MY STOMACH TWISTED in knots as we drove down the all too familiar roads of our youth. It was a risk taking him to my old house. I knew that. But I also knew I had to prove to him that I trusted him. And that meant trusting him with the darkest part of my life.
My alcoholic father.
And yet it was an easy out for me because in all the time we spent together as teenagers, Micah never once judged me for who my father was. It was one of the qualities that made me fall in love with him in the first place.
Well, his sinfully rock-hard body didn’t hurt either.
“You’re shitting me.” There was laughter in his words and disbelief on his face. “This is like a time warp or some shit like that.”
“I assure you, it’s not.” Rather than the usual feeling of dread accompanying me to the house, today it felt different. It felt happier simply because Micah was with me. As we walked through the front gate, I was suddenly self-conscious of the condition of the house. Since I only came here once a week, that gave him six days to ruin whatever progress I’d made. An entire side of the front banister was completely missing. I’d already known about it and was ashamed of myself for not having it fixed yet. And as I fumbled with the key in the lock, I wondered when the last time the house had been painted. Surely, it had to have been before my parents bought it, and that was well before I was born. The peeling paint was a screaming reminder to add that to my ever-growing list of chores that needed to be completed this summer.
As we stepped over the threshold, Micah spoke, his voice wistfully amused. “This place hasn’t changed one bit.” At the sound of people walking into his house, my father stirred in his creaky old recliner.
Noticing the line of beer cans on the counter, I said, “Nope, not one bit,” not even bothering to cover the annoyance of my words.
“Is that you, Jude?” my father slurred without even turning to look at me.
“Hi, Dad,” I greeted as I approached him. To my surprise, his clothes didn’t look too bad, and it smelled like he’d actually showered in the last day or two. “I have a friend with me this week.” Suddenly nervous or self-conscious, though I wasn’t sure he was capable of that last emotion, my father fidgeted with his shirt as he stood, clumsily, from his chair. “You remember Micah, right? From high school?”
My father looked Micah up and down, and it was clear he couldn’t place him. And it was no wonder why. Micah had changed so much in the last ten years. The scruff-covered jawline and hair long enough to be tied into a ponytail was a far cry from the kid my father had once known him as.
Then there was the matter of his amputated arm.
Shit,I cursed in my head, angry at myself for not thinking about what stupid shit my father would say when he saw that. I watched as Dad’s eyes settled on the black metal of Micah’s prosthetic and it was as if a moment of clarity—and possibly sobriety—settled over him.
“You’re that soldier’s son. The new kid,” he said as he stumbled slightly, walking toward Micah. I worried for a minute that he might trip and fall on his face, embarrassing me without saying more than a handful of words.
“Yes, sir,” Micah answered, holding his metal hand out for my father to shake. Ignoring the jealousy swirling in my gut that he shook someone else’s hand when he refused to touch mine, I took a deep breath in the hopes that my father wouldn’t vomit all over the place. “It’s good to see you again,” he said as he shook my dad’s hand.
“War?” Dad asked, looking down at the metal fingers wrapped around his.
“Roadside bomb. I was the lucky one.” Micah’s words held no shame as I feared they would since my father had just so harshly put him on the spot.
As Dad dropped Micah’s hand, he said, “Thank you for your service. Takes a real man to fight a war he didn’t start.”
I was shocked at him, at his ability to pull himself together for even the briefest of moments.
“Thank you, Mr. MacMill-”
Dad cut him off, insisting Micah call him George.
“Okay then, George. Thank you.” Micah smiled, and he seemed more relaxed than he’d been since he first arrived.
It wasn’t until Micah turned to look at me that I realized my mouth was wide open, shocked at the exchange. Dad began to walk toward the kitchen. “I started a list,” he said, as he held onto the counter for support. His knees began to buckle, and I could tell he needed to lie down.
“Why don’t you take a nap while I finish it up?” I suggested, standing next to him. “Come on. By the time we get back and get dinner started, you’ll be all rested up.”
Nodding and yawning, he agreed. “Don’t know what I did to deserve a son like you.”
After getting him settled in bed, I walked back out to the kitchen where I found Micah inspecting the fridge. “Looks like he needs just about everything,” he announced as he jotted down a few more items on the list.
“He usually does. And I couldn’t make it here last week, so it’s probably extra bare.” Guilt crushed me knowing that I’d left him on his own for a weekend. I just couldn’t get out here, and he had been a grouchy old man about it. I’d pushed it out of my head up until Micah looked over at me with sadness in his eyes.
“You mean he’s just here on his own all week. Does he work? Go anywhere?”
Though it was a humorless sound, I laughed. “You already saw his great daily migration. Most he ever does is walk from that chair.” I paused, tipping my chin at his beat-up, old recliner. “To his bedroom. Maybe a few trips to the bathroom. But that’s it.”
“So sad,” he said as he closed the fridge. “Why doesn’t he live with you?” he suggested as if it were that simple.
