Trade Me (Cyclone 1)

A chill runs down my spine. I don’t know what it is, why I give a quick shiver. I just know that something just changed—something big. There are no gods here.

“I don’t…I’m not sure,” Tina starts to say.

“Wait.” I set a finger on her lips. “Something is wrong.”

I hear another noise, this time coming clearly from downstairs: the shattering of glass. That, and then, a stark nothing.

It’s my dad. I can explain the noise. It’s well after midnight now, and despite his boasts earlier, he’s not finished yet. He was getting himself some coffee and he dropped a mug. It’s nothing.

But even though my mind is telling me to dismiss it, my body refuses. The hair rises on the back of my neck. I can feel it overtake me. My life just changed, and I don’t know how.

“Blake,” Tina says. “I…”

It’s nothing, I tell myself. I turn back to Tina. But that sense of wrongness is too strong, too powerful, like my subconscious is reaching out and shaking me awake.

Fuck.

“Hold onto whatever you were going to say.”

And that’s when I hear something else. It’s a low sound that I can’t classify. I try to tell myself that it could be anything: a raccoon in the backyard or a coyote slinking through from the hills.

But I know it isn’t any of those things. It’s instinct operating here, but I grew up in this house. I’ve fallen asleep listening to its creaks and moans all my life. And right now, the sounds all feel wrong. The moment isn’t just gone; it’s smashed to irretrievable bits. I push back the covers and pull on a pair of boxers and then jeans.

“Blake?” Tina’s watching me, her eyebrows knitting into worried lines.

“Something’s wrong,” I tell her, and that sounds right, even though I have no idea what is going on.

She doesn’t ask what. She doesn’t say anything. She just scrambles into jeans and a shirt and follows me downstairs.

A light is on in the kitchen; it casts a warm glow on the stairs, but for some reason, it just chills me. Something is wrong; I know it, even if I don’t know what. I hurry. Tina’s slippers slap on the stairs behind me, but I rush ahead.

Shards of ceramic greet me, spread over the marble floor. That’s when I realize how my subconscious knew something was wrong. There was something I didn’t hear. Dad’s a neat freak. If he dropped a glass, I should have heard him cleaning up afterward.

I didn’t. And I don’t see him now. Not at first.

Then I hear him. It’s a repeat of the second noise I heard—a low moan, followed by the catch of breath. I pick my way among the glass shards, making my way around the gleaming island of black marble. My heart is pounding. I don’t want to think what is happening. I can’t.

Dad is there. He’s lying on the floor.

For a moment, it doesn’t make any sense to me. Why the fuck is he on the floor? What’s going on? And then I see his hand, clenched hard. Beads of sweat are popping out on his forehead. His skin is pale; his teeth are gritted.

“Dad?”

Behind me, Tina comes into the kitchen. She looks around, slowly. “Oh my God,” she says. “Blake. Call 911.”

“Don’t.” Dad grates the word out.

She’s already looking around for some kind of a phone. “Don’t be an idiot,” she snaps. “Something’s obviously wrong.” Her gaze lands on his phone on the counter. She grabs it and swipes at the screen. “What’s your passcode? Oh, wait. Never mind. The emergency call still works.”

“No. Call my fucking doctor.” Dad pushes up to a sitting position. “He’s handled this before. There’s an emergency contact screen—you should be able to find his contact info without the passcode…”

“What the fuck, Dad?” I ask. “What do you mean, before?”

“I had a little arrhythmia a few weeks ago,” he admits. “Bad enough that I was a little shaken. Nothing like this, though.”

I stare at him. “You’ve been having heart problems and you didn’t tell me?”

“Your doctor is Kevin Wong?” Tina is asking.

“Yeah,” Dad says to Tina, ignoring me. “Kevin. That’s him. He lives two streets over. He can be here before the paramedics. And he’ll make sure we get in front of the narrative. God knows what the fucking ambulance drivers will say if they get here before Kevin can tell them what to think.”

“Narrative?” I say. “You’re having a heart attack and you’re worried about what the public will think?”

But inside I’m screaming. This is exactly what happened to Peter—exactly. Heart attack. Just before a launch. I can’t lose Dad, not like this.

Dad shakes his head. “It’s not what you think.”

“What,” I ask him, “you’re not having a heart attack?”

Tina speaks swiftly into the phone. I tell myself it’s going to be okay. Someone will be here soon, someone who will be able to fix this. They’ll make it all better.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” He shuts his eyes. “I’m only having a heart attack, Blake. That’s all that’s happening, right? That’s what we have to make sure everyone thinks.”

I don’t understand what he’s saying at first. Tina sets the phone down. She doesn’t look at me. She looks at my dad, looks at him as if she’s seeing him for the first time.

“How long…” Her voice shakes. She lets out a long breath. “How long,” she finally asks, “have you been doing cocaine?”

For a second, I don’t know what to say. It’s fucking ridiculous to even consider. My dad wouldn’t…wouldn’t…

I lift my head. It’s on the counter. A fine dust of white powder glistens in poisonous contrast to the gleaming marble. It sits next to a plastic bag filled with a white substance.

On the floor, Dad shuts his eyes. “Oh, you know. On and off. For ten years or so.”

Ten fucking years? He has to be shitting me.

“More on than off these last six.” He blows out his breath. “I was losing my edge. I had to do something.”

“Christ.” I can’t breathe.

“Blake.” He motions me close. “Look. I was going to tell you. I meant to.”

He was going to tell me? I don’t even know what to say to this. The thing he’s talking about—it’s just not possible. I don’t believe it.

“When I was twenty and thirty, I didn’t think anything of doing ninety hours a week. But then I hit forty.” His hand curls around me. “It was like I hit a wall.

I needed something to keep my edge. And Peter and I…”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” I say. “Peter knew about this, and he let you do it?”

And that’s when Dad breaks. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t moan. But his face collapses.

“God, Blake. Why do you think I couldn’t tell you? You think Peter had a heart attack at forty-five for no reason? He didn’t just let me do it. He was doing it with me.” He gasps for air. “How could you live with me once you knew I killed him? I can’t even live with myself.”

I don’t even know what to say. “You told me you wanted to go on vacation.”

He shakes his head. “Vacation. Rehab. Whatever.”

“What about tonight? You just shrugged and told me not to worry about you. You didn’t tell me.”

He opens his eyes, meeting mine. “I killed Peter.” There’s a stark coldness inside him. “You think, once you told me, I’d kill you, too? I’d rather fucking die.”

He just might.

It’s weird. All this time I’ve been telling myself that my father is stronger than I am. That the last thing I want is his disappointment. That I can’t tell him that I have a problem, because if I do, I might lose his respect.

I was right. There are no gods, just us shit-stupid mortals.

I take hold of his hand. “You stupid fucker,” I say. “I’m never going to stop being proud of you. I’m never going to stop loving you. So live. Live, you stupid bastard.”

I hear the door open in the distance. I hadn’t even realized that the doctor was here. Tina must have let him in. Dr. Wong comes in at a half jog and leans down beside my father.

I expect him to take his pulse or examine him, but apparently that’s old school. He pulls out a phone and snaps a little plastic alligator clip on his finger.

“Are you experiencing chest pain?” Dr. Wong has a soft, sweet voice. It’s almost instantly calming. I can already tell he has a great bedside manner.

“It’s cliché, but…it’s like there’s a damned elephant sitting on my chest.”

“There you are,” Dr. Wong says in his quiet voice. “I told you to stop doing cocaine.”