Mistakes We Never Made

23 Friday Afternoon

(One day before the wedding)

THE DOOR SWINGS OPEN.

“Emma?” My dad manages a smile, but I’m still stuck in that moment. The moment twenty years ago when I watched the same truck pull out of our driveway and never come back. “Emmie Girl?”

I force myself back to the present, and to the man standing in front of me. It’s the same dark auburn hair I see every time I look in the mirror, but his is streaked with gray. My father looks like a redheaded Matthew McConaughey, and he has the same gravelly South Texas twang. He puts his hand out in front of him, and I stare at it. Is he really trying to give me a handshake after not seeing me for half a decade? I look at his hand, then back to his face, and back to his hand. But while I’m deciding what to do, Finn reaches over my shoulder and shakes it, sparing all of us the awkwardness of a father trying to shake his daughter’s hand instead of pulling her into a hug.

“Finn Hughes. Nice to meet you.”

“Mike Townsend,” my dad says, relieved. “Come on in.” He steps out of the doorway to make room for us, but I can’t pick up my feet to cross the threshold. The warmth from Finn’s hand seeps through the thin cotton of my shirt, and it’s enough of a steady presence that I’m able to take a deep breath and step inside.

“I almost didn’t recognize you with that new haircut.”

I’ve had this long bob since college.

“Wow.” Dad just stares at me, perhaps trying to match the eight-year-old child he used to live with to this grown woman now standing in his doorway. “Well, this is quite a surprise.”

For a moment, embarrassment washes over me. I haven’t seen him since that football game at UT. Eight years ago. And even that was fleeting—unclear whether he’d really come to see me or the game.

“I tried to call,” I say helplessly as I take in the house. It’s sparse. There are a few posters of desert vistas along the walls in the living room and a framed Vince Young jersey, but no photographs. The furniture, all a cracked chocolate-brown leather, is pointed at a large television playing ESPN. I try to find anything that looks familiar, anything to indicate that there’s at least some part of my dad’s life with us that he wanted to remember. But there’s nothing in the house that I recognize from my childhood. The homiest thing is the small woodburning oven in the corner that’s currently cold. That’s how I’d describe the whole place. Cold. My mom’s house has art and photos on nearly every wall, and not a single piece of furniture matches. I feel a pang of nostalgia for the home I grew up in. Its cluttered chaos may have set my type A teeth on edge, but at least it was warm. Lived in. When I picture our cozy den, with its chunky throw blankets and stacks of magazines, I think, Home. Family. I survey Dad’s nondescript living room again, thinking, You left us for this?

“Oh, was that you calling?” He moves into the kitchen. “I don’t pick up numbers I don’t recognize.” His comment hits me in the gut. I swallow. “So what brings y’all to town? Can I get you something to drink?” But he’s out of sight before we can answer either question.

“Oh, um, just a water would be great,” I feebly toss out to him.

A cabinet slams shut, and there’s the sound of the tap. He returns with water in a plastic cup, DALLAS COWBOYS SUPER BOWL CHAMPIONS 1996 emblazoned along the side. I try to place it in my memory. He must have had it when I was a kid before he left. Maybe I saw him drink out of it at some point, but the only plastic cups I remember are from Kuby’s in Snider Plaza. My mom probably still has two dozen stashed away in her kitchen cabinet right now. I hadn’t really thought about it until now, but I guess I’ve kind of divided my memories into “before” and “after.” Things I associate with Dad, and therefore try to block out as much as possible, and things from my childhood after he left. Being here in the same space as him again feels like some kind of twisty time vortex, past and present, before and after, melding together in a way that makes my head ache.

Maybe coming here was a mistake. Just another example of my boneheaded stubbornness trying to prove a point. I should have just let the tow truck driver drop us off at some coffee shop where we could have arranged for a Lyft to the nearest airport. Go back to Malibu. Tell everyone the truth. Tap in the Rains, let them try to track their daughter down. After all, isn’t that what parents are supposed to do? Take care of their children?

“So,” Dad says, clapping his hands together. “I was just about to make a grilled cheese for some late lunch. Would y’all want one too?”

I’m about to refuse, when Finn says, “Sure.”

I shoot him a look.

“I’m hungry,” he mouths, but I just shake my head and follow my dad.

“You like mustard on yours, right, Emmie?” He lights up like he’s remembered something about me.

“Um, no mustard. I’m a purist.”

“Ah, okay.”

“I’ll take some mustard,” Finn says.

