lost contact

youre twelve years old and youre in california with your dad and your brother. your brother moved there a year ago, after he graduated from UGA with an english degree and decided to hitchhike across the country. a van full of people pulled over in texas and he got in and now he lives with them in a one story ranch style house in monterey with posters of the ramones and empty ashtrays all around the house. when you and your dad went to visit there was a closed door beside the bathroom and you were desparate to see what was behind it, and you asked your brother, seth, and he said "dont go in there. its bens room." you imagined all four of his roommates huddled behind the door like you were a robber, like you were coming to steal something from them. or like they themselves had stolen something, and you and your dad were the cops coming to set things right. you only stayed in the house for five minutes but you will spend the rest of your life trying to recapture it- the smell of it, like old white t-shirts and salsa and cigarettes and other things you had yet to discover. the way it looked, still and silent and unshakable, like it was sleeping off a hard night.
after monterey the three of you go to san francisco, where your father has rented one hotel room in a place called "the seal rock inn" next to a huge, sweeping, shadowy, towering park. the room is brown and simple, there is a bed and a tv and a musty couch and a table with a telephone on it. all you want to do is call your mom but you figure more than once a day would be a sign that something was wrong, that the three of you arent a family on your own, that the only family you really have is the woman who raised you, the woman back in georgia who can forsee that this trip will tell you things, will explain things to you that had always seemed vaguely false, that had always been just one finger length away from your grasp.
the night before your brother had gone out in the city, leaving you to your fathers ugly snoring and the dull numbing face of the television. when he came back you lay on top of the covers next to your sleeping father and pretended to be asleep, like you used to at your grandmothers house when you and seth shared a bedroom. you still arent sure what would be so bad about saying hi, im still awake, but the thought was so embarassing and terrifying that you felt the words were going to stab at your throat until they broke through, revealing some horrible, unfaceable essential truth about you that you had tried to keep from your brother all of these years. you peeked as he was taking off his shirt, he kept sighing loudly and he smelled fresh somehow, alive, and as you slit your eyes open you saw a tattoo on the back of his right shoulder. the sight of it was like seeing a homeless person- pretend its not there, erase it from your memory, why did you look at all.
you had been there three days and had only eaten in the seal rock inn restaurant. the waitresses were beginning to think something was wrong, that someone was disabled somehow and couldnt leave the hotel. your brother, developing an art that would become one of his great helpers in life, was curious and friendly to the people who worked there, making jokes about your arrival, saying that you were moving in because their cooking was better than your moms. they were all older and laughed and smiled sweetly at you, and gave you endless refills of hot chocolate, and even brought the bowl of fresh whipped cream to the table and let you have it all.
the mornings are not good for your dad. the third morning you are there, seth says, lets go to alcatraz. your father says, no no im not up for it, this is supposed to be a vacation and im going to milk it for all its worth. but your father hasnt worked in months, only made set after set of business cards with his newly reinvented self (bank lobby redesigner, Y2K computer problem fixer) only to stow them on the shelf in the coat closet when, for whatever reason, that idea fails. you remember once, many years ago before your parents got divorced, your father said he was going to open up a mechanics shop and call it "arties" and you laughed at how ridiculous the idea was-- your father, the stoic banker with the briefcase and the highball glass, wearing overalls and chugging beer in some greasy garage??? you assumed he was kidding and then your mother shot you a look, one of the skeleton looks, where all that fleshed her out and made her your mother, all the goodnight kisses and pearl earrings and perfume, melted right away, and all that was left was an expression of devastating seriousness. you had only seen it a few times before that in your life, mainly when you were starting to say something in front of the whole family that they werent supposed to know about. like her speeding ticket or the time she told your father you two were going on a girl scout trip with your troop but actually just went down to the beach and rented a condo and built sandcastles even though it was fall.
so seth turns to you and says, ok miss hot chocolate lets go. and even though it makes something inside of your chest twist and ache, you leave your dishelved, tired dad sitting at the table facing yet another uneaten plate of bacon and eggs.
you take the BART to fishermans wharf and you wait in line for the ferry. at first you were nervous, you were awkward. seth is your half brother, so he grew up with his mom while you were growing up with yours. you have only seen him for, you guess, a month total in your life. he is a stranger at this point, a man picked randomly off the street with a nametag on that says "family." but after awhile you two start talking, and you are telling him about lance at school, and hes telling you about his friends and his parties and being a carpenter and being poor and being free and being so fucking (and he says the word too) glad to be out of georgia. he says hes always known there was more and sure enough, there is.
you get to alcatraz and go on the tour. your tour guide tells stories of people using a spoon to whittle their way out of the cell, and that it took them decades sometimes, and once they escaped theyd jump into the bay where they were either eaten by sharks or froze to death or drowned, since many of them didnt even know how to swim. they just didnt want to die in there, seth whispers, nodding toward the cell. then the tour guide opened up a cell and lets you stand in it for a minute, with the gate closed and everything. you go in and you blush becuase everyones watching you and you dont know what you are supposed to do or feel so you say, wow, and everyone laughs and then you leave and seth goes in. he looks around for a second and then he puts his hand on his chest like hes about to sneeze or cough and he says, quietly but quickly, let me out. and the tour guide lets him out and he has to go sit down for a long time. you lose the tour and decide its time to go back anyway. you eat a hot dog when you get back to the wharf and you wish you didnt have to go back to that dark room where the curtains are drawn and your clothes are strewn about, where your father is probably propped up in bed with all the lights off, watching the news or some stupid sitcom. he'll be in a better mood when you get back, like he took a nap or something even though you cant fathom how he could need more sleep.
when you get back on the BART seth puts his hand on your leg and says, dads drunk you know. and yeah, you did know that, somewhere inside of you. the part that lived with it for years, that saw him sink into that chair and that robe and endless monotony of his days after he got laid off from the bank. the part that lied about it to friends who were coming over, the part that heard your mom say to people on the phone, "hes not getting any better." that part knew. but the part that didnt understand what being drunk was, who didnt understand why he couldnt just stop, that part didnt know. you had seen an empty bottle in the trash, and like the homeless people and the tattoo, you looked away as if your eyes would burn. and you pretended it wasnt there, pretended a normal, sober, father with a job would still openly cry at eric clapton songs on VH1 unplugged, would still be able to tolerate not moving from one room, one bed, one outfit, for days at a time. hes not getting any better.
so you say, yeah, and seth leaves his hand on your leg until you emerge from the BART into the foggy muted day.
that night, as seth is taking off his contacts and you are sitting on the floor leaning up against the bed, the bed your father is dozing on, he drops one. he yells, fuck! and then a series of oh fucks follow. you ask whats wrong and he says that contact cost him two hundred dollars (they must be the hard ones your mother wears only when shes donning the pearl earrings and perfume, the ones that make her flinch to put in). he says he has to find it, hes nearly blind without it, his glasses are in monterey and besides theres no way he can afford a new pair. you start crawling around on the grainy carpet searching for them, your father still sleeping, your heartrate increasing exponentially with seth's terror. youre combing through every inch of carpet and you both know it must be there, somewhere. matter does not disappear, like ms. gray the science teacher says. you look at seth, hunched over, frantic, and right there on the collarbone of his tshirt is a tiny half bubble, clutching on to him. dont move, you say, and he immediately stops moving. you reach over to his shirt and pluck it off, and gingerly you present it to him. he looks at you and you look at him, and for some reason you have to use every muscle and every funny memory youve ever had not to burst into tears. he just looks at it for a minute, and then reaches over to you with both arms and hugs you tighter than youve ever been hugged.
and you really dont know why, but the funny memories dont work and you start to cry.