Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Delilah
At first things are awkward between Dad and me. Stilted. I know this house but not his life in it. Not since I went away, at least. The floorboard still creaks, but we don’t talk about my nine-year-long absence. The pots are still in the same place, but I don’t know how to ask if Lucy’s going to drop by any minute. Don’t know if I even have the right to. Instead I glean little pieces of information as he drops them, hoping soon they’ll add up to something resembling the truth.
I gather that he no longer works outside the home, whether by choice or by necessity, I’m not sure. On Saturday he gives a makeshift piano lesson using the keyboard in his study. The poor kid has an Alfalfa-style cowlick and can't play “Mary Had a Little Lamb” for the life of him. Nevertheless, each time I pass the cracked-open door, I find my dad smiling ear to ear.
The kid’s mom waits in our kitchen, smiling at me piteously each time we make eye contact. “ Such a shame, ” she murmurs. Enough times to make my blood boil, but I try to ignore it. It’s only when she shifts to questions about me, saying she didn’t realize Henry had a daughter, that I retreat to my room permanently .
That afternoon Dad stands at the door, watching the woman drive away with her son.
“I’m going back,” he says, shaking his head. “Lessons at home work for now, but when I’m better, I’m going back.”
Neither of us point out the obvious. That there is no getting better from dementia. As Truett so kindly pointed out, it’s only going to get worse. But if Dad is willing to ignore that fact, then so am I. For now.
It’s hard to believe he’s sick. Not just because I don’t want it to be true, though I’m sure that’s part of it, but also because so much of him seems the same. Same dry sense of humor. Same long, rambling stories about students’ antics. It’s only when I’m going over his pill bottles, learning each med and the times when he has to take them, that the severity really slips in. Truett’s familiar scrawl blurs when a tear falls from my cheek onto his written instructions, meant to help Dad keep track of his medications. Dad stood over the instructions, squinting at them for several slow minutes, before finally glancing up at me with fear in his eyes and asking for help.
I see the cracks in his facade in the way he trails off midsentence and then forgets the topic entirely. Or trips over words like they taste foreign on his tongue. Last night he stood in front of the bathroom door for so long that I passed him on my way to my room to change and again ten minutes later when I emerged to watch TV in the living room. The second time, I touched his shoulder to ask if he needed help, and he sucked in a breath. When he glanced at me, his blue eyes were frantic.
Then he flushed, muttered something unintelligible, and retreated to his bedroom.
I turned on an episode of Schitt’s Creek and cried softly into the scratchy burlap throw pillow Mom bought sophomore year, with black lettering on the front declaring us the Ridgefield Family .
Some family.
Sunday night I find him sitting in the driver’s seat of his mangled car, staring blankly through the windshield at the house. Panic lances through me, but I force in small breaths, climbing into the passenger side but leaving the door open to let cool evening air in.
“I came out of the bathroom and couldn’t find you.” I tuck a damp strand of hair behind my ear and frown. “You had me worried there for a second.”
“I thought I had a concert to get to, but now I’m not so sure.”
I’m ashamed to say I glance toward Truett’s house, momentarily wishing I could ask him what to do. It’s a weakness, depending on him. One I thought I kicked long ago.
Dad tears his gaze from the windshield, landing on me with a spark of clarity that I sense more than see. “I’m so glad you’re here, sweet pea.”
I don’t know what it is about sitting in the cab of a car with another person that makes confessing your fears seem so much less daunting, but in the dull twilight of the late summer evening I find myself whispering, “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”
His brow furrows. “Why not?”
Because I left. Because of my letter. Because I wasn’t here when you needed me to be.
All the anger at him has leaked out of me in the face of his illness, and it turns out sadness was the layer beneath, with guilt not far behind.
“It’s been nine years,” I say instead, unable to give voice to those other vulnerabilities, yet summing them up in four short words all the same.
“It’s never too late.” His voice grows thick, swelling with emotion.
I feel a responding thud in my heart, where no beat should exist, and rub a hand against my chest to dull it. “What happens now?”
He blinks. Runs his teeth across his bottom lip. In the evening light, the silver strands in his hair glimmer brightly, reflecting the shimmer of the moon. He looks so young still, and so otherworldly, that I can hardly believe he’s sick.
