Stuck in Neutral by Terry Trueman Page B

dark burgundy along the edge. That dark-reddish band of color reminds me of the way blood looks in black-and-white movies. I’m remembering a part of Dad’s poem, the night he almost ended it all. I remember Earl Detraux’s description of killing his son.
    Dad says, his eyes sad, “I hope you know I love you. I’ve always loved you.” He pauses, careful in his words. I can tell he’s rehearsed some of this. He shifts the pillow nervously in his lap, his hands kneading the cushion. He reaches over, takes my hands. “Double-jointed,” he says, setting them on the pillow on his lap. He gently bends my thumbs into right angles, bends his own too. “Just you and me.”
    I think the words “I love you too, Dad,” trying to will them into his mind.
    Dad breathes slowly, staring at our hands. He’s trying to maintain control, fighting back his tears and looking at me. “Shawn, I’ve always loved you,” he repeats, his voice soft and trembling. The weight of his words and thoughts seems to tug on him like a necklace of concrete blocks. He squeezes the pillow hard, blood draining from his knuckles. “I know I say ‘I love you’ too easily, and that the words collapse in meaning when they’re said too many times. But no one will ever know what I mean by ‘love’ as I say it to you, unless that person has gone through what we have, unless he’s going through it right now.” Dad breaks down. Through soft sobs he struggles to get the words out. I hear his words. “Never does a day go by when I don’t think about you. Never does an hour pass when I don’t wonder how you are, how you’re feeling. The word ‘love’ doesn’t touch what I feel about you, for you.” He pauses, regaining his composure.
    I will the words “I love you too” over and over.
    My eyes happen to shift to his face; I watch his expression as he talks. I’ve never noticed before how much older he’s getting. His skin is smooth and he’s still handsome, but he looks almost frail. His eyes look like they’ve seen too much sadness; the creases around them are deep.
    He says, “When I think about you, Shawn, my heart breaks at one moment and is at peace the next. When I think about you hurting, I can barely even breathe, my chest aches so badly. I sometimes pray, Just let this all be over.” He seems suddenly stronger again, almost angry as he adds, “When you were born, and we were told that you’d have these kinds of problems, do you know I got down on my knees and prayed harder than I’d ever prayed, begging God or Satan, or anybody in between, to let me trade places with you? I prayed, night after night, that I could be the one trapped inside your body and that you could take my place. I prayed so hard, for weeks, months, that I almost started believing in God.” He laughs at his irony. “I guess we know how that worked out.” His voice turns hard. “I could never find words strong enough to express the hate I felt toward God when those prayers went unanswered. It took years for me to sign in on that armistice. God was patient.” He sighs.
    â€œNothing is ever easy, is it, Shawn? Nothing is ever like it seems. You know none of us really knows you. I mean, it takes just as much faith on our part to believe that you’re retarded as it would to believe that you’re a genius.” He chuckles a little at that one. “Well, maybe genius is pushing it, but you know what I mean? What if you understand everything? What if you know what I’ve been thinking of doing, but you can’t do anything about it?” He searches for the right words; I see the pain in his face and body, shoulders down, neck stiff, his hands quivering. “So many answers you can’t provide, but does that mean you don’t understand the questions? What would you tell me to do, Shawn? I