REGRET SMELLS LIKE SAWDUST
A godforsaken door.
Twenty years of history waited on the other side. My hand rested on the brass knob with every intention of throwing it open and getting to work. It’d only require a flick of the wrist, and I’d be in the garage. My body seized, refusing to cooperate. All that stood between me and a barrage of memories was a dented door, aged to the point of being a soft yellow.
Returning to Firefly in the middle of the night, I held my head down and went straight to my room. I dragged out the inevitable. If I closed my eyes, I could still smell the French toast with an extra dose of cinnamon. In the kitchen, he’d have made a mess as he created a lopsided pile on a chipped plate, each slice with burnt edges. While Mum squeezed every drop of juice from the oranges, he’d grab her by the waist and dance until another round of toast burned.
No matter how much I focused, the memory of his voice didn’t sound quite right.
Down the hallway, the kitchen looked as if it hadn’t been used in months. Not seeing remnants of Pops made my heart sink. Despite the size of the house, it had never been enough to contain his laughter. When something struck him as amusing,he’d grip his belly as his entire body shook. Everybody around him would join in, even if they didn’t know what tickled his fancy.
On the other side of that door, I wouldn’t be able to sidestep the emotions. My chest tightened as I recalled his final smile. A heartfelt goodbye filled with tears. I had been there for his final moments. I took solace in that. It was the thousand moments before I didn’t want to face. It wasn’t the memories that stopped me. It was what came after. The part where I didn’t stay. Where I left before I ever told him I was proud to be his son.
Following the tattoos along my forearm, I scoured the ink until I reached the clock hand pointing to my middle knuckle. They bulged as I gripped the handle, mustering willpower. With the slightest turn, the latch clicked. I pressed my shoulder against the door until it budged. It flung open, and I had to step into the garage to stop myself from falling.
It was just as I remembered it. An old workbench ran the length of the rear wall, giving just enough room to park a car when the snow came. The bench had once sat in Grandpa’s basement, Pops had pulled it apart piece by piece and rebuilt it here. Mum hated losing the space, and more than a few times, she scraped the bumper of her car against its legs. She never once complained, happy that he had a piece of his father in the house.
A younger me sat on the bench, feet dangling, watching him tie knots. Back then, I didn’t realize he bestowed the same lessons his father had taught him. If we weren’t looking at plant guides, he’d have me in the backyard showing me how to build a fire or string a bow. I hadn’t cared about any of it. Not once did I think I’d ever need to survive a winter storm in the backwoods of Maine, but I listened. Every word out of his mouth made him feel larger than life, as if he were brothers with Paul Bunyan.
With no air conditioning, the sweat dripped from my face. Wiping the sweat from my head left a dark circle around the collar of my tank top. I’d have opened the garage door, but I didn’t want to wake Mum from her nap.
I walked along the table, running my hand over the grooves. It had almost as much character as Pops—Hardened, worn, but not rigid. Each board reminded me of him. Gramps had gone into the woods, chopping down the trees with an axe and used the lumber to build this. I didn’t know how much was true and how much had been concocted by the wild imagination of a child. I liked to believe it was true that Gramps really was half-man and half-woodland creature.
His tackle box remained open, filled with a mix of lures we made together and those he inherited. My chest tightened when I found the neon-orange minnow I carved from balsa wood. He never used it, claiming it’d take the sport out of fishing. Pops never took it out of the box. “It’s my lucky lure.” The words were right, but the sound of his voice still sounded off.
When I reached the rucksack in the corner, I didn’t have to open it to know its contents. After every camping trip, we’d come home and air out our sleeping bags and reset. No matter how tired and dirty, he made sure I repacked, never knowing when adventure would call. I had wanted nothing more than to grab the cookies Mum always had waiting and go watch TV.
Pulling the hatchet from the side strap. I hadn’t picked it up since sophomore year. By the time I reached high school, my interest in outdoor activities had waned. He’d barge into my room, overpowering the rock and roll, claiming we’d need to go on an adventure. I’d resist as long as possible, claiming I had homework. In truth, I wanted to hide away and draw. I had been a self-involved teenager, far too obsessed with myself to see the pain in his eyes.
I never told him that John Bishop had teased me relentlessly for spending all my time in the woods with my dad. By high school, Jon had made it his mission to make my life miserable. Being popular meant the other kids followed his lead. Firefly had become a prison in which I coexisted with my tormentors. I can remember the moment in the cafeteria I swore that I’d leave and never look back.
Pops tried. I resisted. He’d leave my packed bag by the door, hoping I’d come to my senses.
I pulled the whetstone off the shelf. As I ground the metal, sweat dripped, leaving dark dots along the stone. After a few minutes, I held it up, inspecting the work. It’d do for now. I slid it back into the holster of Pop’s rucksack. I reached into the side pocket, fishing for his most treasured survival tool.
Pop’s buck knife.
The white handle had been carved from a buck’s antlers. It had once belonged to Gramps and been handed down like a family heirloom. When I behaved, he’d let me hold it, though never let me pull out the blade. No matter how much I begged, he said I had a lot left to learn before he’d pass it along. I suppose when I left, I interrupted the tradition.
By the time I returned to Firefly, it was too late for family traditions. Tearful goodbyes had filled my last visit. I was thankful for the short time, but staring at the grooves of the handle, I had let my insecurities prevent one last camping trip.
“You’re so much like him.”
I froze with my back to Mum, shoving the knife into my pocket. I could have put it back where it belonged, but amongst all his survival gear, I needed a piece of him. Coming out here, I thought I’d make fast work of cleaning up the space. Instead, I lost myself in memories and what-ifs.
“You didn’t need to come home.”
Home. I hadn’t thought of Firefly as home since sophomore year of high school. I moved to Boston to break away and find a place that didn’t care if I was different. The other artists at the tattoo parlor couldn’t be any more different, and yet we had a similar story about not belonging.
“You need help.”
“Like hell I do.” When I turned around, she had a frown plastered across her face. I could count on one hand the number of times she gave me a sour expression. “I can take care of myself.” The frown deepened when I glanced at the medical boot on her foot. “A sprained ankle won’t stop me.”
I believed her. It didn’t mean she didn’t need help. As much as I didn’t want to return, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving unspoken volumes between us. I made my mistakes with Pops. He’d forgive me for that, but he’d never forgive me if I didn’t man up and help his favorite person in the world.
She held the doorframe as she took the step down into the garage. With a steady thump of the boot, she wrapped her arms around my arm. She didn’t comment on the phoenix flaring along my bicep toward my shoulder. Barely reaching my chest, she held on for dear life. I didn’t know what to say, so instead I rested a hand in the small of her back, giving her a squeeze.
“You didn’t need to come,” she repeated before letting go. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
