Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
CELESTE
Istare in disbelief at the face I’ve known for most of my life. My mouth is gaping, that much I know, as I try my best to process the words that just left Marie’s lips.
“I’m leaving.”
“No, absolutely not.” My face is twisted, and I’m suddenly parched.
I cannot do this on my own.
She tilts her head with an empathetic smile. “You will be fine. Besides, I need this, CC. I need a break, maybe some time to find something in life just for me?”
God, I’m a horrendous human being. This woman has loved and cared for a family who is not her own for decades, to the detriment of her own wellbeing in some phases of our family life. Now, she wants to find a little piece of solace for herself and all I can do is think about how this affects me.
Lord.
This is why I’m single.
This is why my life is so dysfunctional. The heart of an artist, the maturity of a child.
How on earth am I supposed to be my father’s sole caretaker and fix up this falling-down house? Not to mention earn some semblance of a living to keep us afloat.
“Marie, please. Please stay a little longer, I don’t think I can do this on my own. It’s been ages, and he’s much worse than last time I came home.”
She folds me into a hug. “If I don’t leave now, I never will.”
She’s right.
There’s never a good time to break the ties to the ones you love. Never.
“I guess,” I say, following with a long sigh.
“Anyway, you and this old house have unfinished business, missy.”
Um, okay . . . now I’m confused.
But she continues, “Well, actually, I should say you and your mom’s old studio have unfinished business.”
“Ah, that. I’m no Leticia Black, I’m afraid. My art is never going to support me. The universe has decided it’s better as just a hobby.”
She tilts her chin down with an incredulous look.
“Not with that attitude, you’re not. You think your mother gave up when things were hard?
She fought for her art, and the whole town got behind her.
Think about the opportunity you have here.
You now have time, space, and people to back you.
Coming home was a good move for you, hon. ”
I sit, stunned, lost in my head now reeling with possibilities, responsibilities, and this grand old house. All of which are now mine to do with what I can. It’s a heady feeling that comes with a weight I’m not used to bearing.
But one glance into the corridor at the beaming smile on my mother’s face as she holds one of her artworks in her grip, her overalls splattered with paint, has me willing to take the chance on myself. One last time.
Maybe I can do this?
A new start, with a fresh plan.
Hell, what do I have to lose?
Absolutely nothing.
Marie reappears midway into my deep musing, startling me with a vigorous handclap. “Right, so now that’s settled, I want to give you the rundown on a few things to help you start off on the right foot.”
She pulls a bulging folder from the top of the fridge and slaps it onto the counter.
One word adorns the spine. Hank.
She has a file on my father?
“This is all Dad’s stuff?” I ask. She spins it around to me and pushes it closer.
“Yes, mostly. Routines for each day of the week, to accommodate his hobbies and appointments. The meals I make that have been set by the naturopath and dietitian. His medication schedule. And the collection of recipes for the foods on the menu and a few he just loves that I didn’t have the heart to deprive him of, despite what the doctors say. ”
I flip the front cover open and find a neatly set out contents page. This woman has this nailed.
“And you do all this, every single day?” I ask, utterly impressed but, at the same time, terrified.
“I don’t cook every single meal every day, just the assigned ones to make sure he gets all the nutrition to support his health.”
Good Lord, I’m screwed.
First, I’m the world’s worst cook, and second . . . I’m overwhelmed caring for myself, let alone all of . . . this.
“Marie, I can’t do this. I mean, I really can’t.”
I’m practically begging her to stay at this point. If she leaves, the fate of my father is basically left to chance. Me and routines are not well suited. I couldn’t even hold down a part-time gig, let alone something so time-consuming and never-ending.
With a sigh, she sits beside me on a counter stool. “Honey, I know this is out of your comfort zone. But that’s kind of the point.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your brother and sister . . . they think this is what you need. Direction, structure, and focus. Meaning something apart from your own life for a change.”
Those sniveling, dirty snitches.
I cannot believe they went behind my back to Marie about this. I know I was struggling, but aren’t all artists?
It is literally the status quo.
“You have so much potential, CC. But we all feel the structure will help you. And I really do need a break.”
I slump on the stool like she plucked the wind from my sails. And deep down, I know she is right. My siblings—who will die slow and painful deaths for this utter betrayal—I hate to admit, are not entirely wrong.
I was floundering. Nothing kept my attention. Whether it was work, guys, or whatever latest project I was trying to pump out.
Nothing.
“Think of it this way. You now have a real chance to take a break from the chaos and focus on you and your father. Find your inner peace before you find out what you really want to do with your life.” Marie dots a kiss to my forehead, like she used to when I was little, and rises from the stool.
“I’m going to head out early today and get some errands of my own done. Look through the binder. The schedule is laminated and clipped to the front cover. Start with that so you know what’s up for his next meal and round of meds, okay?”
“Sure,” I say, but the word is soft. Almost lost.
