Take Me Home

Chapter Twenty-Five

Hazel checked that she had everything before she pulled the motel room door closed. She’d jolted awake just before five a.m. with the crystal-clear realization that a text had not been enough. She was only about thirty percent on board with her new plan to drive back to Lockett Prairie but didn’t have time to second-guess it. Her father’s wedding was at noon. She didn’t know what would happen when she turned up for it, if anything could possibly be fixed, but missing it felt like the exact worst thing.

From around the corner, down another block of rooms, a stringent male voice pleaded, “Sir, you must stop, or I will have to call security.”

There was a quick, harsh knock, a door opening.

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry for this. Sir. Sir, please,” the man said.

Then footsteps, one pair long and purposeful, the other scuffing and quick, came down the cement walk toward Hazel’s side of the building.

“You are waking all the guests.”

“If you’d give me her room number—” a familiar voice bit back.

Hazel was groggy, but there was no mistaking that voice. Her heart lurched. He was here.

“Hazel?” he called, knocking on another door.

“That’s it. I’m calling security.”

Hazel flew around the corner. “Dad?”

A young motel employee with dark eye circles and days-old scruff was pacing a few feet away, tapping into his phone and offering a weak, apologetic smile down the length of the building at the confused guests poking their heads out of their rooms.

“Don’t call security,” Hazel said. “He’ll stop now.”

The man eyed her father, uncertain.

“What are you—” She was cut short by arms pulling her in, her face crushed to her father’s blue windbreaker. The embroidered Channel 2 emblem pressed against her cheek. He held her so tightly her lungs ached.

“Hazel,” he murmured into her hair. “Thank God.”

She turned her face to catch her breath. The motel employee sobered at the sight of their embrace and backed away.

When her father finally let her go, her teeth chattered, giving her an excuse to go back into her room, rummage around in her bag for a sweater, turn on a lamp without having to make eye contact again just yet. He stood inside the closed door, jiggling his keys in his jacket pocket.

“Did you drive all night?”

Stupid question. She’d texted him after midnight. He’d had just enough time to look up lodging in Garrettsville, drive here, negotiate with the motel attendant for her room number, give up, and knock on a half dozen doors, which she guessed was exactly what he’d done.

He rubbed his face, the adrenaline that had been there moments ago fading right before her eyes. He was exhausted. He looked around the room before finding the chair and dropping heavily into it. “Got a speeding ticket two miles from home,” he admitted with a sheepish smile.

She wanted to tell him she’d been on her way back, but he looked so haggard, she was a little afraid to speak. She perched on the corner of the nightstand, realized that was horribly uncomfortable and awkward, and moved to the bed. “I didn’t mean to make you drive all this way.”

He frowned, and the thick silence that followed made her squirm. “You didn’t think I would?”

“I sent the text so you wouldn’t worry.”

He dropped his face into his hands, shaking his head slowly back and forth, and she wasn’t sure if he was about to laugh or cry, both unnerving options. “Of course—” he said sharply. He drew in a long breath, controlled his voice. “Of course I was worried. Ever since you left the party. We went home as soon as we realized you’d taken off, and all your stuff was gone. No note. You didn’t answer any of my calls. By the time I tracked down your friend’s number, you’d left there, too.”

Ash. Her insides twisted. That he’d had to explain her absence, or cover for her, or just deal with her baggage, yet again…

“First word I hear from you, you’re five hours away in the middle of nowhere. Worried is a goddamned understatement, kiddo.”

Hazel swallowed loudly. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see there’s a lot you don’t realize. That’s my fault.” He wiped his palms down his thighs and patted his knees absently. Her father could stand completely still on camera and look natural, had trained away his nervous tics for his job, but he was miles away from his TV personality now, fidgeting in joggers and mud-caked tennis shoes, hair uncombed. He looked ten years older.

“I don’t know how to…” He shook his head, set his jaw, and looked her in the eye. “I should have been calling you more. I should have come to those parents’ weekends.”

Hazel picked at the seam of the comforter under her.

“I don’t want to excuse anything. I should have pushed my way in. You just never seemed to—”

He looked up to the ceiling, tried again. “When you were little, your mom was the one who knew what you liked to eat, your favorite books, which stuffed animal you needed to sleep. When she left, I didn’t know the simplest things about taking care of you. I was a wreck, Hazel. But not you. You handled it all so well. That counselor at your school told me you were adjusting great, better than expected. I couldn’t even cook a decent meal. What I wanted seemed…”

Emotion surged in her chest. “What did you want?”

He lifted a shoulder, a painfully helpless gesture. “I had a lot to process that first year. I wish I’d handled it better. By the time I started to come out of that place, I realized things were different between you and me—distant. I didn’t know how to get back in. I didn’t want to disrupt your life more than I already had—my job, my failure with your mom.”

That wording, my failure with your mom, didn’t sit right. Her mother had made plenty of mistakes, too.

