Chasing Forgiveness Read Free Page B

“Tyler’s sleeping.”
    â€œDinner’s ready,” he whispers. “Cheeseburgers.”
    â€œMaybe later,” I say.
    Dad slips quietly into the room and closes the door behind him. I scoot over on my bed so he can sit down next to me.
    â€œIt’s no fun having to hear us fight, is it?” he says.
    I shift positions, leaning my head against his chest, as if to say it’s all right. He begins to rub my hair and scratch my head like he did when I was really little and had a fever. It feels good. I squint my eyes like a cat being petted between the ears.
    â€œWhat’s the big problem?” I ask. “What does Mom want?”
    Dad sighs, rubs his eyes, then says, “Don’t blame her, Preston. This is my fault, not hers. I fly off the handle too quickly. I don’t listen to her. I don’t spend enough time with her.”
    Maybe he’s right. Dad is kind of hard on Mom. He sets rules for her like he sets rules for Tyler and me. Dad’s “old-fashioned” that way, and Mom must hate it—if I were her, I’d probably hate it. Maybe their fights aren’t just about money after all.
    But that’s between them, and just because Mom has a reason to be upset with Dad doesn’t mean that I do. Dad talks to me, he listens to me, and he spends lots of time with me. It’s great, because I’m so much like him and we like to do the same things. We’re always playing ball together, always fishing on weekends. Always racing each other. That’s my favorite thing—racing my Dad. I’m the fastest runner in my age group, but Dad can always outrace me—only barely though. We race each other on the track, in the park, on the beach, any chance we get.
    Although I’d never tell him this, or anyone else for that matter, I’d have to say my dad is kind of like my best friend.
    It’s too bad he’s not Mom’s anymore.
    â€œThings are going to change, Preston,” Dad says as he sits here on my bed. “ I’m going to change. And then everything will be okay.”
    â€œI know it will,” I tell him.
    He smiles at me and brushes some hair out of my face. He gets up, then bends over, gently picking up Tyler. Tyler complains with a tiny groan, but his eyes stay closed and his body limp. Dad kisses Tyler on the forehead and carries him gently into his own room.
    When I’m sure that Dad is back in the kitchen, I sneak out of my room and into his and Mom’s.
    Their bedroom is a big room, with lots of antique furniture. Some of it Grandma Lorraine and Grandpa Wes gave us; the rest of it Mom bought at all the antiques shops she loves to browse through. The carpet is thick blue, and on the walls are works of art and family portraits—just enough to fill the walls and keep the room feeling warm and homey.
    I dive onto the bed, lying diagonally across it. The bed is so big and so soft, I could get lost in it. When I was little the bed seemed twice as big, and it was that much easier to get lost in—like when I would curl up in it on stormy nights or Sunday mornings. That was before Tyler was born. There was just the three of us, and we would talk and talk aboutanything and everything in the world—Mom, Dad, and me.
    Of course, I don’t do that sort of stuff anymore, now that I’m eleven.
    But given the choice, I’d rather be five years old and lost in the giant safe bed than be eleven and in the line of fire between Mom and Dad.
    So I close my eyes, trying to forget, and trying to remember. I feel the cotton of the bedspread billowing around me. Dim dark colors flow around the insides of my eyes. A spot of red where I had been looking at the light dims, then fades. For a moment I feel dizzy and the bed seems to be sailing around the room.
    I start to dream before I actually fall asleep. I dream about school and about track practice, but mostly I dream about being five years old and