Future Days

Fiction

Mackenzie Troffa

Tracy, for all her smarts and academic expertise, has the handwriting of a middle schooler. Freewheeling curves and dips, like chicken scratch. Her writings, mostly haphazard analyses of Gothic lit, inhabit that leather notebook she always carries. I turned to a random page once and it was incomprehensible, although I can’t blame that all on her. 

“I told you not to look over my shoulder,” she says when she notices me lurking. We’re sitting up, sardined in her dorm bed. My gaze settles on the side of her face. She looks so pretty, half-draped in her ratty bedspread, sun-lit blue eyes matching her sapphire necklace.   

“Can’t help it,” I say, kissing her cheek. “Wanna know what you’re writing.”

“It’s not done,” she warns, but passes it over anyway. Her stare bores into me as I flip through.

“It’s great.”

“You can’t even read it, Eric.”

“Don’t need to.” I kiss her again. “It’s always great.”

While she continues writing, I slump against her shoulder like a deadweight. Work has fucked up my back, and her twin bed certainly doesn’t help. Jack suggested a chiropractor, as if I have any time for that. 

A text chime awakens me from dozing. “Natalie’s on her way back,” Tracy says, flipping her phone open. I groan, begrudgingly getting up and throwing on a shirt. She giggles as I slip on my shoes, as she always does. She won’t tell me why.

~~~

I’ve always been fascinated by the way my dad puts on shoes. Left sock then left boot, right sock then right boot. Sock-shoe-sock-shoe. In my thirteen-year-old brain, this is pure sacrilege. He finishes lacing up his brown Timberlands, and the messy knots barely hold them intact. 

From the couch, I can see his flannel of the day, a synthesis of blacks and reds and greens. His stubble is neater than usual. Although relatively young, a mere thirty-three, he’s littered with gray specks. He always looks a bit untethered, but still orderly. Like when cluttered rooms are described as organized chaos. 

“Should leave you Mrs. Brock’s new number,” he says, heading to the kitchen. He scribbles on a legal pad. “For emergencies.” 

Rolling my eyes, I turn and lay so I’m hanging halfway off the couch. My head dangles until my strawberry-blonde hair cascades toward the floor. “Why?” I ask. “Uncle Jack will be here.”

He scoffs. “Exactly. And this—” his finger taps the pad, “—is the number you call if he does something stupid. Like starts a fire in the kitchen.”

“That was one time.”

His eyebrows raise. 

“Fine,” I huff. Dad continues writing, until we hear a knock.

“Speak of the devil.” He magnets the number to the fridge. “Joanie, get that?”        

I roll off the couch with a groan. Uncle Jack stands at the door, six feet of double denim, with a smile fit for toothpaste commercials. His hair’s darker than Dad’s, but I can picture him in high school, walking down the hallway with greasy frosted tips.

“Hey, kid. How you been?”

I shrug. “Same old.”

Dad nods toward Uncle Jack in lieu of a proper greeting, marching to the coat rack. He throws on his battered Carhartt jacket, same one since I was in diapers. 

“I’ll be home by six,” he says. “If you use the oven, please—”

“Yeah, I got it. Don’t worry, Eric.” 

Dad looks unconvinced but doesn’t push the issue. Instead, his eyes meet mine, and for a moment I can detect his subtleties. Like how his face softens slightly whenever he looks at me. It never lasts long, though; he avoids my gaze, pretending to adjust his zipper.   

“Be good,” is all he says before walking out. I nod.    

Uncle Jack doesn’t burn down the kitchen that night, but he does shatter a can of red sauce all over the floor. We spend an hour trying to hide the evidence, mopping and scrubbing until the reddish hue fades. But when Dad gets home, he’s too tired to even notice. We heat up leftovers and eat in silence. Just me, him, and the faint, lingering smell of tomato.

~~~

“My clothes don’t fucking fit,” Tracy whines, ripping off her sweater and chucking it to the floor.

“It’s not that noticeable.”

“Not that noticeable?” She swings towards me, clad in her bra and unbuttoned jeans. She points to her stomach. “I have a fucking bump, Eric. I can’t even see my feet anymore.”

“Well, that’s how it tends to work.”

“I have to present today! Everyone—”

“Who cares what they think?” I ask. “Plus, our parents know already. They wanna kill us, sure, but it’s no secret.”

“I guess you’re right.” She sighs. “I wish my mom wasn’t so angry.”

