On my way out, I turned back. “I’m sorry about your family.”

  She gave me a sad smile.

  The clerk downstairs handed over the phone. He said it was monitored, that if I called anyone but the people on Sharon’s list, I’d be sent to The Cabin.

  Outside the wind was whipping the trees, turning them into curled fingers, looking like they were ready to break. Snow falling in clumps from those towering pines.

  I jogged into my building, headed down the hallway, walked soft on the creaky carpet. Vanessa, Sharon’s flunky, had the first room on the right. She probably had her ear to the door, waiting for me to walk by so she could get me one-on-one, smother me with good thoughts, try her hand at making me happy. Vanessa said all I had to do was listen, give her a chance. If she could see the bright side, anyone could.

  Harry and his shitty toupee had six pairs of shoes lining the hallway, a proud display for everyone to see. His attempt to make people think he had friends, but the guy was a hermit who loved Lysol, the whoosh whoosh whoosh of that can always going.

  It smelled like nothing outside Ivan’s bedroom, but that’s because he’d been taken to The Cabin for trying to steal a car, as if he could actually get through the gate. Alex, the first anorexic man I’d come across, was taking bets on if we’d see Ivan again.

  The worst was Erica, the girl who doused herself in perfume to cover her lactose intolerance. She kept her stereo all the way up to hide the awfulness she poured into her toilet.

  Every day was the same, the smells never changing. No guests staying over long enough to add their own scent. Everyone on this floor usually alone.

  Some of my neighbors had been married, and some still were, probably the loneliest people I’d ever met. Brightsiders still went out, hung out, fucked their brains out. They just went about their business when they were done, something always keeping people apart. Things better left unsaid turning us into what we’d become, not trusting others enough to let them close. Not allowing ourselves to become vulnerable.

  When I finally got to my door, I found another present. I threw it in the closet with the rest of the crap.

  Crap just like the rest of my apartment. It came with the room, what Belinda left behind. The Ikea dresser with the 27-inch TV taking up the top of it. The light blue armchair with sweat stained armrests stuffed in the corner. The tiny table beside it, a place to put my drinks.

  The cracks shooting out from the ceiling fan, which hadn’t worked since Belinda’s first suicide attempt.

  Erica’s stereo was shaking the walls.

  I sat on the bed, flipped open the phone, and powered it up.

  * * *

  I was eight, sitting Indian-style on our living room couch, just me and my Rubik’s Cube. The TV was off because Mom figured watching all that crap was part of my problem. She was in the kitchen waiting for Dad. He’d just pulled into the driveway.

  The Rubik’s Cube wasn’t mine. Steven said I could borrow it until I figured it out. I’d had it over a year.

  There were a bunch of people who couldn’t figure out the puzzle, but most of them said it was because they weren’t trying. If they wanted to waste a few minutes of their life, they could do it.

  I’d been trying, failing. Steven even let me watch him solve it real slow. Five times.

  I was staring at that stupid block, the center square a smudgy white, eight bright yellow ones circled around it. It was the closest I ever got, just two squares in the wrong place. The white one on one side, yellow on the other. No matter how many twists and turns, it was always those two squares.

  The back door opened then slammed shut. Dad’s feet stomping into the kitchen. I held onto that cube and waited for him to toss his keys onto the table then say goddamn it when they slid right off. Like they always did.

  Dad stayed in the kitchen where I couldn’t see, him and Mom talking too low to hear. Ice clinked, the fridge opened and closed. A soda fizzed.

  They were way too far for their thoughts to be heard, but I knew they were talking about me. That I was such a disappointment.

  Mom had her proof. My IQ test from school. Knowing Mom, she was gloating, shoving that paper in Dad’s face, saying I told you so. It made me keep trying with that cube. If I concentrated, I just knew I could get it right. I wasn’t an idiot.

  She left the kitchen and stopped next to the dining room table in her green and white checkered sundress like she was a good housewife. She gave me one of her quick smiles and said, “That’s enough of that, Joey.”

  I turned to the TV, saw my sad face staring back at me in all that black. I wiped off the tears and looked back at Mom. Mom was done with me, already to the hallway, closing the door behind her. A few seconds later, the shower started. There was no noise from the kitchen.

  Up until then I was never a cheater. Partly because I thought I’d never get away with it. Partly because I just knew it was wrong. That’s what Dad always said.

  A soft clink of ice cubes came every few seconds. Dad was still in there, drinking his drink, most likely figuring out what to say.

  What I did next wasn’t hard. Corey did it all the time. He’d bet five dollars that he could solve it in under five minutes. He didn’t always get paid, but he never lost.

  I put my fingernail under the corner of that white square and raised it up slow, careful not to scrape off the sticky stuff. I did the same thing with the yellow square on the other side.

  The fridge opened again and Dad poured another drink. I concentrated real hard and laid down the white square, made sure it was lined up. The fridge closed. Dad headed for the dining room and I placed the yellow square, rubbed it smooth with my thumb and turned it over so the red, white, and blue sides showed.

  Dad stepped into the dining room and stopped at the table, his wrinkled white shirt, his tired blue slacks. He set his wallet and keys down so quietly I barely heard them over the shower.

