“Yes, but my daughter hasn’t eaten since breakfast. We’ll get something to go. Should I get something for you and Dad?”
Since the answer to that is ano,Joy and I wolf down our own lunches as we drive—a veggie burger for her, fried clams (could not resist) for me. The wolfing down is starvation on Joy’s part, nervousness on mine. I haven’t seen my father in three years, and, forget Alzheimer’s disease or dementia or even just ordinary old age, the man terrifies me. He always has, which is probably the major reason I haven’t been back to see him sooner.
Parking in the lot outside Urgent Care, we run up the steps and down the porch to the wavy glass door. We’re barely into the reception area when my father and sister emerge from an inner office.
Given that he has a fresh white cast on his left hand, Dad stands remarkably tall. He wears ironed khakis and a button-down shirt whose left sleeve is rolled to clear the cast. His silver hair is vaguely disheveled, but his posture picks up the slack. It is commanding, a warning to anyone who may be in his way, and certainly enough to intimidate me. I’ve been waiting for his illness to soften that, but it hasn’t done it yet. His eyes are blue, faded from what they were a few years back, but authoritative nonetheless. His stride keeps him the half-step ahead of Anne that always seemed his due.
My sister is wearing a yellow tank top, short denim coveralls, and fuchsia high tops. With a burgundy streak in tousled dark hair, she looks as funky as my daughter.
She is reaching forward to keep a guiding hand on his elbow, though his purposeful manner implies he knows exactly where he is and why. This is encouraging. Not so the fact that he glances at us and doesn’t react.
My stomach dips under the weight of this particular memory, the one where he looks past me at Margo or Anne. That worked evenings when a jury’s prolonged deliberations nastied his mood. I was happy to be out of his sight then. Other times, I would have killed for a loving word.
Anne quickly pulls him to a stop. “Look who’s here, Daddy! It’s Mallory and Joy, come to surprise us. Isn’t that super?”
“Hi, Daddy,” I say, stretching up to brush a kiss on his cheek.
He seems puzzled, unable to place me. I’m wondering if maybe it’s just disbelief, when Anne breaks the moment by giving me a hug.
“You look fabulous, Mallory. And Joy?” The deliberateness with which she repeats our names says she’s helping Dad out. In the three years since he saw my daughter last, she has certainly changed.
Joy is shy, standing close to me when her grandfather’s gaze finally leaves my face and finds hers, and what takes place then is the best I’d hoped for. His features soften, brows rise in pleased surprise, eyes light with something akin to hope.
Encouraged, Joy kisses him as I had done. “Hi, Papa,” she says.
He smiles and touches her cheek with his good hand. “Margo. You’re here. All the way from San Antonio?”
“New York,” Joy says lightly, ignoring theMargo.“We just drove up. I’m sorry about your wrist.”
But he’s frowning. “Not San Antonio? Did you move?”
Anne says, “Daddy, Margo lives in Chicago. This is Mallory’s daughter, Joy.”
“Mallory’s?” He does look at me, clearly making the connection with my name, but he’s confused.
I put an arm around Joy’s shoulder and smile. “My daughter.”
“You’re married? When? Why did I not know? Does no one tell me these things?”
Anne rescues me with a quick, “Okay, Daddy, we can talk about this when we get home. There are other people here, and we’re in the way.” The reception area is barely full, but the excuse is enough to get us moving again.
We are barely out the door and on the porch, though, when my father snags Joy’s hand. “Margo, with me,” he says. “I don’t see her enough.”
“Our back seat is available,” Anne offers with an inquiring look at Joy, who quickly looks at me. I’m not sure if her expression is aMayI?or aHELP!So I waggle a finger between us and hold up my hands, as in, either way is fine.
It’s a moot point, since my father is already leading her down the porch. Trailing them, I watch her slide into the back seat of Anne’s Volvo. It is actually Dad’s car and likely on its last frugal legs, but at least Anne is driving. Last time Dad drove, he phoned Anne in a panic when he couldn’t start the car. She laughed telling me the story—he got confused, forgot how, kept trying to start it like it was his old wagon—and while that might in fact be a common aging problem, seventy-two isn’t terribly old. Forgetting how to start the car is one thing, forgetting how to brake in traffic something else. Though the latter hasn’t yet happened, Anne promised me that she wouldn’t let him drive.
She hides the keys, makes it a game. She tells me this often, like she’s handling a child. The fact that my father doesn’t call his buddy at the local garage, whom he once helped with a DUI and who then did every last bit of service on our cars for free, puzzles me. Maybe Dad doesn’t think of hot-wiring the car. Maybe the buddy is retired or dead. Maybe Dad doesn’t want to drive because he has nowhere to go.
Whatever, he takes the passenger’s seat without a fuss. As soon as the door is shut, he swivels to look back at Joy. I see this through the window, see that he stays that way as the Volvo backs around and heads out.
Alone in my car, I follow them back to Bay Bluff. Gravel has been strewn over pavement, a summer ritual that hasn’t changed. Under the hot sun, it will embed itself in the tar, adding traction for winter’s ice. In the here and now, it adds crunch to a soundtrack whose background is, always and forever, the sea.
My car climbs. The shrubbery now is more dense than I remember, a wealth of sea grass, myrtle, and juniper, with scrub pines interspersed, all a safe bet against the ocean wind. After a minute, two houses rise against the hazy sky like a pair of standing stones.
Though separated by several hundred feet of gravel and grass,the houses are clearly a pair. They were commissioned by Tom Aldiss and Elizabeth MacKay within months of each other and designed by the same architect. That was more than forty years ago, which is how long our families have been entwined.
Since the bluff stands high above the sea, cresting it offers a breathtaking view. I might have stopped to take it in, if the Volvo wasn’t already at the house. My father waits for Joy to climb out, then takes her hand and leads her to the front steps.
