Free You Only Get So Much by Dan Kolbet

age,
I'd think they were stoned to be so ridiculously happy.
    I'm lonely.
    Which is the height of
irony since I'm surrounded by more people today than I have been for years. In
those long days at the cabin my head was filled with stories and character
arcs. I'd form fully plotted novels in my head and revisit them throughout the
day. The characters that I'd create—a mad chef or a dorky mechanic or a
sexy housewife—would occupy my thoughts. What did they do? Who cared
about them? Where were they destined to go?
    But today I'm alone. No
chefs or mechanics and certainly no sexy housewives. I can't focus on them
because there are real people around me. Family. People who need my attention.
Why me, though? How did I become that guy? They deserve better. There is
nothing in all my 41 years that I can honestly say that I've done that would
benefit someone other than myself. I'm selfish and awkward.   And I'm surrounded by people, while
never, ever feeling quite this alone.
    I miss Jane. I miss
Aspen.
    *
* *
    It's Sunday afternoon
and I'm standing in front of a Weber charcoal BBQ grill in the backyard. The
thing is black like a beetle, with four long legs. I'm a propane guy, but
apparently Trevor wasn't. So when my mom called yesterday and invited herself
and Dad over for dinner, I had to improvise.
    " I can cook
burgers ," I had offered, though it was more of a question.
    " Yes, I guess you
could do that ," Mom had replied. " We'll be dropped off at 2 p.m., William. And
make sure the house is cool for your father ."
    My mom had this recurring
thought, which reached far back to when we were kids that you shouldn't turn
the air conditioning on in the house until you arrived. " No use in wasting
the juice ," she'd say. There were times that the house was 80-plus
degrees before we got home, leaving us roasting all night long.
    " It'll be cool,
Mom ," I had said. " Don't worry ."  
    At 2 p.m. sharp Vera and
Charles Redmond arrive.
    "He's in a
mood," she says, referring to my dad. "We'd better just stay in the
shade of the backyard. He likes it there."
    The mood that my father
was in was quiet. He didn't make a sound when the retirement home's driver
dropped them off and had yet to even acknowledge that he was anyplace other
than the areas he was confined to at the GreyHawk. His room with the tiny little
window and view of a truck tire came to mind. I still couldn't believe Mom
allowed that to go on.  
    His head was heavy and
it drooped down, hanging lifelessly. It bounced and swayed as I wheeled him
down the side yard to the shade in the backyard. He was thin and the marks on
this wrists were still visible. Red.
    Mom busied herself with
Gracie, pulling her onto her knee, getting an instant smile and playing with
her short hair. Kendall and a very subdued Ethan sat on a swing under a maple
tree on the other side of the yard.
    I maneuver Dad into the
shade next to me at the grill and lift his head up, so he isn't staring at his
own lap. His forehead below his thin hairline is greasy.   His head now rests back against the
chair and his mouth hangs slightly open. His eyes are unfocused behind his
photo-gray eyeglasses.  
    "How are you,
Dad?" I ask.
    No response. Not that I
was expecting one. I spread the frozen burgers over the grill and instantly the
smoke from the charred meat fills my nostrils with memories of summer and
endless lines of picnic dishes. It's funny how smells can transport you to
another place. When I smell garlic, I see garlic fries being served at a
Seattle Mariners baseball game. A game they are undoubtedly losing. When I
smell lilac-scented candles, I think of Jane's and my bedroom. When I smell cut
grass I think of my father, but not this shell of a man sitting next to me. Is
he in there still? Does he know what's going on around him? Is he criticizing
me for using frozen meat and not fresh ground hamburger? That's probably the
least of his concerns.
    The man who raised me
has been forced away by the Multiple