  He took a drink and turned toward me. From his spot at the table, Dad spoke way softer than normal, like he might have to come close. “So, you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  Dad took off his glasses. He needed the top of them for the TV, the bottom part for reading. I’d only seen them off when he was in bed. He set them next to his wallet.

  He said, “You’ve been crying.”

  I couldn’t look at Dad so I stared at the TV. “I’m not crying.”

  Dad came closer and stood in the way, his white button-down my new screen. “Don’t do that, Joey. Look at me.”

  What I liked about Dad was how he usually stayed on point, only speaking his thoughts. “It’s okay to cry once in a while,” he said.

  I said okay because I wished he’d just leave me alone, forget all about me. But another part of me wanted him to sit down and see the cube, understand that maybe the numbers lied. I wasn’t as dumb as they thought.

  Dad stepped right up to me. “Can I sit?”

  I wasn’t used to Dad asking permission or him being close so I just sat there, didn’t say a word.

  Dad picked up the Rubik’s Cube and sat down beside me, the hair on his arm touching mine. The cube was in his far hand but Dad didn’t even glance at it, those naked brown eyes of his really looking deep. “So what’s going on with you?”

  I wasn’t used to Dad’s smell. It was too clean, like he hadn’t done anything at work. Mom smelled more like a man than Dad did. Underneath all that sweet, a light touch of cologne always there, always different.

  The water stopped but neither of us asked why Mom needed to wash up before her tennis lesson. I didn’t say it was her second shower of the day.

  “So what is it?” he said. “Why were you crying?”

  “It’s dumb.”

  I pictured the test lady, the one who wanted to do things to me. Awful things. Naked and alone in her office.

  Dad jerked back. I didn’t know he was like me at the time, but I suddenly wondered if I wasn’t alone.

  He was picturing the test lady, the one he’d never seen.

  When my eyes widened, I just heard a hum, Dad’s way of pushing out the thoughts, the things he didn’t want me to hear.

  He kept his eyes on me, but started playing with the cube, turning it over in his hand. “Those tests aren’t all they’re made out to be. We shouldn’t have had you take it in the first place.”

  “Cuz you know I wouldn’t do good.”

  “That’s not true.” Dad turned the cube even slower. “And don’t say cuz unless you want everyone to think you’re stupid.”

  “Everyone’s gonna anyways.”

  “No one will know about your score unless you tell them. You’re smart and I don’t want you to ever think different.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Don’t you think I’m smart? You’re just like me.”

  That almost made the tears come back.

  Dad gripped the cube, had it so the yellow side was up. “But being book smart isn’t what’s important and you need to understand that. Scores on tests and grades in school don’t mean squat. Your mom thinks they do, but, between you and me, what you have is more important.”

  I thought he meant hearing thoughts and I couldn’t breathe. How much had he heard, what things had I thought about him?

  “You’re kind,” he said. “You have a big heart. You’re going to be a good man. You’re special.”

  I relaxed a bit, but it was hard to listen. I looked him in the eyes. “You think so?”

  “You know it’s true.”

  He finished his drink, set it down on the coffee table and wiped his lips. “You got to be careful, though. You have a real gift, but you have to remember who you are. You can’t always tell people what they want to hear.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You do it all the time,” he said. “And I totally understand it. It feels good for everyone to love you, but sometimes the right thing isn’t going to make people happy. But it’s what you have to do.”

  Nodding seemed like the only thing I was capable of.

  Dad turned to the cube, acted like it was the first time he saw it. “You solved it?”

  I started to say yes, wanted to make him proud, but after what he’d just said, I told him the truth. “I switched the last two stickers.”

  Dad laughed, told me I was learning, that he was proud. Mom walked by in her towel and rolled her eyes. She thought Dad was coddling me.

  * * *

  Day 66. The sun was setting and I suddenly had this urge to call Mom. When Sharon suggested I give her a ring, I had no intention of following through, but here, in this room with a closet of weird gifts, I wanted to yell at someone. I punched in the numbers faster than I could think about it.

  The phone rang and I tried to remember what she sounded like, if I’d ever had a real conversation with her. Once I’d moved out, I basically only heard from my father. It rang again and I almost hung up.

  Mom used the same greeting she used whenever a guy would call and Dad was around. “Who’s this?”

  “Uh…”

  “Joey?” she whispered. “Is that you?”

  The setting red sun filled my window, everything beyond it. I brought the phone back to my ear. “Yeah.”

  Like she was sorry to hear it, she said, “Oh my God.”

  I realized it was late in Ohio. “Did I wake you?”

  “No, not at all. Are you alright?”

  “I’m okay.”

  She sounded genuine when she said she missed me. “So much, I really do.”

  Suddenly, I was three years old again, just happy to hear her voice.

  “I hate this,” she said. “I’ve tried to call, but they won’t put me through. I was scared. Have they hurt you?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “You don’t sound it.”

  If anyone had been listening to the call, they probably would’ve believed her, the way she sounded so sweet. “You know you can call me anytime, right? I’m so glad you called.”