“Nana remembered us for a very long time.” His speech slips on some words. Drags out others. But it’s subtle. For now. “Talking… that was hard for her. More so at the end.” He laughs softly at a memory playing out in his mind even as a tear pricks the corner of his eye. “She thought we were all stealing from her. Constantly accusing us of taking things she misplaced.”
“So I need to maintain a good alibi, is what you’re saying?”
He snorts. The light catches on his crooked front tooth. “Exactly.”
“It doesn’t sound so bad,” I say honestly. “I can handle that.”
A shadow crosses his face. Something mournful that I do not recognize. “It’s hard. It was so hard with Nana. I don’t want it to be like that for you.”
“Guess you should’ve thought of that before you got sick.” Humor, no matter how dark, always worked between us. I pray it still does. That we have this, even if we’ve lost so much else.
He chuckles heartily. Grabs my hand and squeezes. “Believe me, I did.”
Silence falls as I consider his words. As he considers mine. I feel like I could burst into tears, but I work to hold it in. No crying in front of Dad. I have to prove to him I can do this.
“Tru helped me…prepare things. Make decisions. When things get bad, I’ll go into a home. Sell the house to cover it, then Medicaid after that. You won’t have to worry about me, I promise.”
My eyes widen in shock. “I’m not putting you in a home, Dad. No way. I’ll take care of you. No matter what. ”
He doesn’t disagree, but his gaze remains set. The blue is so bright, so hard it could be an aquamarine. Set it in gold and it’d be beautiful.
In his eyes, though, it chills me straight through.
“Come on,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “Let’s go in and order pizza. Does Hungry Howie’s still deliver out here?”
He smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Domino’s, too.”
“You guys got Domino’s?” I whistle brightly. “Fly Hollow is moving up in the world.”
He allows me to guide him inside without incident. Waits patiently in the breakfast nook, watching the moonlight play over the swells and valleys of the Parkers’ land, as I order the pizza. Neither of us brings up the conversation in the car, and for once I pray he’s forgotten.
Truett doesn’t return the entire weekend. I swallow my disappointment like bile. Its presence doesn’t even make sense to me. I should be grateful that he heeded my warning, that I don’t have to worry about seeing him. About the complicated feelings that come up when he’s around. Without the reminder, I can almost go back to forgetting about him.
Almost.
Besides, I have enough to worry about without adding him to the mix. Enough to grieve. With Dad’s and my conversation playing on a loop in my mind throughout the night, it’s a miracle I can think of anything else.
But, as has always been the case with Truett, he somehow wiggles his way in through the madness.
Monday morning starts with the steady roar of a lawn mower. I blink awake, eyes burning from lack of sleep. Once, I knew each noise this house made in the night. Now I wake for every groaning pipe, each whistle of the air conditioner ramping up. I dream that Truett’s eyes are the sky, and so I cannot escape them. I’m tired, but going back to sleep knowing that’s what awaits me? Not worth the risk.
I roll away from the wall and any thoughts about Tru to study my room in the early morning light. Twin streaks of milky sunbeams leak through the outer edges of the blackout curtains. Those streaks illuminate my volleyball trophies, perched high on a shelf on the opposite wall. There are photos, too, sitting between each one. My dad and me at the state championship, the practices, the awards ceremonies. Mom appears in only one, taken that final year when the edges of our family were starting to fray. Before that, it was always just Dad and me. Mom didn’t like the noise or the crowds.
The mower passes by my window, causing that fragmented source of light to flicker. I smile, untangle my legs from the sheets, and sit up on the edge of my bed. So many summer mornings started this way. Dad would mow the lawn, something he was always precious about, never allowing me to help. Then he’d come in sweat-slicked and smelling like fresh-cut grass, the beginnings of a sunglasses tan line etched into his face. I’d cook pancakes with fresh blueberries from the bushes outside, and Mom would complain they were making her fat but devour three before heading to work. Dad would happily eat a whole stack, then shower off his hard work while I washed dishes.
I blink away tears forming at the edges of my eyes, my smile faltering. His face last night flashes through my mind. Firmly set with determination, even as he nodded along when I told him I’d take care of him. He didn’t believe me. And why would he? I’m the one who left and never came back. But I’ll prove to him that I’m capable of caring for him. That a nursing home isn’t something he’ll ever have to consider.
