4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Cora
Irene helps me get Dad into bed. He fights us like crazy, which is becoming the norm. When I think he’s settled, he gets to his feet and storms out of the room, trying to leave the house. This goes on for a full hour. I don’t have money to pay Irene the extra time, but when Dad is this bad, I can’t handle him myself. So I’ll just have to cut the grocery cost this week so I can pay her.
Finally, his body must give out, or something clicks in his brain, because when we put him down this last time, he’s snoring a minute later. My body is on edge, my brain mush already. This is the last thing I needed after doing a double at the diner. But it’s quickly becoming my routine.
“Have you thought any more about what I said?” Irene asks as we make our way into the kitchen.
I’m so grateful for her. Truly I am. I don’t know where I’d be without her. I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning against the wall and running a hand down my face. Fighting the tears gets harder to do each day.
She’s a beautiful woman, with dark skin and bright eyes. She’s somewhere in her forties. Tall for a woman, too. Maybe about 5’10. She says it helps keep her tough patients in line. I believe her.
“Every damn hour of every damn day,” I say, shaking my head.
“What’s stopping you?” she asks carefully but gives me a stern look.
“Guilt,” I admit, opening my eyes. “My father has been there for me my entire life, and let me tell you, I wasn’t an easy child. I can’t give up on him.”
Irene walks to me, putting her hand on my shoulders.
“It’s not about giving up, honey, it’s about what’s safe and healthy. This isn’t either of those things for you or for him.”
I nod, but then shrug. “I just can’t do it yet.” My voice comes out raspy.
She gives me a sad smile. “I understand. You have a good night, okay?”
“You too,” I say, offering a smile. “Thank you for your help.”
She grabs her purse from the dining table that is full of bills and empty grocery bags and who knows what else.
“Oh, and don’t worry about the extra time. I stayed to help, not for the money.”
“I can’t not pay you, Irene. That was…” A lot. Terrifying. Mortifying. God, when I think of what that man must have thought. The handsome biker from the diner who asked for my number, didn’t get it, gave me a ride home, took care of my car, still didn’t get my number, didn’t get a thank you, and then he sees this nonsense when he drops me off? Bet he’s counting his lucky stars for dodging this bullet.
“I don’t want your money,” Irene says firmly. Then she leaves.
I slide down the wall, shrinking in on myself.
How did my life turn into this?
I sleep terribly, but when I wake up, I’m surprised to find my father in the kitchen… cooking! Hurrying toward him, I grab his arm.
“Dad, what are you doing? You’re not supposed to use the stove!”
He looks down at me, raising a brow. Giving me the excuse me? look. I stop dead in my tracks. I haven’t seen that look in a long time. Years. Not since before he was diagnosed.
“Now why in the world would I not use the stove?” he says with a chuckle, going back to doing whatever he was doing.
He’s having a good day.
The smile that splits my face hurts, and I hug him tightly from behind. I nuzzle my face against his back.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” he asks.
“Just missed you,” I say .
“All you did was sleep,” he comments.
That has my chest tight and tears pooling in the corners of my eyes.
What year does he think it is?
I don’t want to ask. Asking will ruin this. I’ll take this from him for as long as I can. It’s rare for him to have lucid days. They hardly come at all. I remember when it was the crazy days that were far and few between. Now his lucid days are enough to be considered rare. With another squeeze, I go to the table and clear spots for us to sit and eat.
When the food is done, he makes us each a plate and we eat in silence. I keep sneaking glances at him, so happy to see that gleam in his eye. Every time I look at him lately, there’s nothing there. It’s like looking into the eyes of someone I don’t know. Someone without a soul.
Breakfast is calm—and so perfect. I can’t remember the last time I had a meal with my father like this. Usually it’s me force-feeding him because his doctor told me if he lost more weight from not eating, he was getting a tube in his stomach to feed him through. Something I didn’t even want to think about. So, forcing him to eat is what I do instead. Probably not the nicest thing, but is putting an unhealthy sixty-seven-year-old man through surgery any better? Not likely. I don’t care how routine or simple it is. There are risks with everything. And the way he freaks out some days? Who’s to say he won’t pull the damn tube out thinking it’s an alien worm or something ?
When I was a little girl, I never expected my father’s age difference from other fathers to be an issue. But while my friends are enjoying their parents, having fun; their relationships turning from parent/child to more friendly, I’m taking my father to appointments, dealing with him calling me an alien, making sure he doesn’t escape in the middle of the night and set the house on fire before he does. It’s not the life I thought I’d have, but here we are.
