The Mistake: Chapter 8

I drive to Munsen on Wednesday morning, my enthusiasm level sitting firmly on its usual spot on the super-happy-fun-time scale: zero.

It’s rare that I’m forced go home during the school year, but sometimes I have no choice. Usually it happens if the part-time mechanic at my dad’s shop can’t cover for Jeff when he takes Dad to his doctor’s appointments. Today is one of those instances, but I assure myself that I can handle a couple hours of oil changes and tune-ups without losing my mind.

Besides, it’ll be a good warm-up for the summer. I tend to forget how much I hate working in the garage, so on that first day back, it’s like being sent to the front lines of a war zone. My stomach drops and fear pummels into me, as I realize that this will be my life for the next three months. At least if I dip my toes in today, I can get some of the panic out of the way.

Jeff’s van is already gone when I park my pickup in front of Logan and Sons Auto Repair. The name is kind of ironic, seeing as the shop was already called that long before my parents ever had kids. My granddad ran the place before my dad took over, and I guess he’d been hoping to sire a lot of strapping male offspring. He only sired one, though, so technically the place should be called Logan and Son.

The shop consists of one small, brick building, the interior of which only has room for two lifts. But the meager square footage doesn’t really impact the business since it’s not exactly booming. L&S does well enough to cover expenses, my dad’s bills, and the mortgage on our bungalow, which sits at the back of the property. Growing up, I hated that our house was so close to the shop. We used to get woken up in the middle of the night by customers pounding on our door because their car broke down nearby, or by phone calls from the tow truck company saying they were bringing over a vehicle.

Since my dad’s accident, the close proximity has actually become convenient, because it means he can get from home to work in less than a minute.

Not that he spends much time in the garage anymore. Jeff is the one who does all the work, while Dad drinks himself stupid on the living room recliner.

I walk up to the dented metal door, which is shut and locked. A lined piece of paper sticks to it with a jagged strip of duct tape, and I instantly recognize my brother’s handwriting.

YOU’RE LATE.

Two words, all caps. Shit, Jeff was pissed.

I use my set of keys to unlock the side door, then step inside and hit the button that sends the huge mechanical door soaring upward. It’s still cold out, but I always keep the door open, no matter how frigid the weather is. It’s my one requirement for working here. After a while, the overpowering odor of oil and car exhaust makes me want to kill myself.

Jeff has left me a list of tasks, but luckily, it’s not too long. The older model Buick parked on the concrete needs an oil change and a headlight replaced. Easy peasy. I throw on a blue jumpsuit with the L&S logo on the back, turn the radio dial to the first metal station I find, and get right to work.

An hour passes before I take my first break. I chug water from the sink in the office, then pop outside for a quick cigarette.

I’ve just snubbed the butt out beneath my steel-toed boot when the sound of an engine hums in the distance. My chest tightens when I glimpse the front bumper of my brother’s white van slicing through the trees that line the long driveway.

Like a coward, I duck back inside and race to the raised hood of the Buick. I bend over and pretend to give the engine a spot check, while also pretending I’m too focused on my work to notice the car doors slamming and my dad’s harsh voice as he snaps something at my brother. I hear two sets of footsteps, one slow and laborious, leading away from the dirt driveway, the other a fast angry thump as Jeff storms into the garage.

“You couldn’t come over and say hello to him?” my older brother demands irritably.

I straighten up and close the hood. “Sorry, I was finishing up. I’ll stop by the house before I go.”

“You better, because he just gave me shit for it, and I’m not even the one who didn’t say hello!” Jeff’s dark eyebrows draw together in a displeased frown. He looks like he wants to lecture me some more, so I speedily change the subject before he can.

“So what did the doctor say?”

Jeff responds in a flat voice. “He needs to stop drinking or he’s going to die.”

I can’t help but snort. “Fat chance of him stopping.”

“Of course he won’t stop. He’s drinking to die.” Jeff angrily shakes his head. “Before the accident, it was an addiction. Now I think it’s a purpose.”

Jesus. I’ve never heard a more depressing assessment in my life.

I can’t argue, though. The accident really was the game-changer—it had pushed my dad right off the wagon and pretty much erased all those years of sobriety. Good years, damn it. Three whole years of having a father again.

When I was fourteen, Dad’s latest stint in rehab had miraculously stuck. He’d been sober for an entire year before Mom left, which was the only reason she agreed to let us stay with him. During the divorce, we had a choice about which parent to live with, and since Jeff didn’t want to change schools and refused to leave his girlfriend, he chose to stay with our dad. And I chose to stay with my older brother. Not only because I idolized him, but because when we were little, the two of us made a promise to always watch each other’s backs.

Dad had stayed sober for two more years after that, but I guess the universe decided that the Logan family wasn’t allowed to be happy, because when I was sixteen, my father was involved in a massive car accident on his way back from dropping us off in Boston to see our mom.

