Maybe I’d even learn athing or two from my illustrious competition…
Famous last words.
ChapterThree
“Dad?” It was late when I got home. Well,late for my dad. He usually went to bed by eight, and it was already past nine.
When he didn’t answer, I set mypurse down on the cluttered, Formica table and weaved my way through the small house.
My childhood home—a cozy threebedroom, two bath with tight corners—had furniture packed in every availablespace. My dad bought this house for my mom when they were first married. They’dplanned to upgrade when they had kids. But shortly after I was born, my mom gotsick, and their plans halted.
After my mom passed away, my dad neverconsidered leaving. Plus, there wasn’t any reason to with only the three of us.
Where my dad and brother werecontent to be cramped and close in the old, museum of a house, I had wanted to fleesomewhere since I could remember. I’d moved out as soon as possible, headed forschool and the big goals I’d set for myself.
Coming back here after everythingthat had happened felt strange, misplaced. I was too big for this house. Tooold. I had shed this skin a long time ago, but somehow had to figure out a wayto wear it again.
I had nowhere else to go.
Plus, Dad needed me.
I found him asleep in his favoritechair, a faded blue recliner that creaked every time the footrest popped up.The TV remote rested loosely in his hand and one of his house shoes dangledprecariously from the tip of his toe.
Quietly, I slipped the remote fromhis grip and grabbed the nearest throw blanket, gently tossing it over his legs.He barely fit in the recliner meant for normal-size humans. My dad was tall,bulky and built from a lifetime as a mechanic. He routinely had to duck underdoorframes and squeeze into tight spaces like cars, hallways and the GrandCanyon.
But that was my dad, oversized andlarger than life even if he was more likely to shy away from conversation andpeople. He was absent a lot when Vann and I were younger. He had to work allthe time just to make ends meet, and after my mom died, it was hard for him tocome home anyway.
There were too many reminders ofmom. Every room was touched with her decorating style and framed pictures ofbefore she got sick. In a corner of the backyard sat the remnants of herabandoned garden. The ground had never recovered, tangled with weeds thanks toour neglect, but reminiscent of her all the same. And us— Vann and me— spittingimages of the woman he had loved so deeply and lost so early.
So he stayed away, isolating himselffrom the aching memories and painful present. We had everything we needed, butnever enough of what we wanted. And so my lonely childhood had turned into anadolescence filled with desperation to escape. But now my exodus had turnedinto a last-resort homecoming to take care of the man that had done everythinghe could to take care of me.
These were things I accepted a longtime ago. And whatever bitterness or resentment I felt during those earlieryears had faded in the light of his real love for us.
I had come to accept his distantrole in our lives, even count on it. It was easier to have a father that lovedme but didn’t want anything to do with me when I was doing things I shouldn’t—whenI was living a life he would never approve of anyway. His love was real. I toldmyself that was all that mattered.
And now, looking down at him whilehe slept in his favorite chair, I actually believed it.
He stirred, probably sensing mestaring at him. Heavy eyelids fluttered open, and he rubbed his face with oneof his big, rough hands.
When I was a child, I was morbidlyfascinated with his huge hands. As a mechanic, his hands were constantly black,streaked with dirt and oil and whatever else he worked on. He would stumblethrough the kitchen door at the end of his shift smelling like the equipment heworked on and covered in grease. Those big, dirty hands of his would lift togive us all a weary hello, and then he’d turn to the sink and start scrubbing.
They were clean now. He had toretire two years back when he first got sick. It wasn’t cancer yet, but he wastoo sick to keep up his manual-labor lifestyle. Thankfully, his pension couldcover all his medical expenses.
“Vera May,” he mumbled sleepily.
“Hi, Daddy.” My voice stayed awhisper even though he was awake now.
“Just getting home?”
I gave him the tired smile I imaginedhe gave me all those years. Our roles were reversed now. I was the onewandering in after a long day’s work, exhausted and filthy. My clothes werecovered in dried paint and my skin in salty sweat from working in the heat allafternoon.
“Yeah,” I affirmed through a yawn.Sliding down on the couch nearby, I plopped my bare feet on the coffee tableand tipped my head back. My eyes closed without permission.
His warm chuckle floated through thequiet room. “You’re working yourself too hard. You haven’t even opened yet.”
I lifted one droopy eyelid and shothim a stern frown. “Says the man that worked two jobs his entire life.”
He chuffed a laugh. “Not because Iwanted to. That was for survival.”