“Good man.” In a matter of minutes, our sandwiches are sizzling on the griddle. “So, what brings you two to the neighborhood?” he asks, as if our popping by is a casual occurrence.

“We were on our way to Albuquerque,” I say vaguely. “And then we had a small car accident.”

“Oh, man, Emmie Girl. I’m so sorry to hear that. What kind of car is it? I might be able to help with it.” My dad slides the sandwiches onto three plates, and hands me my mustard-free one. The kitchen is tiny, so we carry our plates back out to the living room and sit on the brown leather furniture and eat with our plates in our laps.

“It’s a Singer.”

“A Porsche 911 reimagined by Singer. Technically,” Finn clarifies.

My dad’s eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline, and he lets out a whistle. “A man with a Singer, eh?” He gives me a playful punch on the shoulder. “Nice catch, Emmie Girl. You’ve gotta hold on to this one.” Before I can correct him, he turns to Finn. “Those Porsches can be tough to drive.” But he fixes Finn with a pitying look like anyone with half a brain could figure it out. “Should have let Emmie drive it. She’s a natural.”

I wait for Finn to clarify, to absolve himself of this insult to his driving abilities, but he just shrugs and continues to eat his grilled cheese. It’s almost like he’s covering for me, which makes my skin prickle. Why should he? I screwed up. I should take ownership of it. Finn’s words from right before the crash come back to me. Well, maybe your life would be a little better if you were a little more willing to make mistakes.

“Actually, I was driving when we had the wreck.”

“Oh.” Dad’s face drops the slightest bit. “Well… tough with those engines in the back, you know.”

We sit in silence, chewing our grilled cheese sandwiches, and I’m struck by the surrealness of it all. It feels like some bizarre dream: Finn Hughes sitting across from my estranged father in Flagstaff, Arizona.

Finn points toward to my dad’s commemorative UT cup. He seems to have a nearly endless supply. “Been a rough go for Cowboys and Longhorn fans.”

“Don’t I know it,” Dad says, and takes a long drink.

“Most valuable franchises in their respective leagues but can’t seem to turn it into a championship.”

“You’re telling me.” He’s animated with Finn in a way he isn’t with me, as if sports is safer ground. “Did you go to Texas too?”

“No, I was in North Carolina.”

“UNC?”

“Duke.”

“Good basketball team.” My dad takes another bite of his sandwich, and I want to scream. “More of a football guy myself.”

“Me too.”

It’s the most banal conversation I’ve ever heard. My father hasn’t seen me in eight years, and he’d rather talk to Finn about Duke basketball?

“Dad, I think I would like some mustard after all,” I practically shout. “Could you grab me some?” The second he’s up from the table, I lean over to Finn and hiss, “What are you doing?”

“Me?” Finn’s eyebrows shoot upward.

I assume an exaggeratedly deep voice, mocking Finn’s own. “Oh yeah, gotta love that Tar Heel basketball!”

“We are the Blue Devils,” Finn corrects. “And I’m just trying to be polite to this asshole who abandoned you. You think I want to be making small talk with him? I’m just following your lead here.”

I swallow a bite of grilled cheese, processing Finn’s words. He’s right. I am in the driver’s seat here. This is one situation where I should be taking control. It’s unfair for me to expect Finn to just intuitively know that watching him sit here and be friendly to my dad is killing me.

“I don’t even know what to say to him,” I sigh. “But I think I need to try to connect with him about everything, you know? Not just chitchat.”

“I think you’re right.” Finn nods.

When my dad reenters the room, I say, “We need to head out to the tow yard to see what the damage is on the car. Dad, would you be able to drive me over to take a look?” I glance at Finn, hoping he’ll be okay with this plan for me and my dad to get some alone time.

“That’d be great,” Finn says, wiping his hands on a paper towel. “I’ve got some work I need to catch up on. I can just hang here.”

“Are you sure?” It’s funny to think that after two days of trying to keep me out of the driver’s seat, Finn is now going to let me be the one to take inventory of the damage.

“I trust you. Singer’s going to get it on a flatbed back to California. I just want to make sure we’ve logged all the damage in case something happens during the shipment.”

My dad gets in the BMW instead of the Wagoneer, and I breathe a sigh of relief. The drive to the mechanic is short. Dad flips through the radio channels, landing on a country station, and “Callin’ Baton Rouge” fills the coupe. I try to figure out how to start a conversation, but we’re pulling into the parking lot before I manage to find a way to break the silence.

The Porsche is front and center of the mechanic’s shop. I take a few pictures of the major damage and a short video as I circle the car.

