***
On a Tuesday night, Dad came home earlier than expected. When he walked into the house, he had a stack of trim pieces for the latest project he was working on in the basement.
I was sitting at the dining room table doing my homework when he walked in. I gave him a half-smile, and he gave me the other half, but it fell pretty quick. My dad used to smile all the time. He had the kind of smirk that made others grin, too.
Now it was mostly half-assed smiles.
“Hey, son. Homework?”
“Yes.”
He moved to the coffee table, where Maa had left the stack of his mail. He set down the trim pieces in his hand before grabbing the mail. He flipped through it, murmuring about bills before tossing the mail back onto the table. He stood straight, not looking in my direction, and then released a sigh.
His back was to me still. I couldn’t stop staring at him.
“You eat?” he asked.
“Leftover pizza.”
He still didn’t look at me.
“Good, good.” He scratched at his beard, and I watched as he noticed the image of our family above the fireplace. His already-heavy eyes grew heavier. I knew his stare was locked on Rian. Mine always got lost in that photograph, too. My little brother was cracking up in the picture, his head tossed back in a fit of laughter. His pure soul was captured in a photograph. It was my favorite picture. I wanted to remember my brother in that way. Filled with joy.
I hated that some stupid bullies stole away his light. I hated that the bullies were friends that I let into our world. I hated that I didn’t stand up for him. Rian deserved to live for decades more, and instead all we had were snapshots of our yesterdays.
Dad’s head dropped.
I saw a tear roll down his face.
He wiped it fast.
He always wiped the tears fast.
With a clearing of his throat, he turned around to face me. He scratched at his beard again. “Well, I’m gonna get the trim up downstairs. It’s shaping up nicely. Have you been down there since I did the wallpaper in the hallways?” he asked.
“No.”
He picked up the trim and nodded his head in the direction of the basement. “Want to give it a look?”
“Sure.”
I said yes because I knew that the best chance of getting any kind of interaction with my father was by allowing him to talk about his work projects or sports. I didn’t mind. He’d talk about shelves, paint colors, and the Chicago Bulls. I’d listen to every single word, too. I liked that for a few minutes every now and again, we’d pretend that life was normal.
We headed downstairs, and he showed me where he was putting the new trim up against the walls.
“The color is called jojoba, which is like a sage,” he explained. “You know how your mom loves sage.”
I nodded. You couldn’t walk into one room in our house and not see sage.
He pulled out a measuring tape and placed it against the wall. “I’m gonna add shelves here to toss some things up, too. I think it will look good.”
“It looks great, Dad.”
He hesitated for a minute, and his eyes grew somber. They did that pretty often. He cleared his throat. “So yeah. I think I’m going to switch out the sink in the bathroom down here, too. It’s too narrow. Water has been splashing all over and making a mess. So I think I’m going to take that out this weekend.”
This would be the second time he was swapping out the sink.
Maa said Dad kept putting things in and taking them out to keep himself busy. I didn’t disagree. They’d been arguing even more lately about Dad and his renovations or him picking up more and more work shifts. Maa said Dad wasn’t sleeping enough, so I didn’t think she was really mad at him. I figured she was worried about his well-being and her fear came out as anger. Sometimes I thought I was angry when I was really just scared or sad.