But it was another part of his speech that she latched on to. He didn’t know how to get into what? Her life? She was right there, through a single, unlocked door in his own home. He was the one who hadn’t come in.

“I thought I’d have more time to figure it out. It was years, I know. But they passed so quickly. Then, when you went to college, it really was too late. You were all the way across the state, this totally independent person. Not like you needed me for much by then. I didn’t blame you for never wanting to come back. And now…” He scratched his neck, his face full of regret.

Hazel studied the muted, gray wallpaper behind him, sinuses burning, hands clenching the comforter so tightly her knuckles hurt.

“Go ahead,” he said.

She shook her head, barely unclenched her teeth to say, “Go ahead and what?”

He gave her a sad smile. “I can take it, kiddo.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yep.”

“Okay.” She pushed up and paced across the dingy, threadbare carpet. “Okay, fine. You should have tried sooner, or harder. I couldn’t change that Mom was gone. I accepted it. But you were there. Only, really, you weren’t.” Her heartbeat galloped in her ears. Her hands shook, palms sticky with sweat. Getting the words out made her feel sick. “So, I went to college, and you figured that was it, huh? Then they came along, and you got a do-over? I’m not really sure why you asked me to come home. Aren’t I just a reminder of everything you did wrong? Don’t I ruin the perfect picture of your life now?”

She whirled around to face him, tears spilling hot down her cheeks. She drew in a big breath to keep going, but the sight of him stopped her. He was looking right at her, not hiding from her criticism or fidgeting in discomfort, just taking it, even though his eyes were red and glassy and full of raw anguish. His lips trembled, and he pressed them closed. She had never seen him look so fragile.

“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly, not bothering to wipe his eyes. He opened his palms on his knees. “You don’t ruin anything. I messed up. I’m so damn sorry, honey.”

Hazel sank back down onto the edge of the bed. She wiped her sweater sleeve across her face and blew out a shaky breath. She felt heavy and tired and, despite everything he’d said, confused. “Why was it so hard to love me?”

“No,” he croaked. “Look at me. That was never the case.”

“Then, what?”

Her father pulled two tissues from the box on the nightstand and finally blotted his face with one, passing her the other. “It wasn’t your fault. When your mom left, I was ashamed. I couldn’t give her what she needed. I failed with her. And worse, my failure didn’t only devastate me. It was my fault you lost her, too. I knew by the time I came around and tried to fix my mistakes, you might have some resentments. I understood why you were harder to reach. My therapist insisted it was just preteen moodiness and I should keep trying, but I didn’t want to upset you just to get what I needed.”

Hazel frowned. “I was moody?”

“Now I know a little better what’s normal.” He didn’t mention Lucy, but Hazel read the omission. “I should have encouraged you to decorate your room. Didn’t realize how important a bedroom is to a girl that age. You spent every minute in there. I thought—”

“I didn’t want to be with you?”

He sat beside her on the bed. “It must sound crazy that I could not know so much. I was so afraid I’d only be bad for you, just like I was for your mom.”

Hazel frowned. That wasn’t fair. For all that Hazel thought she understood her mother and had accepted her choices, she’d still left. And not just a husband who worked too much and a stifling life in a small town. She’d left her daughter. It wasn’t right that Hazel’s father blamed himself for that choice, nor that his shame had apparently made him doubt how much she’d needed him.

“And there you were,” he went on, “my beautiful, smart, compassionate, perfect daughter, behind a door with your music and your books, and I didn’t know what you needed. Wasn’t sure I had it, whatever it was. Which is my shortfall, not yours.”

“Dad.” She didn’t know what else to say. He was right that she’d spent hours in her room, whether he was home or not. He’d taken ages to unpack at the new house, to make it feel anything like a home. Though it was plenty large for two, unopened boxes encroached in all the shared living spaces. Those boxes and his silence when he was around made every room feel too tight, like she was taking up too much air. She couldn’t remember if, after that initial hard year, she’d ever ventured out to find him, to watch TV or talk, or if she’d expected him to be the one to knock on her door from the very start.

As for the moodiness, she remembered blaring music—sad girl acoustic—and escaping into her schoolwork, not necessarily to send a message or put up a wall, but because those things distracted her from her terrible loneliness.

“I didn’t know,” she said simply. “I didn’t know any of that.”

He put one arm around her shoulders and squeezed her into his side, saying into her hair, “That’s the awful long and short of it, isn’t it? Wish I could go back and do it all differently. You always belonged with me. Always. I’ll never forgive my—”

Hazel snaked her arm around his back and pressed her face into his shoulder. “I’ve missed you, too.” The admission came with a sob, the words held in for too long.

She hoped forgiveness was in the cards for them, too. And as strongly as he insisted the blame in this was his, she realized she’d have to reconcile her small part in it, all the years they could have had if she had simply spoken up, made the first move.

Her stomach growled. She pulled away as he asked, “They got a diner around here? I could sure go for some pancakes.”