“It’s really not that bad,” my dad says, giving the roof a couple of loving taps. “Just a little bit of body damage.” He circles to the other side of the car. “And obviously the tire.” He squats down to inspect it further. “You and I could fix it right up, Emmie Girl.” Warmth suffuses me, and I think back to all the times when I was a kid that I’d join him in the garage and watch him work on his Jeep.

“I don’t know that I’m up to a Singer-level restoration,” I say.

“You could be. I remember how nice that Bronco of yours ended up.”

The Bronco had been my college car; I’d fixed it up all on my own. Dad had seen it when he came to visit that one time junior year. I remember him kicking the tires and nodding approvingly. He’d asked me all about the engine, the body, where I’d taken it for the paint job. But all I wanted was for him to ask me about my classes, my junior design project, my friends, my senior year plans, and what I hoped to do after graduation. He didn’t seem to want to get into any of that. Cars were always the language that my father felt the most comfortable speaking, and as a kid, I’d always striven to gain my own fluency, proud that we had something in common. But as I got older, I realized that a shared love of sleek new rides and classic old engines wasn’t enough to sustain an entire father-daughter relationship. That more than anything, a father-daughter relationship is just based on being there.

“I could have used your help fixing up the Bronco,” I say to him now, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “Could have used your help with a lot of things throughout the years, actually.” My tone is still even, but I’m trying to get my dad to see how much his absence affected me. To finally have this conversation that we’ve put off for two decades.

“Nah, you didn’t need your old man.” Dad waves me off with his hand. “Your mom had things handled.”

Yeah, well maybe she shouldn’t have had to, I think. Rage blazes to life inside me. I’ve learned to bottle up my own hurt, but for him to pretend like he didn’t royally screw Mom over is more than I can handle. Dad doesn’t seem to notice the shift in my mood.

We confirm with the mechanic that Singer is sending a flatbed to pick up the car tomorrow morning. After that, there’s really not much else for us to do.

We get back in the BMW, and I can’t help giving some oxygen to the anger I have banked inside me. “Is Kimberly driving the Wagoneer these days? I didn’t see another car.”

“Who?” Dad asks. Then recognition hits him. He scratches behind his right ear. “I, uh, no. Kim ended up moving back to Dallas years ago. She’s not really a desert girl. She never liked that I dragged her out here.”

This update leaves me with a cold realization. For years, I’d had the specter of “Kimberly from marketing” to blame for dragging my dad away, but apparently I had it all wrong.

I pick through all the other ways my childhood could have turned out. My father could have been with Kimberly, but still in Dallas, still in my life. People leave marriages all the time without leaving their kids. Liz and I could have shared a room at his house. We could have switched off Thanksgiving and Christmas. Sure, it would have sucked. We would have wished our parents were still together, but I still would’ve had a dad. He could’ve been there when I broke my arm on Willow’s trampoline, when I won state in debate, when I graduated from high school. My mom could have had a life outside of us. Maybe if she’d had a weekend free a month, she would’ve found someone. Instead, she spent twenty years of her life working or taking care of us with no downtime and no help. Thinking again about everything my mom went through obliterates any of the tactfulness I have left.

“So then why did you leave?” It’s a straightforward question. I try to keep the anger out of my voice, but it creeps in.

“I always wanted to live out in the country. I couldn’t breathe in the city.” He’s answering my question as if I asked why he relocated to Arizona, not why he abandoned his family. “Your mom would always brush me off when I said I wanted to move to the desert. We didn’t quite see eye to eye on—well, on a lot of things.”

He’s almost fifty years old, and he’s still making excuses.

Scraps of memory from the “before” half of my childhood begin to flood my mind. I remember lying in bed, listening to the sounds of an argument drifting up the stairs. Mom shouting, Dad not saying much. I can hear the pleading in Mom’s voice—telling Dad they could work past this. That you didn’t just walk out when things got hard. That you didn’t do that to your children. Admiration at my mom’s strength washes over me now. She was determined to try to make her marriage work even after my father cheated, but it wasn’t enough. She couldn’t force him to stay.

As I look out the window, we pass a playground filled with kids, their parents clumped beneath whatever shade they can find. I realize that my dad already had both me and Liz when he was my age. I can’t imagine the responsibility of having a kid, much less two, but I know with every fiber of my being that I wouldn’t leave them. Especially when someone was willing to forgive him for his infidelity. My mom was willing to look past a massive mistake. I can’t fathom giving someone that amount of grace.