Both his legs were crushed. And I mean crushed—he was lucky to escape without being paralyzed. He was in a shit ton of pain, but the doctors were hesitant to prescribe painkillers to a man with a destructive history of addiction. They said he needed to be monitored twenty-four/seven, so Jeff left college to come home and help me take care of him. Mom’s new husband offered to take out a loan in order to hire someone to care for Dad, but we assured David that we could handle it. Because at the time, we honestly believed we could. Dad’s legs would heal, and if he went to physical therapy like the doctors had instructed, then he might be able to walk normally one day.

But again, the universe had another fuck you for the Logans. Dad was in so much agony that he turned to drinking to numb the pain. He also didn’t finish his PT, which means his legs didn’t heal the way they were supposed to.

So now he has a bad limp, constant pain, and two sons who have resigned themselves to the fact that they’ll be taking care of him until the day he dies.

“What do we do?” I ask grimly.

“Same thing we’ve always done. We man up and take care of our family.”

Frustration twists my gut, tangling with the pretzel of guilt already lodged there. Why is it our job to sacrifice everything for him?

Because he’s your father and he’s sick.

Because your mother had to do it for fourteen years and now it’s your turn.

Another thought bubbles to the surface, one I’ve had before, and which makes me want to throw up every time it enters my mind.

Things would be so much easier if he died.

As bile burns my throat, I banish the selfish, disgusting notion. I don’t want him to die. He might be a mess, he might be a drunk and an asshole sometimes, but he’s still my father, damn it. He’s the man who drove me to hockey practice, rain or shine. Who helped me memorize my multiplication tables and taught me how to tie my shoes.

When he was sober, he was a really good dad, and that just makes this whole situation so much fucking worse. Because I can’t hate him. I don’t hate him.

“Listen, I’ve been thinking…” I trail off, too afraid of Jeff’s reaction. Coughing, I fish another cigarette out of the pack and head for the door. “Let’s talk outside for a sec.”

A moment later, I take a deep drag of my smoke, hoping the nicotine will bring me a much-needed dose of confidence. Jeff eyes me in disapproval before releasing a defeated sigh.

“Give me one of those.”

As he lights up, I exhale a cloud of smoke and force myself to continue. “I’ve had some interest from an agent in New York. This really big sports agent.” I hesitate. “He thinks I’ll have no trouble signing with a team if I test out free agency.”

Jeff’s features instantly harden.

“That could mean a decent signing bonus. And a contract. Money, Jeff.” Desperation tightens my throat. “We could hire someone else to run the garage, a full-time nurse for Dad. Maybe even pay off the house if the contract is big enough.”

My brother barks out a derisive laugh. “How big of a contract do you think you’ll actually land, John? Let’s be serious here.” He shakes his head. “Look, we talked about this. If you wanted to go pro, you should’ve gone the Major Junior route. But you wanted the college degree. You can’t have it both ways.”

Yeah, I did choose the degree. Because I knew damn well that if I picked the alternative, I’d never leave the league, and that would mean screwing over my brother. They would’ve had to pry that hockey stick out of my cold dead hands to stop me from playing.

But now that the time for Jeff and me to trade places is drawing near, I’m terrified.

“It could be a lot of money,” I mumble, but my feeble attempt to convince him doesn’t work—Jeff is already shaking his head.

“No way, Johnny. We had a deal. Even if you signed with a team, you wouldn’t get all that money up front, and it would take time to get everything here in order. I don’t have time, okay? The second they slap that diploma in your hand, I’m out of here.”

“Oh, come on. You expect me to believe you’re just going to skip town at the drop of a hat?”

“Kylie and I are leaving for Europe next May,” Jeff says quietly. “We’ll be gone the day after your graduation.”

Surprise slams into me. “Since when?”

“We’ve been planning this for a long time. I already told you—we want to travel for a couple of years before we get married. And then we want to spend some time in Boston before we look for a place in Hastings.”

My panic intensifies. “But that’s still your plan, right? Living in Hastings and working here?”

That was the deal we’d struck after I graduated high school. Jeff mans the fort while I’m in college, and then I take over for a few years before he and his fiancée settle down in this area, at which point he’ll run the shop again and I’ll be free.

Granted, I’ll also be twenty-five by then, and the odds of playing professional hockey won’t be as favorable. Yeah, I might land in the AHL somewhere, but I don’t know how many NHL teams would be interested in taking me on at that point.

“It’s still the plan,” he assures me. “Kylie wants to live in a small town and raise our kids here. And I like being a mechanic.”

Well, that makes one of us.

“I don’t mind taking care of Dad, either. I…” He breathes heavily. “I just need a break, okay?”

My throat has clamped shut, so I settle for a nod. Then I put out my smoke and force a smile, finally finding my voice. “I still need to change that headlight. Better get back to it.”

We walk inside, Jeff heading for the office while I wander back to the Buick.

Fifteen minutes later, I hang up my coveralls on one of the hooks on the wall, call out a hasty goodbye, and practically sprint to my pickup.

Hoping like hell my brother doesn’t realize I didn’t say hello to our father.