Chapter Fifteen
Taylor
I open my father’s oven, and a wave of heat rolls out with the scents of garlic, tomatoes, and baked cheese.
The familiar aroma of my father’s favorite meal, which I’ve made dozens of times, should be comforting, but it isn’t.
It just reminds me of how good it felt when I had comfort and how empty I feel without it.
Becca sidles up to me looking like she stepped out of an old fashion magazine with her hair twisted up in a beehive, wearing a sixties-style navy shift with a white collar, white cuffs, and matching Mary Jane high heels. She touches my arm and whispers, “You okay?”
It’s a simple question, but there’s no easy answer.
The last six days I’ve been running on fumes and uncomfortable, guilt-ridden thoughts, served on a platter of sadness.
I can’t shake the awfulness of knowing that after spending a lifetime trying not to be like my mother, I ended up hurting someone I care about just as badly as she did.
Seth and I have kept things professional because we have to.
My emails receive short, polite replies with no teasing, no warmth, only distance.
He’s in Australia trying to find new warehouse space.
Based on the brief emails I’ve received, the first half of his trip went well.
Before I ruined things, that kind of update would have come with a joke or a photo.
Now it was just the facts. Every time my phone buzzes, I hope it’s something more from him, but it never is.
He hasn’t texted my work number once since I left the island.
He’s probably trying to figure out how to fire me without his administrative work falling apart.
I want to tell Becca all of that, to confess again, as I did Thursday evening when I landed on her living room couch, a blubbering mess, that I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me, just to hear her hand me a shred of hope.
But Dad is in the next room, and the television just turned off, so I keep it to myself and say, “Yeah. I’m fine. ”
“You don’t have to be,” she whispers. “Seth’s probably hurting, too, you know.”
“I know,” I whisper. “That’s what makes it worse.”
She gives my arm a squeeze, then steps past me to put the hot pad on the dining room table. I pull the lasagna out of the oven and head into the dining room.
“Get off the couch, damn brat,” my father grumbles from the living room.
I look over as I put the lasagna on the table and see my father having a stare down with Barney, the fluffy caramel and cream Australian shepherd mix I’ve been falling in love with lately from the shelter.
I’m caring for him tonight. Or rather, he’s caring for me.
I need a little unconditional love, even if I don’t deserve it.
I think my father does, too. Barney has been sticking by his side since I got here, and my father has been vacillating between grumbling at him and petting him.
The poor thing probably has no idea what he really wants, but that’s my father’s way.
God forbid he admits he likes anything he feels has been thrust upon him.
“I said off,” my father snaps, nudging Barney.
With another nudge, Barney jumps off the couch and stares at him, his tail wagging.
My father curses under his breath as he peels himself off the couch.
He wore himself out on his road trip with his friend.
Every movement costs him twice as much as it should in energy and pain—not that he’ll admit that, either.
He shuffles slowly toward the dining room, the drag of his left foot an indication of how badly he’s worn himself out. Barney trots beside him.
“Get outta my way,” my father gripes. “Damn thing is shedding all over.”
“I’ll brush him right after dinner,” I say, pulling out my father’s chair. “Here, Dad. Sit down and relax.”
“I can pull out my own chair.” He stalks unsteadily to the other side of the table, determined to make a point, and pulls out a chair. “Smells like a restaurant in here.”
“Thanks,” I say proudly.
“Hope you didn’t burn it,” he adds with a bit of a smirk.
Becca rolls her eyes and says, “You’re welcome.”
He grumbles something that might be thanks and lowers himself into the chair. I know his body hurts, and he’s so exhausted, he probably feels like it’s too heavy to hold up, but he still manages to sit up straight with the same stubborn dignity he’s exuded my entire life.
Barney stands beside his chair, tail wagging.
“Get outta here,” my father barks, and glowers at Barney.
“You know you like your new friend,” Becca teases. “I saw you petting him on the couch.”
“You didn’t see anything,” he insists. “Can’t eat with that brat looking at me.”
“Come here, Barney. Let’s get your dinner.” I coax him away from my father and head into the kitchen to fill Barney’s bowl.
Becca breezes past me and says, “I’ll get the garlic bread.”
“And the wine,” I say as I refill Barney’s water bowl.
“On it.” Becca holds up a bottle of wine in one hand and the basket of garlic bread in the other.