When our plates are empty, Dad gets up with a smile.
“Go on and get ready for school, sweetie. I’ll drop you off.”
My smile falls as my father turns his back to go to the sink. Everything in my body gets cold. I can’t breathe.
I knew this wouldn’t last, but damn, I thought I’d get more than a quick breakfast.
He thinks I’m in high school. So, what? He thinks this is ten years ago? Fifteen? Thirty? Does he know how old I am? How old he is? Does he even know where we are?
I get up, swallowing hard. “There’s no school today, Dad,” I say, guilt and shame working their way up my throat.
He looks at me over his shoulder, frowning. “No? How come?”
“It’s Saturday. Did you forget?” I try as hard as I can to make it a joke, but it comes out strained. So does my smile.
His frown deepens, but then he smiles and shakes his head. “Yeah, must have forgotten.” He chuckles to himself and continues washing the dishes .
Though he’s older than all my friends’ parents, Calvin Davies has always been a handsome man. A magnetic personality. Full of life and energy. Until one day… he just wasn’t. Sure, he still has his great looks. The man has been mistaken for Tom Sellek multiple times in his life. Of course, not so much now that his skin is pale, his face is gaunt, and you see some of his ribs. He’s not dangerously underweight, but you can tell he should be eating more. A few more pounds lost and we’re in the danger-zone.
Maybe Irene is right. Maybe he doesn’t belong here. Maybe he should be in a home.
But… then I’ll never have another day like this. Those rare, lucid days will be non-existent. I can’t risk that.
When the dishes are done, I’m still standing in place, staring at my father like a creep.
I have no idea how we got here. One day, everything was great, it was perfect. We were laughing and watching movies together. He’d go to work, I’d go to work, we’d make dinner together. At least once a week we’d find a new recipe to try, and we always mucked it up. We’d go for walks around the pond, sometimes go fishing, though we never caught anything. And now… now we’re here. A chaotic, crazy mess.
I have the sudden urge to cry, and he must sense it because he hurries over and hugs me. He did always have a sixth sense when it came to me…
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” he asks in that gentle tone of his I haven’t heard in years. Years! It makes me cry harder. He runs his hand over my head, softly shushing me, gently rocking us. Every little thing he does to make me feel better only makes me sadder.
What if this is the last time I get this from him?
Maybe it’s smart to stop thinking tomorrow will be better and realize how bad things are now. Tomorrow won’t be better. In fact, it’s probably going to be worse.
I get ten hours a day of care for my father . Ten hours . It may seem like a lot; it’s almost half the day. But trust me, those ten hours go by super-fast when I work eight-hour shifts. Those ten hours give me enough time to get ready and get to and from work. One good thing about the diner is that it’s only open until eight at night. It’s nice getting home at a decent hour.
Days like today, when I’m not working and doing things for myself—though I’m not sure I can consider figuring out my car something for myself—the guilt is overwhelming.
The car can wait. Grocery shopping can wait. Laundry can wait—because I still haven’t gotten around to looking at the damn washer and why it leaks everywhere, so I’m stuck going back and forth to the laundromat to get laundry done. Everything can wait because I should be with Dad. I should be the one taking care of him, not paid nurses, because he always took care of me .
He didn’t want to be a father. Never wanted kids at all. So, imagine his surprise when he found out he was having a child at forty-one. Now double that shock, hell, triple it, because my mom passed away during childbirth, making him a single dad. He never hid his thoughts about it from me. Yet, at the same time, he never made me feel like I wasn’t wanted.
No, he didn’t want me at first, but once he had me, he never let me go and never wanted to be without me. That’s the most important thing I remember about that story. It’s what he made sure I knew.
He never let me go. Never. No matter how hard it got, he didn’t give up on me. There was no one to help him or give him a break, and if there was, I doubt they’d have handled me for long because I was a terror with a capital T. I think back on the crazy things I did and wonder if I was possessed or something.
I was brought home in a cop car more than once. Got into fights often. Skipped school. Shoplifted. I don’t even know why I did any of it. I guess I was just trying to have some fun? Fit in? Do what everyone else was doing? Moving out of the city was the best thing that ever happened to me. Not sure where I would be if we had stayed. My dad did right by me every step of the way.
Guess him being like this now is karma. Not that either of us could help it. I couldn’t help the way I was as a kid any more than he can help the way he is now. It’s just life.
But that doesn’t stop the guilt from eating me alive when I’m trying to do something for me. Like right now, I’m walking into Pig’s to figure out what’s going on with my car. Do I need a car? No. I could call a taxi, take the bus, get a ride from someone at the diner, but I want my car. In the end, that’s cheapest and gives me the most freedom.
