The Distance Is Quite Simply Far Too Much for Me to Row

♥♥♥♥♥

Second Grade math homework seemed so easy, but I guess if you are in the second
grade then maybe it isn’t so simple. I guess when you’re seven years old, identifying the
nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs in a sentence is a trying task. And I suppose that to a
child that young, some words that we deem simple may require effort to spell. I guess I’d
just have to get used to it. I guess I'd just have to learn to accept that.

“Cal, honey, what’s forty-four plus thirty-seven?” He pressed the pencil down onto the
paper so hard that I thought he’d break the tip--I'd already sharpened the damn thing about
five times.. He drew a “1” under the line and a "1" above the “4” to show that he was
carrying the number.

“Eighty-one?” he asked before writing down the eight. I nodded and smiled, patting
him on the back. He carefully printed the numbers--two circles on top of one another for the
eight, and then a straight line for the one.

“Perfect. Now do you think you could do the next few by yourself while I go start dinner?
I’ll check them over when you’re done.” He nodded and turned back to the paper. He was
a bright kid, he’d do fine. School wouldn't pose a problem for him. He could probably do
my calculus homework better than I could. Then again, so could the squirrel that likes to
hang out on our porch.

I glanced into the living room where Morgan was watching some educational kid’s
show that my mother had bought for him a few months before she left. He was sitting on
the floor, his back leaning against the couch, his eyes glued to the screen and a teddy
bear--the last toy my dad had ever bought him-- wrapped tightly in his arms. Every few
seconds his eyes would start to shut, but he’d force himself to open them wide again. If he
fell asleep now, he’d be a pain in the ass at bed time.

I turned on the oven, waiting to light the stove until I'd filled the pot with water. Tonight’s
dinner would be pasta with garlic oil and garlic bread. I hadn’t had time to go to the
supermarket. “Aleks?” Caleb called from the table. I turned to look behind me at the small
boy. He was so little; so young and so innocent that it made me want to weep.

“Yeah, Cal?” He stared straight ahead at his math homework, halfway through the
worksheet, accomplishing a considerable amount more on his own than with my help. The
pencil was held tight in his hands, as if it were a lifeline of sorts.

“Mommy isn’t coming home, is she?” I sighed inwardly and looked up at the ceiling
hoping that it would give me an answer. I couldn't answer this. I couldn't tell him Mommy
wasn't coming back, could I?

“I-I don’t know, hun. I really don’t know.” I turned back to starting dinner, filling the pot
with water. I had just set it on the stove when he started to speak again.

“Is Daddy coming home?” My breath caught in my throat and I put a cover on the pot. I
refused to turn to face my little brother. I couldn’t make the words come out. My hands
were shaking. My thoughts were racing. “Is Daddy coming home?” he insisted.

“Caleb, just do your homework,” I snapped. I knew I'd regret it later. Or maybe sooner.
“I can’t do this right now.” He threw his pencil down on the table, the tip breaking as it rolled
onto the floor, and stormed out of the kitchen. “Where are you going? Caleb Matthew
Makarov, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“If they can leave, so can I.” He was down the hallway and halfway up the stairs in a
split second. My lip was quivering and I ran to my little brother. How could he?

“No, sweetheart, you can’t leave, okay? I need you here, alright? You can’t leave.” I
wrapped him in my arms and held him tight because I couldn't think of anything else to do.
I needed to hold him in place; to physically ensure that he was in front of me. “You guys are
all I have left. It’s selfish, but I need you to stay, okay?”

“Why did they leave?” he asked quietly, angrily. “Why didn’t they want us anymore?” I
shook my head and released him from the hug, still holding onto his arms.

“I don’t know, sweetie. I-I don’t think that it’s that they didn’t want us. I think they just
needed a break, y’know? Like you know how you get time off from school during the
summer?” He nodded his head ‘yes.’ “Well, sometimes adults need that too. Sometimes
they need time away from work and family.” He nodded slowly, as if he bought the line of
crap that I was feeding him. He believed it because he was young and because he
needed to.

I almost even believed it myself.

♥♥♥♥♥

“So, a verb is an action?” he asked quickly. I nodded. “And a noun is a person, place,
thing or idea?” I nodded again. “And an adjective describes a noun?” I nodded yet again.
“And an adverb describes a verb?”

“Yes, Caleb. You’ve got it down pat. You’re brilliant. You’re going to ace that quiz and
kick everyone else’s grammatical asses. Alright? Now go to sleep and stop starting so
many sentences with ‘and.’” He rolled his eyes and stormed off to the bathroom to brush
his teeth. I laughed. “I’ll tuck you in in a few minutes. Let me just get Morgan situated.”

