Staring at the Light

Danielle Bradley

We knew joy, Dad and me. Warm blood and clay the summer he taught me to steal
home. A borrowed float in that gated community’s pool. Dirt smell of blistered leather.

We also knew to keep the good drill in the truck. Our apartment was small, just one closet. The living room was partitioned with Dad’s bed in a corner. The tininess wasn’t a bother because we knew, too, most things about each other. He built and moved into the partition when I got my first period, fourth grade. Both of us were surprised by my early arrival. We picked up his twin bed on the way back from the library. Me with books on being a woman, we made a quick stop at the corner store for pads. I read aloud over dinner and asked what it meant that I had eggs in me.

And we knew the storm would be bad.

We should probably board up the apartment, I said.

Don’t need to, he responded.

Why not?

News’ saying don’t bother.

It’ll be fast. It’s just three windows.

Alright then, he said. Get the good drill from the truck.

Dad kept the truck—our shed—tidy. Power tools in the back next to wrenches always wiped right after use. The handsaw in its bag, strapped over the passenger seat headrest, and the hammer I gave him for his birthday in the seat’s back pocket. Dad was good at making things last.

Where did we store the wood again? I asked.

Under your bed, he said. Screws are under the kitchen sink.

Dad held up the wood and I worked the drill and flathead screws. We had been exactly here before. The three windows were boarded and tools back in the truck, right places, twenty minutes.

We should fill up the gas tank, I said.

Did it on my way home from work.

Did you get water?

In the truck bed.

What kind?

That blue one you hate.

So funny, Dad. Do we have extra batteries?

We got extra from the last storm.

Ice?

Cooler’s packed.

You’re pretty prepared for someone who didn’t want to board up the house, I said.

Also got ice cream in the freezer, he said. It’s chocolate.

Then I think we got everything covered.

~

The hurricane hit overnight. Its speed, spin, and pressure were severe and grew as it moved west and towards us, the Everglades’ warm water a boon. The local weather people underestimated the winds and rainfall. We woke to no power but we knew what to do.

Big storm, Dad said to me, sitting at the kitchen table, the apartment glowing warm. He had lit candles. One on the kitchen table, two on each end of the counter, the biggest on the fridge, a fake ocean salt smell.

It smells gross in here, Dad, I said. I’m gonna open the front door.

You’ll let the cool air out, he said.

You don’t think the power will turn back on today?

Just in case it don’t.

I’m gonna blow out that big candle on the fridge then, I said. Should we take down the boarding?

The dark’ll keep the house cooler.

I’ll get the flashlights then.

Under the kitchen sink, he said.

The flashlights were right in place. I took one out, clicked it on, and pressed it under my chin. A slow swivel to show him.

Spooky, he said, mild amusement, adjusting himself to stretch his back.

You try, I said, tossing him the other flashlight.

We’ll waste the batteries.

Just do it, you old grump.

Give me yours, he said.

I handed it to him and he clicked it off. Dad stretched his back more, again, twisting to a relieving angle, his shoulder a balloon.

Get me a glass of water? he asked.

I did, pulled his usual plastic cup from the cabinet and filled it with bottled water, room temperature. A flashlight clicked, the kitchen bright with its white light, another click, another brightness. Dad, a flashlight placed under each side of his chin, fat grin, full cheeks and brown skin sunny—boo!

You’ll waste the batteries, I said.

We got more, he replied, tossing me the bigger flashlight.

I caught it with ease, joy.

Big sketch paper’s under my bed. I’ll get the markers, he said.

We knew how to pass this time. Silhouette drawing was our hurricane ritual; Dad tracked my height this way.

An eighth grader now, he said, taping the paper to the living room wall. My private school girl.

I stood tall, my arms stretched and fingers stretched. I was taking up space. I was big. The flashlight bright before me, my shadow thrown to the paper.

Off those tiptoes, Dad said.

I’m not!

He pressed just one finger, above my heart, below my sternum, and pushed me. My balance was lost and I dropped flat on my feet.

Not there yet, he said, taking the marker and tracing.

Not fair!

Stand still or you’ll look funnier than ya already are.