Marie disappears as I thumb through the pages, leaving me to process the world’s most subtle family intervention. And like most other interventions, I don’t get a choice. Because if I don’t comply, my father will be left alone. Or with some stranger who doesn’t understand or even care.
That thought alone steels my determination.
I huff a sarcastic laugh. That didn’t take long. And I know I’ve been played. They knew I could never say no. I’ve always been daddy’s little girl.
Setting back my shoulders, I turn to page one and start learning every nuanced detail about my father’s life.
“Shit! Shit. Shit. Shit!”
The handle of the pot of boiling water slips through my hands and hits the floor. I manage to mount a stool before the steaming liquid reaches my bare feet.
Fucking hell.
Only when I hear a faint holler from the sunroom do I clamber off the stool and edge my away around the steaming liquid studded with the potatoes I was supposed to be cooking. They now currently look like slimy, muted mounds splattered around the black-and-white tiled floor.
“Dammit, why can’t we order in like civilized people . . .”
I pad down the hallway as the hollering continues.
“Coming, Daddy,” I holler back, hoping he’s right where I left him before I set out on the world’s most difficult cooking accomplishment—mashed potatoes.
He’s not.
Hovering by the window and peeling off his underwear, he points to something outside as I pick up the pace, grabbing a throw rug from the sofa en route. “What are you doing, Daddy?”
He spins back, now stark naked, his face lit up with excitement. His finger presses to his lips. “Shhh. Tish and I are going skinny-dipping in the lake out back. Don’t wake up her folks, girlie.”
Ah, he’s twenty-three again.
If only.
“It’s too cold outside to go skinny-dipping. And the lake is on the other side of town, remember?”
“No—no, I just saw her outside.” His brows drop, confusion washing over his face the way goosebumps have his skin. “You . . . why did you call me Daddy?”
Ah, fuck.
I was given the rundown before Marie left this afternoon. I was explicitly instructed to remain neutral when he’s having a bad moment. Nothing to suggest time or place. Stick to generic responses and redirect to something he can do like read, watch the game, or go for a walk.
Fuck.
The thoroughly confused look on his face is like a vice grip around my heart. Why on earth did my family think this was a good idea? I’m not good at this. Not in the slightest.
“Sorry, Hank. Let’s pop your clothes back on, okay?”
“Yes, yes,” he murmurs, wandering around the room, taking it in as if for the first time.
I pick up the underwear and hand it to him. He simply stares at it in his hand.
It’s not the first time I’ve had to help my father with something this personal, but it still makes me feel a little uncomfortable.
And then a whole lot guilty. The man wiped my butt and changed my diapers.
Mopped up my vomit and dried my tears. The least I can do is care for him now, when he needs me.
So I squat and hold out the underwear. He steps into it in an automated motion, one leg after the other. The pants go next and then I slide his shirt back on, buttoning it up. When his vest and coat are snug around his shoulders, I give him a smile. “There you are, all warm.”
He tilts his head. “Thank you, love.”
But I can tell by the way his eyes are mostly vacant that he doesn’t recognize me today.
That’s okay, I know who we are enough for the both of us.
“How about some soup for lunch?” I ask, knowing Marie’s everlasting stock of her famous pea-and-ham soup will be sitting in single-serve portions in the freezer.
He brightens. “The little breadsticks, too?”
He remembers that.
I chuckle and say, “Sure. Breadsticks, too.”
He nods, sitting in his reading chair. He plucks up Mark Twain. “I’ve been meaning to read this one for months, you know. Hope it’s as good as everyone says.” He opens to the first page and leans back in the chair, swiping his reading glasses from the side table as he settles in.
Me too, Daddy, me too.
I pad back to the kitchen and tug the freezer open. Sure enough, single serves of the world’s greatest comfort soup sit stacked in the top of the frosty space. I pull two out and reheat them in separate bowls before hunting for a box of breadsticks.
My head is inside the deep pantry cupboard as the doorbell rings.
“Who on earth . . .”
I head for the front door. I can hear my father’s voice before I even open it.
“Get your hands off me, lad!”
Shit.
I swing the door open to find my naked father, wrapped in a throw blanket that I’m pretty sure isn’t ours, being held by a tall guy around my age with light brown hair.
His deep blues are drawn with concern, his grip unwavering on my dad’s arm as he tugs the cap from his head.
“Sorry, Hank was wandering through my backyard. Thought you’d want him back. Quinton. I live next door.”
My father rips his arm from Quinton’s hold and stalks inside. His gait is a little wobbly as he shivers under the blanket.
“Um, thank you.”
“Yeah. I’ll tell you what I told the last caretaker. Lock your doors and hide the key.”
My mouth gapes.
What an ass.
Luckily, the man who raised me has already drifted down the hall when I say, “Fuck you.”
I slam the door in Quinton’s face.
And to think Marie thought he was nice. Urgh, what a heartless, self-centered—
Something crashes inside the house as an explosion booms from the kitchen. I take off running toward the sounds, only to find the blanket discarded further down the hall.
Good Lord, what now?