  “Yeah…”

  “So how you been, Joey? What’s it like?”

  I rubbed my temple, tried to quiet the voice telling me to hang up. “It’s different.”

  “It seems loud.”

  “It’s my neighbor.”

  “Oh, what’s his name?”

  “Her.”

  “Oh. Are they nice?”

  I knew someone was listening in, waiting for me to slip up. I suddenly felt trapped, felt the anger building.

  “I’m sure you’re meeting other people. Like you. That must be exciting? Just be yourself.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing. You’re always smart, sometimes too smart—”

  “I thought I was an idiot.”

  Mom sounded a lot more like the woman I remembered, when she said, “I never once called you that.”

  “You thought I was stupid.”

  “Joey…”

  “You did. I was there. I got a ninety-one on my IQ test. And you thought I was an idiot.”

  I opened my eyes, looked out the window, everything red.

  Suddenly, I was five years old coming home from the snowstorm, hating my mother. I said, “It wasn’t my fault. The stuff she was thinking made it so I couldn’t think.”

  “Who?”

  “The test lady. She wanted to hold me, feel my skin on hers. She wanted to breathe in my hair.”

  “You didn’t tell us.”

  “And say what? I’d been hearing thoughts my whole life, knew damn well you hated me?”

  “Don’t you ever say that!”

  “Why? Should I just think it? Does that make it better? Does it make it any less true?”

  “Stop it, Joey. Stop it right now.”

  I did. But only because I was done. I heard the hurt in her voice, even if it was barely there. That would have to be enough.

  “Is that why you called? To accuse me? Point fingers?”

  I thought about it a minute, loved not having to hear what she was thinking. Imagining her heart being crushed. “Closure.” Sharon’s word flying out of my mouth.

  “How do you think I feel?” Mom said, “You don’t think you owe me an apology? Listening in to whatever you wanted.”

  I took my time to answer, chose to speak the truth. “I guess I do owe you an apology. For the time when I was six and you were fucking Brian’s stepdad.”

  “Don’t talk that way.”

  “When all you could think about all day long was how much you loved him. How you wanted to fly away, how it’d be so much better.” I looked at the sky, wishing I could turn back time, put her on that plane. “How he was going to send you to New York, you’d only have to see me when you wanted to.”

  “Joey, I always loved you.”

  “I’m sorry for giving you the guilt trip. I should have let you abandon us. Maybe things wouldn’t have gotten so screwed up.”

  “You make it seem like I thought bad things all the time,” Mom said. “What about all the good thoughts I had? Don’t those count for something?”

  “Should they?”

  “Don’t you dare tell me there weren’t times you hated me. I listened to you scream you wished I was dead.”

  I kept quiet.

  “It’s natural to have bad thoughts every once in a while. It’s natural to be upset and tired and cranky. It’s natural to not be satisfied, to want something more.” She paused like she had something important to say, then I heard the sobs. “You think it was easy living in that house with you and your father, leaving nothing inside my head. Ripping it out whenever you wanted. I could have left. I thought about it. And yeah, I took comfort in the arms of other men. But I deserved some time to myself, away from you and your dad.”

  “Poor you.”

  “You have no idea what it was like.”

  “Just put Dad on the phone.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Then I have to go. I only have a certain amount of minutes.”

  “Joey, please. I don’t want you to hate me.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “You know, it wouldn’t even surprise me if you were the one who turned me in.”

  I pictured Saul, that douchebag making the call. I pictured his fat fingers and that shit-eating grin.

  Then everything changed.

  “I would never turn you in, Joey. Never. And when I found out your father did, I felt like I was going to die.”

  My stomach churned acid. “You’re sick in the head.”

  “I don’t know why he did it. I’m so sorry…”

  I don’t remember letting go of the phone, but I heard it crack against the floor, my mother sounding like she was screaming from the bottom of a well.

  My foot stomped down on the phone, cracking it, shattering her goddamn voice.

  Dad turned me in. Just handed me over.

  I saw the closet. Opened it. All those fucking gifts. I flung them from the closet. Ripped them open. The little swan figurine, I smashed it against the wall. The fishing pole, I snapped in two. Everything obliterated. Tiny pieces flying across the room, sliding under my bed, cracking against the window. I destroyed it all and collapsed. My own father. The man who would never give up on me, told me he’d always be there. No matter what.

  Through my tear-bubbled eyes, I saw a tiny piece of metal. Curved, shiny. Resting right in front of my face on the floor. My hand reached out. I held it under the light. So small and hard and silver, and it wasn’t the first time I’d seen it. Felt it pressed against my finger as a kid.

  No…

  Frantically, I crawled across the floor, sifting through all the broken bits, the tuning fork that wasn’t really a tuning fork. The fishing pole snapped in two, the bottom part hollowed out. The metal picture frame with the strange spring.

  Everything coming into focus.

  My hands putting it together. Dropping the bolt slide into place like Dad showed me. Screwing the barrel.

  In ten minutes, there it was.

  Eight pounds of power. American metal. The shotgun Dad got when Grandpa decided a mouthful of buckshot beat cancer hands down.