My voice is low with anger. “Mom wanted to work it out, and you still left. What the fuck is wrong with you?” It’s a nuclear response, but I can’t believe he was so self-centered.

“I was never a good husband—” Dad starts to give another excuse.

“You were a good dad!” The words leave my mouth in a hiss. “Your kids didn’t just disappear when you crossed the state line. We were still there. We still needed a father. You abandoned us.”

My tone finally seems to register with him, but he doesn’t look over at me. I don’t know what I expected from him. An apology? Some regrets? At the very least an acknowledgment of the pain he caused. But I’m getting none of those. He’s sitting there, just as silent as he was back in our kitchen all those years ago when Mom was pleading with him.

His hands tighten on the steering wheel, and he keeps his eyes trained on the road. “It wasn’t working out. So, I made the decision for us. I removed myself from the situation. It seems like y’all came out okay without me.” He nods decisively as if the conversation is over. “I knew what was best for everyone.”

A sick recognition twists in my stomach at his words. My anger shifts into something else. Shame. I knew what was best for everyone.

We sit in silence for the rest of the drive home.

When we pull into the driveway, my dad mutters something about needing to chop more wood for the stove if Finn and I are going to spend the night on the pullout, so I jump at the excuse to do something with myself. I can’t stand sitting still in this discomfort for a second longer.

“I’ll do it,” I say, opening the door before he’s even pulled to a stop and slamming it behind me. I have so much pent-up energy from my one-sided fight with Dad that I’m itching to burn through it all. Normally, I’d run until my brain turned off and the fatigue in my body broke down all my feelings into simple square blocks that I could compartmentalize somewhere in the back of my brain. But the only shoes I have are the stilettos I bought in Vegas and the flip-flops I’d slipped on to go to the spa.

“Great,” Dad says. “Woodpile’s around back. So’s the ax.”

In the scrubby little backyard, I can hear the faint sound of running water coming from the open bathroom window. Finn must be in the shower, and I’m grateful that at least I don’t have to make any excuses to him too. I can’t believe I thought this eleventh-hour plan to finally get closure with my dad—to break down the wall between us and have him actually hear me—would make me feel better. All I feel is sadness and anger and regret swirling around inside me. And worst of all is the realization that even with the miles of distance my dad forced between us, I still grew up just like him. Someone who thinks she knows better than everyone else. Someone who tries to control uncomfortable situations instead of letting herself feel. Who leaves before she can get left. Who ends up all alone.

I grab the ax and place the first log on the stump. Swinging the ax behind me, I stare at the wood… but what I see is the back of the Wagoneer. What I see is That Day.

The memory of my dad driving away.

We were all gathered outside the house, standing still as statues like it was some sort of ceremony. Dad had squeezed my shoulder like he was prepping me for a softball game, not a fatherless childhood. Be good, Emmie Girl was all he said.

I heave the ax behind me and smash it through the first piece of wood. Thwack. I swung so hard, the ax is embedded in the chopping block. My palm stings as I twist it free with a crack.

For years I’ve been angry that he couldn’t even give me a hug goodbye. If he had, I would have clung onto him hard enough that he couldn’t leave, but he twisted away from reach, nodding once toward my mom holding Liz on her hip. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t cry, but I could feel the anger coming off her in waves as he flung his duffel bag into the back seat of the Wagoneer, and I could sense this wasn’t normal. I wanted to believe my dad was just leaving for a few days, like on one of the business trips he’d occasionally taken before. But there was something so sudden, yet so definite, in every movement. In the tone of their arguing earlier that day. In the stoic look on my mom’s face. He waved to me one last time through the windshield and crunched out of the driveway to the end of our cul-de-sac.

Now, in Dad’s backyard, the June sun is directly above the fence, beating into my face like it has a pulse. Thwack. The next log splits easily, but there’s a twinge in my lower back. I ignore it and reach for the next log. The memories are harder to ignore.

In my mind’s eye, I can see the Wagoneer pulling away. The stillness that had come over me That Day broke, and I bolted after the truck, waving my arms and screaming, “Dad! Daddy! Daddy!” I heard my mom call for me, but I put on an extra burst of speed as the truck turned left, tearing down our little street toward the main road, where Dad’s truck was almost out of sight. I would have kept running except that my flip-flop caught on the edge of a pothole and I slammed into the ground. My screams cut off as I sucked in air trying to regain the wind that had gotten knocked out of me.

Thwack.My breath now is getting shorter as I work up a sweat. It beads at my brow and drips into my eyes. The skin on my hands burns as I wipe away the liquid. They’re raw from the rough handle of the ax. I put another log on the chopping block.