I called this place about five times, but the phone just kept ringing. Figured I either had the wrong number or they were busy. I shouldn’t spend money on buses or taxis if I have to pay to fix my car—and I need to fix it. I need my car to get to and from work. I’m already on thin ice with Norman over being late. Not having a car will make that worse because arrival is out of my hands. And, also, it’s a pride thing. I should be able to take care of myself. I’m twenty-five years old, not ten.
The moment I pull the door open, oil, rubber, and something pungent—sweat, maybe—causes my eyes to water.
The lobby, if you can call it that, is small. There are a few stained chairs off to the side that have seen better days. A counter is against the far wall with a glass door behind it that leads to the garage. The walls are black, spray painted with silver to make it look like it’s made of bricks. Framed artwork of cars and abstract paintings on canvases hang on the walls.
I go to the counter, looking around as if someone could be hiding. Where? I don’t know. But the place seems like a ghost town. If it weren’t for the banging and shouting coming from the back, I’d think they were closed.
Wait—maybe they are closed. I pull my phone from my pocket to check the time just as the glass door swings open .
“Afternoon, pretty lady. What can I do you for?” The man who walks in has sandy hair that’s pulled back in a ponytail with a thick beard to match and kind dark eyes.
“Uh, hi,” I say. “My car was brought here yesterday. It’s a—”
“Corolla?”
“Yes,” I answer slowly.
He chuckles. “Haven’t seen a car that old in here in a long time.”
I huff out a laugh, but don’t find it funny. It’s all I can afford. Besides, why buy a new car when the one I have works perfectly fine? Or did, anyway. Guess I can’t say that now.
“Is it a lost cause?” I cringe just thinking about it.
“Hell no,” he says, slapping his hand on the tabletop. “You bring a car to Pig’s, we fix it. That’s how it works.”
“Wait, so you fixed it? But I didn’t know what was wrong with it. How much is it going to cost? What if I can’t—”
“Whoa, calm down. Take a breath,” he says seriously. “Car’s taken care of.”
“Yes, but how much is it going to cost?” I ask, my heart pounding harder. “I-I’m on a tight budget, and I just…”
I knew I would have to pay to fix the car, but I may not be able to do that right now . As in today, when it’s due. Depending how much it is, I may have to wait a week or two. Make payments or something.
“Miss,” he says firmly, leaning forward. “Your car is taken care of it.”
“Yes, it’s fixed, and I appreciate your speedy—”
“Miss, the car is all set.” This time his words are slow and almost questioning, as if he’s wondering if I understand what he’s telling me.
I pause a moment, taking in what he said.
“All set?” I question.
“As in, it’s paid for,” he says almost condescendingly.
But I ignore that, because what the hell? It’s paid for?
“What? How?”
He grins at me. “Shark took care of it. Wait, was he not supposed to?” He narrows his eyes.
“Who is Shark?” I ask.
The man holds my gaze, then starts laughing. “You’re fucking with me, right?” When I don’t answer him or join in his laughing, he stops and clears his throat.
“Okay, not fucking with me. Look, Shark’s a friend of mine. I owe him like a million favors. This is just one. He called me to tow the car and fix it, so I tow the car and fix it. That’s all I know. So, if you want the car, I got the keys.”
He holds my gaze, blinking almost comically.
“It’s paid for?” I ask again, this time more slowly because I don’t understand what’s going on.
Who the hell is Shark, and why did he pay to fix my car?
The mechanic narrows his eyes, staring at me for a moment before shoving away from the counter. He goes to a lock box by the glass door, opens it, and pulls out a key. He hands it to me as if I may bite him and says, “ El carro está pagado .”
I take the key, he puts his hands in prayer form, bows, then turns and heads back into the garage.
The car is paid for…
My car is paid for? It’s fixed, and I don’t owe any money for it.
It hits me then—who Shark is. My brain finally chills out enough to put the pieces together.
Why would he do that? Never mind the fact I just learned his name, and it’s Shark . Do I want to know why that’s his name? Probably not. I’ve heard some of these bikers’ names and how they got them. They aren’t nice.
But he paid for my car, and that’s very nice. Too nice. What am I supposed to do about that?
Not wanting to talk to that mechanic again since I made a complete fool of myself, I reach over the counter to grab the notepad and a pen.
I jot down my number and add, Please give this to Shark. Thanks, Corolla Lady.
He’s likely changed his mind about wanting my number after the stuff with my dad, but I guess we’ll find out about that soon enough.