“I know. At least we’ll have Jack, though. That boy can’t wait to be an uncle. Mom is better, too. Dad…”

“Hates me?”

“Nope. Hates me. For knocking up such a ‘bright college girl.’ He thinks you’re a genius.”

She laughs. “This is Rutgers, not Princeton. What else did he say?”

“Wants me to go back to school. As if two parents busy with college is any better than me at the auto shop.”

Her arms link around my neck, drawing circles at the nape. “It’ll be okay,” she says, leaning in until our lips meet. “You’re gonna be a great dad.”

I don’t say anything, just kiss her again. But that night, with the world quiet and Tracy tucked under my arm, I stare at the ceiling and pray that she’s right.

~~~

We’ve been waiting five minutes to eat when we hear a disembodied “Shit!” from the kitchen. Uncle Jack’s one job was the green beans. He joins us at the table eventually, plopping the bowl onto a potholder.    

“Oh Jack.” Grandma is bewildered. “They look like charcoal.”   

Dad points his fork at him. “If you started another fire—”   

“Let’s just eat,” Grandpa says.  

I bite into some meat and feign enjoyment. Grandpa’s steak is always too tough, like gnawing on rubber. Grandma’s mac and cheese isn’t great either; the noodles are hard. It explains a lot about Dad and Uncle Jack’s cooking. It must run in the family.

“How’s the food?” Grandma asks.   

Uncle Jack and I lock eyes, stifling a laugh. “Wonderful, Ma,” he says. Grandpa sits in silence. He doesn’t talk much, unless to grunt or interject. They live down South and only return to New Jersey occasionally. He’s like a Soprano, with his gold chains and thick accent that even the sunny shores of Florida couldn’t wash away. His shirt is tight, beer gut poking over his pants. Grandma is more down-to-earth. She had a knitting phase years ago, and I’ve got a dozen blankets to prove it.

“So, Joanie,” Grandma begins. “Such a big girl now. Fourteen! Practically a woman.”   

“Well, I’m just a freshman.”   

“And a smart one! I’ve seen your report cards.”   

“Takes after her mother,” Grandpa says, a side-eye towards Dad. I stop chewing, heart dropping at the mention of her.    

“Now Sal,” Grandma says. “Eric is very smart.”   

 “Knowing what wrench to use doesn’t really count.” I see Uncle Jack’s tongue poke into his cheek. “Tracy was just…I mean, the things she was writing…”   

“Yeah, I read them.” Dad stares him down. “I used to help her come up with the titles.”   

“Oh, the titles,” Grandpa says. “My mistake. What smarts you have.”   

“Drop it, Sal.”   

“No, no, titles are important.” He raises his beer can. “A toast: to Eric—college-dropout-turned-mechanic who, at the ripe age of twenty, was stilltoo dumb to check the condom for rips before—”   

Dad jumps up without another word and flees to his room. Everyone follows soon after, dispersing. Grandma scolds Grandpa in the living room, while Uncle Jack starts clearing the table, but all I can do is sit there, some unknown force pinning me down. 

~~~

My brain, properly fried by hour nine, processes everything in fragments. It feels like the recollection of a memory I’m currently living. I’m vaguely aware of Tracy’s gasp and her tug on my sleeve, both of us delirious from sterile hospital fumes. She’s sweat-soaked and frizzy, and despite my instincts to rub her head, my arms don’t move. I’m off-balance, tunnel-visioned, and it’s not until the screeching cry that the blurriness settles and everything becomes whole. The nurse’s voice is muddy and warbled, but I make it out. Seven words and the world shifts on its axis. 

“Would you like to see your baby?”

Tracy nods, tears stinging. I watch the nurse place the baby, with Tracy’s eyes and my nose, into her arms. I time travel, decades prior, when Dad was in my spot. Staring at the little pink face, I ask a silent question: What will you think of me in twenty years?

When Tracy speaks, the static fades. “Do you want to hold her?”

I nod. She slides into my grasp, a hand in a glove. How can you love someone you don’t even know yet? Someone who’s only existed for a minute? It’s irrational, yet the most natural thing I’ve ever felt.

