“Holden Clay.” She inspects it, nodding solemnly.
“What?”
“Nothing. We didn’t know Clay had kids.”
Two but one isn’t here anymore. Not that it matters to him. He was happy to forget he had kids until now that he’s dying—alone.
“We all have our secrets, don’t we?”
“He’ll be happy to see you. He’s been kind of down lately.”
I wonder why.
“Come with me.”
I follow her down the white walls of the hall. It’s quiet, which is not how I would’ve expected the top rated senior living in the area to be. I would think they’d have lively rooms, board game parties, lavish lunches. Instead, it feels like I’m walking into the ICU.
“It’s nap time, so I don’t know if he’ll be up, but we’ll see.”
That makes more sense.
She knocks on a beige door, and a croaky voice comes from the other side.
“Someone’s here to see you,” she sings, pushing the door open. I can’t see him, but I hear him loud and clear.
“Who’s here to see me? I don’t have anyone.” His voice is like wailing winds, cutting through me just the same. An ounce of guilt hits me, but when he sees me, or rather, I see him, it dissipates.
He looks exactly as I remember, just older. His face is full of wrinkles creasing his dry skin. He sits in a chair by a large window with a view of the expanding fields leading to the state park, but his eyes aren’t on the tree. They are saucer sized, dark whiskey matching mine, straight on me. It takes him a second to realize who I am. I don’t know if it’s because he has only seen me once since I was twelve years old, and the grief of that day took over my body until I was unrecognizable, nothing like I am today.
I see it, the moment recognition hits. His shoulders sag, and he looks straight at the floor before whispering, “You came.”
“I’m Karen. Let me know if you need anything,” the woman says before walking out of the room.
It’s incredible how memory works, because just standing here, looking at him, takes me back to the night he told me he was my father. The father I thought was dead for almost twenty years.
The mere act of smelling his room causes a visceral reaction in my body, and memories of alcohol-induced vomit, loud snores that rumbled through the house, and the tears falling from my mother’s eyes inundate me.
I hold the door frame, taking the strength I need before walking deeper into his room and letting other memories assault me.
“Come in, son,” he whispers.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Holden…” he murmurs instead. “Please come in.”
It’s not until now that he looks back up, eyes full of torment and something that, coming from someone else, I would categorize as regret. From him, I’m not sure. From him, it could be manipulation. It could be anything, honestly, and I hate that I can’t trust my instincts when it comes to him.
The minute I’m around him, I’m that young boy again, afraid of what state his father would be in. Would there be laughter? Would there be anger? Mom was trying, and he was always gone. But when he was home, nobody knew what version of Jerry we would get. The day would be ruined because Jerry was home and everyone was on edge.
And now what? Now he’s sorry? Now he apologizes? Now he comes back because, why? He wants me to forgive his sins? He wants me to forget I can’t trust anyone because the person I should’ve looked up to, the person who was supposed to teach me how to be a man, pretended to be dead?
But I’m here now, aren’t I? Might as well hear what he has to say.
Believe none of what you hear and only half of what you see, son, he would tell me in the middle of drinking the cabinets dry on a random Monday after work. Let’s see, Jerry, what fifty percent should I believe now.
“You look good.” I lie through my teeth and stand with my back against the wall, sliding my hands in the pocket of my jeans so he can’t see how hard I’m squeezing my fists.
“I thought I taught you better than to lie to others.”