She laughed, started to tell him about the absurd place down the block, but stopped, slapping a hand to her forehead. “No. Dad, your wedding. We have to go now.”

She hefted her bag back onto her shoulder, snatched her keys, but her father was still sitting on the bed. “What are you doing? Come on.”

“There’s no hurry.”

“But—your wedding.”

He shrugged. “I’d like to take my daughter to breakfast.”

“Dad. I’m going to need a shower once we get there, and I’ll have to do my hair, fix my face.”

“We’ve got time. And if we have to start a little late, Val will understand.” At her raised eyebrow, he waved his phone then thumbed the screen. “I’m telling her we’re going to eat.”

His phone buzzed, and he read the message to her, “?‘Take your time. No more speeding tickets.’?”

“Oh.”

“Plus…” He dropped his gaze to his knees. “I didn’t want to assume you were ready for all that. We haven’t discussed how you feel about it.”

“What, your wedding? Yes. Dad. I’m ready. I was leaving to get there in time when I heard you waking up the entire motel. I never had a problem with you getting married.”

Was that true? Her old everything’s fine reflex would take some time to kick, her true feelings harder to dial in on quickly, but she thought about Val and her kids, how hard they’d worked on her bedroom, her designated seat at their dining table, the custom stocking and all those Christmas packages under their tree. She hadn’t given them much of a chance, but that had nothing to do with them.

“They’re all great. You seem really happy together,” she said, and she meant it.

“I want you to be part of it. A real part.”

Hazel let the familiar knee-jerk resistance, the impulse to cling to an exit strategy, roll through. On the other side of that feeling, a little spark of excitement surprised her. A house full of people where she wasn’t just a visitor. How that would come to be, exactly, she wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t a terrible thought.

When they entered the house just after eleven, Val, Lucy, and Raf were eating popcorn in pajamas in front of the TV. No one looked ready for a wedding. They swarmed Hazel and her father, glad she was back, glad she was safe, as if she had been taken from them rather than having left of her own free will.

She turned to her father. “Didn’t you tell them we’d make it?”

Val waved a hand. “I told the minister to come back this afternoon.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hazel said. She hoped Val understood that she meant the apology for so much more than the delay, for all the stress her leaving had caused them, for however personally Val must have taken her behavior this week. “Is there anything that needs to be done before the ceremony?”

“Nope. We’re just watching an old movie. Casablanca.”

“I love Casablanca,” Hazel said.

Some silent understanding passed between Hazel’s father and Val, then Lucy. He squeezed Lucy’s shoulder. “Ah. Your dad’s favorite.”

There was something palpably tender between all of them. The sudden, thick emotion enveloping them made her wonder, for the first time, about the history of this family before her father came into the picture. She’d assumed Val had gotten divorced, that Lucy and Raf split their time between her home and their dad’s, wherever that was. But the silence held too much gravity.

Then, Hazel remembered a photo in the curio cabinet among all of Val’s Peruvian art and alpaca figurines. Now, with a sinking feeling, she was pretty sure she understood. And right there on the mantle over the fireplace was another photo of him, with a toddler in a white dress on his shoulders and one hand on a little boy’s back. She’d missed it every time she walked through here this week, caught up in her own little world.

Lucy said, “We’re only a few minutes in. We can start it over.”

The wedding took place in the backyard. Her father and Val stood under a plain wooden arch. Val held a modest bouquet of red roses, no larger than the white ones given to Hazel and Lucy. Tall heaters kept them from shivering through the short ceremony. Hazel, Lucy, and Rafael stood not in the traditional places, flanking the couple, but in a semicircle directly in front of them, so that altogether with the minister, who was a family friend, they made a closed ring. Afterward, the minister snapped the family photos Val had wanted.

It was all so understated, aside from the semiformal wear. Within a half hour, they were all back inside the house, cutting into a small, round cake. It didn’t have a topper on it, just a single evergreen sprig and each of their names piped in Val’s careful hand.

In the evening, they ate Christmas Eve enchiladas. Her father nearly fell asleep over his meal. Hazel was exhausted, too, and followed suit when he went to bed early. In the hall, he paused to pull her into another long hug and murmured, “Love you, kiddo,” before they parted ways. It was enough for now.

Finally, back in her bedroom, Hazel picked up her phone. She expected a sea of messages like yesterday, braced and hoped for something from Ash. But the only message was from her mother wishing her a “Joyeux Noel” from Paris. She echoed the same message back, then switched to her text history with Ash.

Before the string of his messages she’d ignored was the photo of the two of them curled up together in his bed from the night following Winter Fest. He’d asked for it right after she’d taken it. Then, with her right there watching him thumb the message in, he’d texted, You’re so pretty. “You’re a dork,” she’d said.

She started and deleted several messages—apologies, explanations. Then smaller missives—I’m back. I’m okay. I’m ready to talk. But typing them out made her breath come in short pants, her fingers go cold and tremble. If he didn’t respond, she’d be devastated.

Tomorrow. She’d find the right words tomorrow.