B Negative (3 page)

“I just graduated and now I'm…”

The barrista calls out our order and Mom swings around like it's some big emergency. She's holding her purse and her umbrella and trying to take the lattes too. She knocks the edge of the counter and a little coffee splashes on Nadine's shoe.

Nadine dabs it off with a napkin. It's nothing major, but Mom's suddenly all flustered.

“Oh! Sorry! What's the matter with me? I guess I'm just nervous, seeing you and everything. And I'm late too. I have to run. Any chance we could get together for a bite sometime?”

They exchange email addresses and kiss and hug. Then Mom's pulling me out the door, and I'm halfway down the street before I can get her to stop.

“Geez, Mom, what's with you? Slow down, would you?”

She stops, lets go of me, then takes a few deep breaths. It's like she's trying to pull herself together.

“Sorry,” she says. “Sorry. You know me. I hate being late. I was worried you were going to miss your doctor's appointment and…”

I don't believe her. She's always late. That's not what's bugging her.

“Relax. It's okay.” I smile. “Want me to drop by when I'm done? Maybe we can go out for lunch together or something.”

Whatever's upsetting her will probably be over by then.

“Oh, honey, that sounds great—but I can't. I'm really busy today. In fact— oh, gee, look at the time. I better go.”

She gives me a peck on the cheek and hurries off down the street.

She waves at me when she gets to the corner. I realize I haven't moved. I'm staring at her like a little kid, scared to see his mommy leave.

I turn and start walking to the doctor's. I laugh at myself.

What's my problem? Why am I making such a big deal of this?

She's just busy. There's that big Parent-Child Conference next month. She's probably worried about it. She's always been a bit high-strung.

That almost makes me feel better— but something about the way she looked at me still doesn't sit quite right.

I'm walking in Dr. Wallace's door when I realize what it is. I see Mom's face again and I know she's not worried about the conference.

Mom's embarrassed of me.

Chapter Six

Mom hustled us out of the coffee shop before I could tell Nadine I was joining the Army. Then she didn't want me dropping by the office.

That's what this is about. She's embarrassed to have a soldier for a son. She doesn't want anyone to know.

I remember Dad saying how Mom's hippie friends all talk about letting people be whoever they want to be—but they aren't so good at following through on it. I understand what he meant now.

My instincts were right about another thing too.

I'm putting my shirt back on after my checkup and getting ready to go when Dr. Wallace says, “So—I understand you're enlisting.”

Just like I thought. Mom
did
ask him to have a little chat with me.

I say, “Yeah, it's a good way to get my education.” He agrees—or at least
sounds
like he agrees. But then he goes on and on about my musical abilities and the reality of actually going to war and the stress that would put on my family.

I nod like I've thought about all that. I say, “I appreciate your concern but I've pretty much made up my mind.”

I do up the last two buttons. He goes to say something else, but I smile in the cockiest way I can and he stops. He clicks his teeth and says, “Well, good then.”

We both know I'm old enough to make my own decisions.

He taps his pen on the desk. There's this kind of awkward pause. I don't want him to feel bad. I like the guy. I say, “So am I healthy? Good to go?”

He says, “Oh, yeah. You're the picture of health.”

He looks at my chart. “Let's see… a hundred and eighty-two pounds— good. Blood pressure—good. Heart-rate of an Olympic runner…”

He flips the page. “Haven't done your blood work in a while, but let's see what we had last time…Hmm.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing. I just see your blood type is B negative.”

“Is that bad?”

He waves his hand at me. “No. Not at all. It's somewhat rare so it's a little hard to come by if you need a transfusion— but, ah…”

His voice trails off as if he just said something wrong.

What's with everyone? Just because I'm joining the Army doesn't mean I'm going to get my legs blown off.

Dr. Wallace closes the file and pushes it to the side of his desk.

“Nothing to worry about,” he says, all cheery again. He stands up and shakes my hand. “Take care of yourself now, Paddy.” He sounds like he really means it.

Chapter Seven

It's not any easier telling the guys in the band that I'm leaving either. We've been together since junior high. We still aren't great musicians but we can usually get the crowd on their feet. In fact, we're a bit of local success story. These days we never have any problem filling the legion hall, and we actually got a decent number of hits on our last YouTube video, even with the sound and lighting problems. Just the same, it's not like any of us really thinks we're going to make a living doing this. Most gigs bring in just enough to cover equipment rental and, let's say,
refreshments.

So I figure it's going to be kind of sad leaving the band, but no one's really going to care that much.

Wrong.

We're sitting in Jasper's basement.

It's always been kind of a happy place for me. This is where I've written some of our best songs. But now everybody is either glaring at me or stretched out on one of the moldy couches, pretending I'm not here.

Riley says he's already booked a couple of gigs for the fall. He doesn't think there will be time to find someone to replace me.

I promise to stay as long as I can, but it pisses me off. Why does everybody act like this is about their life, not mine?

I get up to leave. A couple of the guys grunt. That's as close as they get to saying goodbye.

I'm walking home, kicking stones out of my way and cursing to myself. I'm mad at Riley and the guys, but I'm thinking about Tara. Riley talking about “replacing” me is what did it.

Gavin McKnight has been after Tara as long as I've known him. I never liked the way Will Chan looked at her either.

