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Once dinner had been finished, Dad brought me back to the garage while Mother decided to corner Zeke for a while. Hopefully, she wasn’t as crude as she was earlier.

Dad and I sat at his table, and I stared at what Zeke had left behind: a few models out to dry with little touches, things my dad wasn’t capable of anymore.

I’d noticed. Something about broaching the topic never seemed right. I knew what I needed to know, whether they wanted me to or not.

I picked up where Zeke left off, painting little details for my father over the heavy-handed bases he’d laid out. I wondered how many times I could do this: visit and sit with him. How long I could lie to him like he’d lied to me.

He wanted to keep medical information secret. I wanted to keep my dude womb and magical library shit under wraps. Maybe they weren’t equivalent, but Dad and I hardly spoke. We coexisted, and I listened. I thought he always felt a little afraid to bond with me on some level. When I was younger, it stung a little once I understood there was supposed to be more there, but when I got older and knew certain truths… He was doing his best.

“Good guy,” Dad said, fanning a wet brush with some dark wash over a model. He liked that step a lot.

I nodded. “Treats me well. Educated. Sound judgment.”

Dad nodded. “Head on straight—well…” I glanced up as his cheeks flushed a little.

“I know what you mean. No offense taken.” I didn’t say much when he panicked about little potential microaggressions. It was bound to happen—considering his generation and age.

“Well… You know I’m proud of you, right?”

I nodded. “I know. Never thought you weren’t. Love you, Dad.”

I wondered how many times I would get to say that before he was gone. He tried to hide the faint tremor in his fingers, but I saw it. I saw the overflowing pile of pill bottles in the bathroom, under the cabinet, too. And, unfortunately, the adult diapers. Those were new.

“Remember when I was a kid, and you used to take me across town to the old general store where they had a quarter drink machine, still, and we’d buy like three sodas and bring a cup with us to mix them up in different ways—make names for them?” I smiled and waited for his furrowed brow to soften in realization.

“Yes. And the sardines we’d sneak.”

“Ima still can’t stand the smell of them.” I gave an evil snicker.

“And she didn’t let you have sodas, either.” Dad rubbed his hands together as he neatly packed up his things for the night and let me help clean.

“I’ll get the keys and tell Ima where we’re going.” He stood and held his fists up to his sides, holding an imaginary cane as he did a little shimmy and shuffle dance.

We were in the car within a few minutes, trolling through the landscape of the ever-changing city. The old grocery store had changed ownership a few times, and the drinks were fifty-cents now, but still the same off brand mystery. Just because the button said lemon lime didn’t mean it had that. As evidenced by the grape that rolled free when I pressed the button.

Standing there in the bright glow of my father’s headlights, buying the drinks while he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, I could almost pretend I was a kid again, hauling back the bounty of two random sodas—this time three. Zeke would join us on the porch later. But this part was ours.

Dad stopped by another store on the way home, and I ducked in to buy a few tins of sardines: some in mustard, and some in Louisiana hot sauce. And when I returned, he had a handful of plastic wrapped cutlery he kept in the center console of his car, eagerly waiting for our sins.

We made our way back home, the driveway a familiar but distant thing from my memories—muddled by years of college and my months away. Every time it seemed dimmer, familiar, but less like my own.

I thought about cleansing my memories over time, like Zeke had. I wondered if I’d forget little things like this that felt so big.

We gathered around on the rocking bench, and I texted Zeke to come join us. Mother would pretend she knew nothing of it, as usual.

Dad fumbled a little too long with a tin as he held the pack still on the little side table, fingers slipping over the tab.

“They’ve swapped them out for that plastic lined stuff and it’s so hard to open without good nails.” I laughed and popped the tab for him, giving him leeway to peel it with some effort as I saved him that embarrassment.

“I swear, they put less and less in these things as time goes on, and these smaller tins are harder to open.” He huffed, and I opened a plastic fork before handing it to him.

Zeke cracked the door and slipped out to join us, his face twisted into a wry smile. He held up three plastic tumblers. “You know, most parents sneak their kids sweets.”

“That’s what these are!” I gestured to the three sodas I’d nabbed: a lemon lime, a grape and a raspberry cream soda. The latter hadn’t even been an option on the buttons.

“And those?” Zeke took a fork from me and gestured toward the cans of sardines.

“Sardines,” Dad supplied helpfully. “They’re little oily fish in a tin.”