After feeding Barney, I head back into the dining room. “How hungry are you, Dad?” I reach for the spatula.
“I can do it myself,” he snaps, swatting my hand away.
I hold my hands up in surrender, exchanging a frustrated glance with Becca, and we sit down.
My father braces one hand on the table and pushes to his feet, as if he can channel any numbness from his other hand into the furniture to prove he can serve himself.
Maybe he can. I don’t know how bad the numbness has gotten with this flare-up because he won’t freaking admit that he’s having one.
His hand shakes, but he manages, and then Becca and I serve ourselves. As I put my napkin in my lap, I say, “Dad, I wish you hadn’t gone on that trip.”
“I’m fine,” he says, gripping his fork tightly.
“It’s a good thing it’s your shot night,” I say gently.
He takes his monthly shot at night, and though he usually takes ibuprofen and sleeps well that night, it can take a day for him to recover from the flu-like symptoms it causes.
I hate the idea of adding to his misery, but at the same time, it will force him to slow down. “You need the rest.”
His dark eyes meet mine, stern, unwavering. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying that you need—”
“You’re always just saying. I take the damn shot every month, don’t I?”
“Only because I’m here to make sure of it,” I say as Barney saunters back in, heading straight for my father.
“Shoo, brat,” he says, nudging him half-heartedly. Barney stays right there, his tail wagging faster.
“He knows you’re bluffing,” Becca says.
My father glowers at Barney. “Pain in the ass.” He pets Barney’s head. “Now go away.”
Barney sits. Becca and I stifle laughs.
As we settle into dinner, my father moves slowly, his shoulders rounded forward, fatigue etched in every movement.
“So, Dad,” I say, “how was your trip? How’s Steve?”
“Fine.”
“Fine as in good, or fine as in you landed in jail and had your other buddy bail you out?” I ask teasingly.
“If it’s the latter, then thank you, buddy,” Becca chimes in.
Dad chuckles, then looks at me and says, “The ride was long, gas prices were too frigging high, and Steve snores. But the band was good, and so was the beer.”
Becca holds up her wineglass. “Sounds like the highlight of your year.”
“I’m glad you had fun,” I say as he sneaks a piece of bread to Barney under the table. “Dad, did you just feed him?”
“No,” he insists, and takes a bite of garlic bread, avoiding my gaze.
“It’s a good thing we never had a pet.” Becca takes another drink and puts down her glass. “The poor thing wouldn’t know which way was up.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Dad ruled us with an iron fist.”
Becca looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “He did not.”
“He did, too. Every night, Did you do your homework? Go clean your room. And anything I wanted to do got a no. You’re not going to a girl-boy party at fourteen,” I remind her. “If I had a dollar for every time he yanked the reins, I’d be rich.”
“That was just Dad being Dad,” Becca says. “The mistake was yours for listening and not arguing until you got your way.”
I sigh, knowing she’s right, which is why I argue with him now.
I learned. It just took me longer than it took her.
“Punished for being the good one. Par for the course.” A small laugh escapes, the first in days, and it loosens a knot in my chest. But as we eat without talking, the thoughts I’ve been trying to shut down about being like my mother creep in.
I glance at my father. I can tell he’s trying to hide the shakiness of his hand, and the weariness in his body as he slips another piece of something to Barney. I hear my father’s voice in my head telling me he’s fine, and for some cruel reason, it’s magnified by Seth’s silence.
The two most important men in my life have become impossible to reach. I can’t help but wonder if it’s my fault because I’m like her.
“Dad,” I say carefully. “When Mom was my age, what was she like? Was she happy?”
He looks up, squinting in annoyance. “What kind of question is that?”
“We’ve never really talked about her leaving, and I’m just wondering if she changed.” I try to keep my tone light, as if the question came to me out of the blue rather than haunting me forever.
He looks down at his plate with a huff. “Your mother always knew what she wanted.”
“Which was what?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond.
My heart hurts for him, because I know it’s a sore subject, but it’s not easy for any of us, and I need answers. “Were there signs that she was unhappy or going to leave?”
“Taylor,” Becca warns with a shake of her head.
“I just want to understand who she was and see if there were indicators we missed, or at least that I missed.”
“Then ask your mother,” my father grumbles.
“I should be able to ask you,” I say. “You lived through it with us. I want to know if you saw what we—or at least what I—didn’t.”
He stews in silence, his eyes locked on his plate.