could climb out of the car, his mom called after him, “Hey, you know the rules!”
