âa dream maker / my heartbreaker / wherever youâre goingâŚiâm going that way.â
Itâs summer. Jack has a Stanley Cup and the person heâs going to be with for as long as the universe will let him is upstairs, inside, sleeping in Jackâs childhood bed. Jack is sitting on the porch swing, an unsmoked blunt still zipped up in a bag next to him. He had planned to come out here and relive his teenage years, billowing smoke and relaxing while is parents were outside. Something strangely close to pride has risen in his chest when he realized he was already calm. He already had two feet on the ground and a sweatshirt that still smelled like Georgia.
The patio door slides open, and Jack looks up to see his Mom and Dad creeping up to him. He smiles, holding up the bag the blunt was in. âUnsmoked, donât worry.â His dad laughs.
When Jack was sixteen, his dad had slammed open the door to his room, flipping over Jackâs mattress and tearing off pillowcases and opening vents and screaming, as loud as he can, âYou failed the drug test, Jack!â Jack hears it for years after.
âIâm only suspended for one game,â Jack had said. He wanted to add, âThereâll be plenty more.â But something about those words made everything much sadder.
Now, the porch swing creaks under the weight of the Zimmermann family. Jack closes his eyes and feels the cool breeze of his province in the summer wash over his face. He remembers being six or seven and breaking the swing. His mother had just pulled his convulsing body into hers, held him tightly and told him it was going to be okay. Tells him to stop apologizing and Jack didnât know it, then, but everyone is always going to be telling him that. For a long time after, Jack thinks about that day and wonders if Alicia had known, then, that her son was too soft for a world with so many sharp edges. Now, his mom points to the sky, smiling. âLittle Dipper.â She says, and Bob laughs.
Itâs Jackâs old nickname. Jack feels his smile growing. âThe bear,â Jack replies, crossing his finger with his momâs to point at the constellation heâs talking about. His dad grabs both of their hands out of the sky, kissing the skin of Aliciaâs and blowing raspberries into Jackâs. Jack laughs, cutting through the quiet of the yard.
When he was twelve, his Dad has just â been gone when came home from summer camp. âYour dad and I needed space,â Alicia had said. They never talk about it again after that. Jack learned, then, that the things that his parents donât say, their silence, the words that seem to fall between the walls of their room and Jackâs â they can hurt just as much as the things they do say. Jack only sees his father on TV for two months, and when he moves back in, Jack cries into his shirt for an hour. They donât talk about it. They still havenât.
When youâre twelve, Jack knows, people stop existing when you stop seeing them. For years after, every time Jack sees his father, he feels like heâs looking at a ghost. They donât talk about it.
Now, Jack rests his arm on his Dadâs shoulders, and his head on top of it, his Mom doing the same thing on Bobâs other side. He thinks, the same way he always does, that his parents are his best friends. They cheer the loudest at his games and both call him three times a week. They have a groupchat where Alicia sends pictures of Bob in the seventies, his belt tight and pants flared. Jack replies, âWhich member of the Brady Bunch is this?â and Alicia sends a 15 second video of her laughing her mascara off. They have a standing appointment to watch documentaries together on Facetime every other Thursday morning, after Jack finishes his run. Jack loves them enough to melt all the tigers in the world to butter.
When heâs sixteen, theyâre supposed to drive up after the game and take him home for the weekend. Jack waits outside the hotel the rest of the team is sleeping in until two in the morning. He remembers getting he text, âSorry, Jackie.â He remembers the sound his phone had made when he slammed it against the concrete. The way his hair had ruffled when he ran his hand through it and cried, his whole body shaking. He remembers feeling so, so, small, memories of being the last kid picked up from the party, and from school, and from practice.
He remembers the way Kent had looked in the doorway of his hotel room, eyes soft like he had known all along they were never coming. He doesnât say anything. The two of them, they never learn. The next morning, Jack calls his parents and says, âI need a new phone.â Neither of them had asked why.
Itâs a long moment before Jack realizes his parents are talking, laughing and leaning into each other. Jack wants him and Bitty to be everything and nothing like them. He wants kids and he wants to take them to Disney World, like his parents did. He wants to listen when the child tells him all the noise is too much, like his parents didnât.
âHow is being an old man, Jackie?â Alicia asks from the other side of the swing. Jack can hear the cicadas in the yard.
âIâve always been an old man,â Jack replies, and both his parents laugh. âBut I guess itâs okay.â Not as bad as I thought it would be, he almost adds, but decides against it.
Growing up, Jackâs learned, is about realizing everyone who hurt you is a person. His parents broke his heart but he broke theirs, too, so thereâs nothing left to do but forgive each other. Healing isnât as easy as people make it seem, but itâs easier than silence, easier than smashed cell phones, easier than the sound of a body hitting the tile of the bathroom floor.
When heâs eighteen, Jack is in all white and tells them it was an accident. The way relief had flooded their eyes. For some things, heâll always be sorry.
Alicia reaches over and squeezes his hand, keeping it latched onto hers even after Jack has stopped shaking. They still donât talk as much as theyâre supposed to, but Jackâs starting to think thatâs because some things are too big for words.
His mom hums Moon River and his Dad smiles at the sky. âBig dipper.â The older man says without pointing.
Itâs summer. Some things are too big for words.
âweâre all chasing after our end / chasing after our ends / lifeâs just around the bend, my friend / moon river and me.â
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