Dad took his time, slow. Started at the top and traced left and down, careful consideration given to my shoulders, grown broad from last softball season, thoughtfulness around my hands, fingers slender and long, attention to my knees, a bit bowed. Dad was an artist, each of his tracings looked just like me.

All done, he said.

He had used a thin black marker, the outline delicate but a little shaky. I felt girly looking at me.

It’s beautiful, I said.

He kissed the top of my head and said, Let’s leave it up for a bit.

~

Everything’s flooded, Dad said, taking off his boots at the front door. It’s looking like we’re gonna be stuck indoors for a while, he continued.

Any catfish this time? I asked.

Think so, he said, not looking at me, something shaking in his voice.

How big? I asked. This big? My hands held wide, rounded, like I was holding a watermelon. Dad? I asked again. His back still turned to me. How big? Bigger than last hurricane?

Look, I said, my arms spread big. Were they this big? Bigger?

Didn’t get a good look.

Well, I want to see! I said, already at the door, a boot on my left foot and my arms moving to the right.

Not tonight. We’ll go out during the daylight, he said.

But they might be gone by then! I want to go now.

I said no.

Dad’s tone was sore. He almost never said no to fun. I looked at him confused.

What’s the matter? I asked.

It’s just not a good idea, he said, squatting down next to me seated on the floor. He removed, gently, my boots, and put them back and even on the shoe rack.

I promise we can go next time, he continued.

But I wanna go now!

I’ll take you fishin’ next time, too. We’ll catch all the big ones, okay?

Fine, I replied. And took my boots and put them in front of the door, messy.

He nodded, smiled, and asked, Any books left on our list?

We were making our way through my summer reading list, hefty for upcoming honors English. We thought Holden was a phony and were indifferent to Animal Farm, but had already reread Beloved. Dad couldn’t read and so I read aloud at the dinner table. He’d close his eyes because he could see the characters best when it was dark.

Just one more, I said.

Think I’ll like it?

I think so.

Good. It’s looking like rice and beans for dinner again, he said.

We have a can of tuna.

Where?

Cabinet, behind the beans.

He moved things around, pulled the can out, and held it up. A prize.

You’ll be eating good tonight, he said.

You won’t eat the tuna?

My stomach’s a little squirrely. So you reading to me or not?

I can, I said, turning to the page I’d dogeared for him.

The wind came back with triple fury, and put out the light for the last time. They sat in company with the others in other shanties, their eyes straining against crude walls and their souls asking if He meant to measure their puny might against His. They seemed to be staring at the dark, but their eyes were watching God.

Must’ve been some big storm, Dad said.

Bigger than ours, you think? I asked.

No way, he said. No mention of catfish there.

I read for longer, bouncing, different chapters, telling him what I thought they might mean. Dad grew sleepy; easy in our apartment still boarded and dark.

That’s great, baby, he said, walking to his partition. You’re right, I did like that.

~

It sounded like an animal.

Dad?

The house still boarded, I couldn’t tell if daylight broke. I got up, into the living room, his little partition was baking. I fumbled back to my room and returned to him with a flashlight. Dad was in just his underwear, on top of the covers, sweat surrounding him.

Dad, are you okay? Dad?

Ran out, he said first and simple.

I knew Dad took opioids. I wasn’t perceptive—he told me—and not so I would take care of him. It was so I understood it wasn’t him doing those things to me. Honest when he couldn’t drive to a game when he was high. Would tell me directly, You shouldn’t be in a car with me. Honest why he itched raw and off the skin on his neck. Would ask me to bike to the store for cream. Dry mouth meant sometimes we didn’t talk at dinner. He would ask me to read aloud, more, longer.

No, there are some under the bathroom sink. I’ll get them, I said.

Took those already.

In the truck?

Took ‘em.

My room?

I’m out, baby.

How? That can’t be right, I said.

Of course we had more, some, somewhere there was more. We had planned for this storm.

It’s my fault, he said. Will ya get me some water?

I went to the kitchen and filled his usual cup with water and a fast-food paper straw. I returned and he had covered himself with a blanket. Its usual sage color looked hunter green in the dim lighting and he seemed again an animal, squirming. Quickly back to my room, I took my covers, his sweatshirt hanging in our closet, socks and sweats.