After I fell, my mom was beside me in an instant, Liz still clinging to her side. She wrapped us both in a hug. “It’s going to be okay, girls. We’ve got each other.”

There’s a familiar ringing in my ears, but I push past it. Thwack.

Liz, only a toddler, also sensed that something was wrong, and she started crying. My breath was returning to normal, and all I wanted to do was go back to screaming for my dad. But Liz’s cries ratcheted up even further, and I realized that only one of us could cry. One of us needed to find the pacifier and keep Liz calm while Mom cooked dinner. One of us needed to be strong. Good. Quiet. I stuffed down my scream and let my mother lead me back to the porch.

Thwack.

“Let’s go inside, baby.”

“No, I’m going to wait for Daddy to come back.” It made no sense; he’d packed a bag. He wasn’t coming back, certainly not right away. But I was stuck on this irrational hope that he’d simply forgotten we had plans. He’d remember, and turn around. “We’re supposed to go to a movie,” I explained to her. We’d been past the theater together and spontaneously got the tickets for the new Disney movie. For That Day at 5:00 p.m. I pulled the ticket out of my pocket. I had told a friend we were going to see it.

Thwack.

I pulled my little scraped-up knees into my chest and rested my chin between them. My eyes never left the end of our block. My mom hadn’t cried when my dad drove away, but now she let out a small sob.

She bent down to my level. “Baby, he’s not going to make the movie.”

Thwack.The ringing in my ears is louder now, and blood rushes to my face, pulsing along with the heat of the sun, as my vision shrinks.

“He will.”

“I’d go with you, but someone’s got to watch Liz.”

Thwack.

“I’m going with him!” I shouted. Maybe the louder I said it, the more power I’d have to make it true.

She sat beside me for almost half an hour, but Liz began to fuss again.

“Baby, I need to go inside to change Lizzie’s diaper. Do you want to come in with me?”

I shook my head no. It took everything in my eight-year-old body not to throw myself on the lawn, kicking and screaming.

“He’s coming back,” I insisted.

Except he didn’t. He could have loved and been loved, but he was so determined he knew what was best for everyone that he ended up completely alone.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

The ax misses the log and skids off the stump. I release it and jump back to keep it from hitting my shins. My eyes are blurry with tears and sweat. I drop the ax, my breath ragged, and sink to the ground, pulling my knees to my chest, assuming the same posture I’d taken as a little girl on That Day. It’s like the truth has only hit me now, nearly twenty years too late: He’s not coming back.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on my shoulder. Finn. It’s as if he’s materialized from thin air—I didn’t even hear him come outside. I couldn’t hear anything over the din of my memories. My ears are still ringing.

His fingers brush away a lock of hair that’s fallen loose. “It’s okay, Em. I’m here.” But the wave of anxiety doesn’t ebb. It keeps rising higher and higher. Finn pulls my face into his hands. “Emma”—his voice is calm, but firm—“we’re going to do three things, okay?”

I nod.

“What are three things you can see?”

I take a gulp of air. Finn’s face is a lifeline right now. I don’t want to look away. “Um, your eyes,” I say shakily. “A green ceramic frog.” I drag my gaze back to him. “Your eyes.”

He waits a beat for me to continue. “Okay, I’ll give you ‘your eyes’ twice since I do have two. Now three things you can hear.” His hands drop from my cheek to my shoulders.

“I can hear a dog barking, traffic, and a flag flapping.”

“Good job. And, finally, three things you can touch.”

“The ground.” I press my fingers to the rough concrete beneath me. “Wood.” My hand grazes the handle of the ax lying harmlessly beside me. I still feel deflated, but thanks to Finn, I’m more in control. I muster a watery smile and tap his nose. “Pretty.” He quirks a smile back at me, and I know he remembers that night by the pool. The night of our first kiss.

I lean toward him, and he pulls me into a hug. Resting my cheek on his shoulder, I take a deep breath in. His skin is warm and damp from the shower. He smells more like Irish Spring than lavender and woodsmoke, but beneath the smell of soap, he still smells like Finn.

“I’m so sorry, Emma,” Finn says, his arms tightening around me. “I can’t imagine how hard it is, being here with your dad after all this time. Do you want to leave? I can book us some hotel rooms.”

“No, we can stay. I feel better now.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not right now.” Right now, I just want to stay right where I am, my head tucked beneath his chin with my ear pressed to his heart. Where everything I can see and hear and touch is Finn.