Morgan was tired, so he fell asleep easily. I watched him sleep for a few minutes
before going back to Caleb. How did my mother expect me to take on her role as parent to
the two of them? They deserved better than me; they deserved better than her.

♥♥♥♥♥

Friday. It was another rainy, foggy, crappy day in Boston, Massachusetts, let me tell
you. It was another day that I’d sit in the corner until I had to leave to get Caleb and Morgan.
I was staring down at a photo that I’d pulled out of my bag; a photo that I carried with me all
the time now. The image was old and the colors slightly faded from the constant exposure
to light.

The edges were worn from being held so many times these past few months and it
was folded down the center. It was from two Christmases ago. It was when Morgan was
only three weeks old and everyone was together. I had braces and my hair was styled in
the most unattractive way, but it was my favorite picture.

“Hey.” The voice pulled me out of my trance. I looked up to see the same pair of blue
eyes that I’d seen yesterday. I smiled weakly and turned to look out the window. “What’s
your story?” he asked quietly. I turned back and looked down at the picture. Story?

“What do you mean?” I whispered, afraid that if I spoke even the slightest bit louder my
voice would crack and betray me. I couldn't let my voice betray me.

“I mean why are you here. No one stays here to stare out at the rain if they don’t have a
story.” I shrugged and looked out the window again. Did I even have a story? Really?

“There is no story. I just like the rain. I always have.” I shrugged again and looked
over at him. His blue eyes screamed that they didn’t believe me. He knew it was a lie.
“Well, then you must have one, right? What’s your story?” I ran my fingers along the
photo's tattered edges, angry because that was all I'd ever have.

He inhaled slowly and laughed grimly, something I'd eventually learn he did quite often.
“My mom died.” He fidgeted and looked back up at me. “Three weeks ago." I was unsure
how to respond; unsure as to what I could say, because I knew I couldn't say anything to
make it better. There just didn't seem to be anything that would cure the heartache that
stemmed from losing someone who provided you with half of your genetic makeup. There
was no remedy for the pain. Nothing that could make you forget. The 'I'm sorry's and the
'It'll get better's all just seemed like a lie.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “That’s awful.” He shrugged and turned toward the
window. I knew sorry meant nothing, yet I'd said it anyway. There wasn't any other word.
Sorry didn't fit, but neither did anything else. Sorry didn't find it's way into that crack the size
of the Grand Canyon and expand to fill it. Sorry didn't and nothing could.

“It was for the best,” he shrugged. “She was sick for a long time. She was…it was just
for the best.” He looked down and then back at the window again. He was hurt, but he
wouldn't show it. He was in pain, but he wouldn't admit it. He was wounded, but he'd keep
battling it all.

“My dad died.” I put the picture down at my side. “My dad died in a car accident on his
way home from work.” He looked up at me with those clear blue eyes and then back down.
Maybe it'd help him realize that I understood what it was like. Maybe he'd see that he wasn't
alone. He'd see that I was wounded too.

“That sucks. Drunk driver?” Okay, so his way of phrasing it wasn't quite as eloquent
as mine, but it fit a hell of a lot better. It did suck. No amount of sorry would ever convey
what those two words did, because quite frankly it was true. It sucked.

“He was the drunk driver,” I laughed grimly. Tears clouded my eyes and I blinked them
away. I wasn’t about to cry in front of some stranger. “It was the first time he’d consumed
alcohol in twenty years, save for a glass of champagne on New Year’s, or at weddings.” I
sighed and looked at the picture at my side. "I don't know why he did it."

“Oh,” he replied. I wouldn’t have finished my story, but I’d already made the
conversation awkward enough. It couldn’t hurt to make it just a little worse. He didn't know
my name. We would just be the two wounded, not quite fallen, soldiers hiding out in this
hallway after school.

“And now my mom took off. She just—her stuff was just gone. All that was left was a
pair of shoes that she knew I loved and always tried to steal, a pair of sneakers, and her
wedding dress.” I fought with my tears. They weren’t going to fall. “A week after my dad
died, I woke up at three in the morning expecting to hear her screaming and crying like she
had every other night, but there was no screaming. There was just a note, and she was
gone.” I looked out the window, the light stinging my eyes, and letting one tear slide down
my right cheek. I swiped it away before he could see. “Sorry,” I whispered.

“I knew you had a story. I just didn’t expect that.” I shrugged. “I saw you yesterday.
The two little kids?”

“My brothers, Caleb and Morgan. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do it. How do I
explain to them that Mommy and Daddy aren’t coming back?” I picked the picture up again
and ripped it in half. “How do I tell them that Daddy’s dead and Mommy just doesn’t want to
come home anymore?

“You don’t.” He said it so softly and so simply.
"You don't tell them. You lie."