Get dressed, I said.

He put the sweats over his legs, still horizontal. I pushed his socks on as he pulled the sweatshirt over himself. He laid flat again and I tucked the sheet and blankets around him. Started at the top, left and down, careful consideration around his shoulders, shivering, thoughtfulness around his hands, cramping and achy, attention to his knees, hard to bend. I pulled on to him another blanket and tucked it tight at his feet.

How long have you been like this?

A couple hours.

When did you take the last one?

Yesterday afternoon.

And you didn’t tell me you were out then!

Nothing you coulda done.

I can get more.

Not now with the flooding. We just gotta wait, baby.

I’ll go to the pharmacy.

I don’t have a prescription no more.

He sucked slow through the straw. His lips split and dry. 10:00am, nearly nineteen hours after his last one.

I got out my library books on addiction.

This one says you’re going to feel like you have the flu, I read aloud to him. That you’ll shiver and cramp. You’re going to be restless.

Okay, he said, eyes closed, body shaking.

And you’ll feel even sicker after twenty-four hours.

That’s enough, baby. Let’s just see.

No, we need to know.

I don’t wanna think about that right now, he said.

Dad, we need to do something.

I was liking that book you was reading last night, he said. Maybe you could read me some more?

We should go to the hospital.

You’re gonna need to listen to me this time, he said. I know what’s gonna happen.

But I don’t.

Could ya read to me please?

Dad was asleep before I got back to the partition with my book. I tucked, again, his blankets. Refilled the water, brushed from his forehead his long black hair stuck in sweat and smear. I sat just outside the partition, back pressed against it and began to read aloud, soft and low.

~

He woke again and asked immediately the time and then about the game.

I’ll tell you the score after you eat something, I said, handing him a PB&J sandwich as he hoisted himself up in bed. His skin was yellow and his lips still flaky with dead pieces caught in his dark beard. Dad supported himself upright with one arm and ate the sandwich with the other, a napkin placed across his lap all tidy. He ate slow, each bite small and held in his mouth, a pool of saliva doing most of the work. I stood and watched him. He finished the sandwich and said, last bite still in this mouth, Time to turn the radio on.

From the closet I pulled our little battery-powered radio. We were away and down three runs at the bottom of the seventh. Not much of a season for any of us.

We got time, Dad said.

A double play ended the bottom half and our favorite was up to bat next. He wasn’t a slugger. Dad and I weren’t there for the big hitters. We liked the consistent guys, respected a good on-base percentage. I had the highest on my softball team. It was my game—our game—to play it tidy, steady.

He struck out.

How about some ice cream? Dad asked.

It’s melted.

You can use a straw.

~

I slept on the couch to monitor him. Dad groaned and when I looked into the partition to see, he twitched and made these awful faces with his jaw tight. The bones and veins in his neck were unrecognizable. He threw up and it smelled sweet. The smell filled the apartment and I couldn’t take down the boarding without Dad’s help. I opened the front door, tied and taped my bedsheet around its frame, standing on Dad’s usual kitchen chair to reach the top. This would keep the bugs out and maybe let a breeze pass, stop us from suffocating.

He threw up again. The chunks on his face and in his beard. Dad’s long hair was in the way. My lavender headband slipped easily over his face and fit snug behind his ears. I thought it made him look pretty and like me with his hair pulled back. I supported his neck like a baby’s and held the straw to his lips. With a towel, I cleaned the biggest chunks from his beard.

Do you think what you’re learning in school there is better than the public school? Dad asked, soft.

I don’t know, I said. I like everything we’re reading.

I think it is better, baby. I think we’re doing real good.

I cleaned the rest of Dad’s face with cool water. He stopped me before I could tuck in his blankets.

I think it’s time for me to shower, he said.

I helped Dad up and followed him from the partition into the living room, holding a flashlight to illuminate our dark apartment. For a moment, before he collapsed, his silhouette was drawn on the wall next to mine. I couldn’t tell the difference.

Boricua and Irish by way of Florida, Danielle Bradley studies prose at the MFA for Poets and Writers at the University of Massachusetts Amherst where she is an MFA, Delaney, and REAL Fellow.