I realize that the band might have trouble replacing me, but Tara won't.

I suddenly want to call her. I want to talk to her. I want to make her laugh. Make her see things my way.

Then I remember what she said about Anthony—and what a jerk she can be—so I don't.

I call someone I can count on instead.

I call Dad.

Chapter Eight

We arrange to meet the next day at his favorite restaurant. The Bluenose isn't fancy but the food's good, and it's not far from Dad's work.

He's been out of the Navy since I was twelve, but you'd never know it to look at him. Dad still keeps his hair short and walks like he's in a parade. He's always telling me to stand up straight, because it makes you look taller. He might need the extra inches—he's maybe five foot seven—but I don't. I tower over the guy.

He shakes my hand and we take a booth in the front with a good view of the street.

“I was wondering when you were going to get around to telling me,” he says. He puts his wallet on the table beside his coffee cup. “Your mother mentioned you've made some plans.”

I thought he'd look happier than he does.

“Yeah,” I say.

“The Army,” he says.

“Yeah.” I laugh. I get it. “I guess you would have preferred the Navy.”

He rolls his eyes. “No kidding. A landlubber. My old shipmates are going to wonder what type of job I did raising my kid.”

Martha comes over and pours us two cups of coffee. She doesn't even bother with a menu. “Chowder, club sandwich, two rice puddings?”

I wouldn't mind trying something different for a change, but Dad says, “Of course.”

She puts her finger to her lips. “I'm not talking to you, Johnnie. I'm talking to the good-looking one.” She winks at me.

I say, “Of course!” as if there was never any doubt.

“Why does it sound so much better when he says it?” She kind of cradles her coffee pot in her arms and sighs. “For the life of me, I don't know how an old bulldog like you managed to produce something as gorgeous as this…Must have skipped a generation.”

She elbows Dad, and he does that ha-ha laugh of his. Even though he's not the kind of guy to show his emotions— let alone
admit
that he actually has any—I can tell he's proud of me.

Not that I ever doubted it.

The guy is the world's most devoted dad. (He even has the coffee cup to prove it.) He was at sea a lot when I was a kid but he made up for it when he was home. He went to all my games, all the school plays, all the concerts. Taught me to catch a ball, change a tire, build a go-cart. Had me over every weekend even if it meant he had to sleep on the couch. He never even dated after Mom and he split up. It was all about me.

Now he calls me once a week. A couple of times a month we go to the Bluenose. A couple of times a year we go fishing. When I've got a gig, he goes to that.

Otherwise? He works. Goes to the gym. Goes home.

That's his life.

I'm surprised he even mentioned his old Navy buddies. He stopped drinking five years ago. I bet he hasn't seen them since.

He takes a sip of coffee. I can see it burns his lip. It always does. I used to wonder why he didn't just blow on it or wait until it cooled down a bit but I don't anymore. I realize that for Dad it's all part of manning up. You do what you have to do and keep quiet about it. Sometimes that means sacrificing your life for your kid's. Sometimes that means choking down burning hot coffee.

He pushes his mug out of the way. “So when do you start?”

“Don't know. Haven't really done anything about it yet except email the recruiter and get a medical.”

“How'd you check out?”

I shrug. “Perfect physical specimen apparently. Other than my blood, I guess.”

“Your blood?” Dad's so tough sometimes I forget what an old lady he can be.

“It's nothing,” I say.

Martha comes by with a basket of rolls. He smiles at her, but he's got one hand gripping the side of the table like he's bracing for bad news.

“What do you mean nothing?” he says as soon as she's gone.

“Nothing to worry about. I'm B negative, that's all.”

He settles back into his seat. “Didn't know that.”

“Why should you?” I say. I take a sip of coffee. It's still hot but bearable.

He looks out the window. His face isn't giving much away, but I can tell he's upset about something.

“What?” I say. “Don't look so worried. There's nothing the matter with B-negative blood.”

“No. It's not that.” He leans back in his seat.

“What then?”

He surprises me. He actually answers.

“Just getting sentimental, I guess. Makes me realize how much of your childhood I missed, and now look at you. All grown up.”

“Dad…,” I say. “You're a great father. You—”

“What's up with the band these days?” he says, then takes another sip of coffee.

So much for our heart-to-heart talk. It almost makes me laugh.

I give him a cleaned-up version of my discussion with the guys. He doesn't need the gory details. I don't want him mad at them just because he thinks they treated me badly. He kind of lacks perspective when it comes to me.

The food arrives and Martha flirts with us until another customer waves her over. We talk about military life— the discipline, the opportunities, the travel, the pension. I'm starting to feel better about joining up. I turned eighteen in November, but this is the first time I've really felt like an adult. I'm making a decision. I'm being responsible. I'm acting like a man.

Dad gets it. He doesn't question my choice.

We finish our rice pudding. We probably should get going so Martha can clear our table, but we hang around talking for a while. I'm usually the one rushing to go, but that's because I usually have a girlfriend or a band practice to get to. Now I've got time to spare.

Dad pulls out a picture and starts talking about the old boat he just bought. The
Julie-Anne
. He only paid eight hundred bucks for it and it'll probably sink before he has a chance to sail it. But you wouldn't know that by the look on his face. He's like a little kid.