From now on, this is the way it will be—the three of us together. I look at Tracy, and when I meet her eyes, I know she’s thinking the same thing.

~~~

“I won’t drink or anything,” I say. “I’ll be back before midnight—”

“We’ve talked about this.”

“Everyone is going.”

“You’re only sixteen. Plenty of other hangouts to be had.”

“No.” My frustration bubbles. “It’s embarrassing. I’m now allowed to do anything.”

He places his palms on the countertop. “Stop being so dramatic.”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand!”

“It’s a school night, it’s already nine—”

“Mom would never pull this crap!” My face is beet red, heat rising to my cheeks. “She’d understand.”

His face falls, glaring at the floor instead of me. He always does this. Like I repel him or something. A sharp pang wedges itself beneath my ribcage.

When he starts to walk away, my blood runs cold. “Dad, I didn’t—”   

He puts a hand up. His lips curl slightly; it looks painful. “In the morning,” he says, soft. He walks down the hall, granting me my freedom. Still, when I look where his shadow has just disappeared, all I feel is a lump in my throat and a wet streak down my face.    

We don’t talk in the morning. As usual, we act like nothing happened. Like nothing is wrong.    

~~~

“I think Joanie had a good birthday,” Jack says, nodding towards the living room. Her and Tracy are playing with new Barbies, surrounded by discards of polka-dot wrapping paper I’ll have to sweep later. Tracy has chocolate cake smudged on her lip. 

“Eric.” Jack nudges my shoulder. “What is it?”

I bring my hand to my eyes, and it comes back wet. Tracy looks down at Joanie, and I can see her grieving the moment before it’s even gone. I rub my jaw. Even now, she and I are always thinking the same thing.

“What are you not telling me?”

I don’t look at him when I answer. Instead, I keep my eyes trained on Tracy. I take in her silhouette, the round outline of her curly hair, the dimples and blemishes on her face, and try to commit them to memory. Until I’ve memorized them so thoroughly that I can see her always—when it’s dark, or my eyes are closed, or when she’s no longer there for me to look at.

~~~

It’s funny—I used to fight Dad tooth and nail to extend my curfew, but now I find myself consistently home before eleven. That’s what happens when you get older, I guess. You get lame.

I expertly avoid floorboard creaks while trudging down the hall, but a strange sound from Dad’s room disrupts the stillness anyway.

“Hello?” I ask, but receive no response. After a light knock, I open his door to check if he’s asleep. He’s on the bed, shoulders slumped and back curved. I see the rise and fall of his chest, but he looks deflated. My stomach churns.

“Is everything alright?”

He moves his head. A nod, I think. I start to leave, but an unintelligible noise stops me. Like a desperate croak. He averts my eyes, as usual. His body’s shaking a little, and I see a small tear dribble on the comforter. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Without thinking, I sit down on the bed. “Did I do something? Was it—”   

“No, no,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Nothing you did. Never you.”   

I swallow. “So then what’s wrong?”    

“I’m fine.”   

“You’re crying.”   

“No, it’s just...” He gestures to his eyes, searching for an explanation. “Dust, or something. You know—allergies.”   

“Did Grandpa say something to you or—”  

“Joanie—”   

“Because I know he can be a lot and…” I notice he’s twirling his wedding band. When my eyes shift down, I spot a photo album. The brown leather one, little pink ribbon and funeral card taped to the first page, that’s usually buried under blankets in the hall closet. I’ve sneaked out there in the middle of the night, crying alone on the floor with a flashlight while flipping through. I wonder if this is a frequent thing he does. If we’ve just been taking turns suffering. I absentmindedly twiddle my blue pendant, the one that matches my eyes.

“Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing.”   

“You’re not even gonna admit you’re crying?” I ask. “Come on. I mean, you won’t even look at me.” My voice grows quiet. “You never look at me.”

His gaze flits to me. “Oh, Joanie,” he breathes, eyes wide. His face falls into his palms. “I’m a fucking idiot.” 

“It’s fine.” I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. 

“I didn’t even realize...I think you just...” His lip quivers. “You’re so much like her.”   

“Oh,” I say. I’m sorry.”   

“No, not bad.” He laughs, almost. “Not bad at all.” He looks at me, analyzing every piece—each painful similarity—as if he’s never seen me before. I smile, unsure of what to do, and the dam bursts.    

His chest heaves, and a mangled cry breaks loose. He falls towards me, and I instinctually wrap my arms around him. Although tense at first, he relaxes and rests his heavy head on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “I miss her too.” The tears intensify, and he starts to hug me back.   

I hold him like that for a while, until his breathing slows, and his sobs subside. “I love you. So much, Joanie. More than anything. You have to know that.”   

My heart flutters, and I squeeze a bit tighter. “I know,” I say, and I do. I’m starting to.