With the lawn mower rumbling and my ceiling fan rocking overhead and the plush shag carpet scrubbing softly against my toes, I can almost pretend things are normal. Can almost pretend I feel certain I’m right.
I’m inviting heartache, the way I’m clinging to all these almosts.
I try not to focus on it as I slip out of my pajama shorts and into denim cutoffs. My sleep shirt, an oversize faded graphic tee from some ex-boyfriend or other, pools on the floor. I catch sight of myself in the vanity mirror—small boobs, soft stomach, bland brown hair sticking out in every direction—before turning away to dig a bra and shirt out of my bag. It remains packed despite an empty closet and chest of drawers waiting to be filled.
For a long, heavy moment I stare at the suitcase, biting my lip. Then, before my mother’s voice spouting all the reasons this was a terrible mistake can get too loud, I escape the time capsule of my room to repeat history.
I pad around the empty kitchen, gathering the ingredients from memory. Blueberries. Flour. Milk. Butter. Some sugar. One hand is perched on the refrigerator door as I survey its contents, searching for a carton of eggs to complete my pancake batter, when a door opening behind me sends my heart into my throat.
I whip around, clutching a whisk against my chest, to see Dad standing in front of his bedroom door. His hair is standing up on one side, cheek red with sheet wrinkles. He blinks at me, confused. “What the fuck are you doing?”
My jaw slackens. Dad never cusses. Mom? Sure. But Dad?
“Excuse me?”
He blinks. The edges of his eyes crinkle, and he shakes his head. “What did you say?”
“You cussed at me.”
He starts, reeling back. “No I didn’t.”
I’m about to argue when the sounds of the morning come rushing back in. I glance from him to the door and back as the lawn mower’s engine cuts off. “I thought you were…?”
“You’re gonna be late for school.”
“I— What?” My pulse kicks up a notch. Then I say the first thing that comes to my frantic mind. “It’s summer, Dad.”
“Oh, right.” A trembling hand scratches at his temple. “I knew that.”
I’m pointing the whisk at the door, confusion mottling my features, when footsteps thud up the front porch steps and the door swings open, groaning on its hinges.
Truett kicks his shoes off outside and lets himself in, smelling like cut grass and sweat. There’s a hint of fresh air, too, coming off his skin, but I wrinkle my nose at him anyway.
“Good morning, Ridgefield family.” He grins at my dad, pearlescent teeth popping against his tan skin and a thin layer of dark blond stubble. When his gaze drifts to meet mine, the smile falters. Slightly, but enough. There’s a memory in his eyes, and I find myself wondering which one. “You look lovely this morning, Delilah.”
The whisk drops to my side. Some part of me knows he’s making fun of me. He can’t mean it, not when I’ve just rolled out of bed. Or ever, for that matter. But the moment with my dad still lingers, tipping me off-kilter, so I let his comment slide.
“Why are you mowing the lawn?” I narrow my gaze at him. There are pieces of grass glued to his skin with sweat, forming constellations with the freckles on his sun-kissed forearms. One eyebrow perks at my tone, but he’s otherwise unaffected. As he’s always been when it comes to me, while I remain painfully affected by him.
He shrugs. “Can’t a guy just help out ’cause he wants to?” His gaze, a pale blue-gray like the early summer sky outside, travels over my shoulder to the cluster of supplies on the counter. “Are you making pancakes? For little ole me? ”
I want to snap at him. To tell him I’m too old for his taunting, that I’ve put enough distance between myself and this place that he can’t touch me anymore. I want to scream that there’s no Ridgefield family, there’s just me and my sick dad and Tru’s nosy ass that has shown up despite clear instructions otherwise. But I can’t deny the relief at his presence that unfurls in my body, softening my bones. And one look at Dad, who’s smiling at Truett like he’s something special, has my teeth clamping down on my tongue.
“Yes,” I grit out. “But I’m only making enough for two.”
“Three, you mean.” He straightens his ball cap and rolls his shoulders. I’m about to make a smart remark when he adds, “Roberta will be here soon.”
Dad shuffles over to the breakfast nook and settles into his usual spot, content to watch the banter with an amused, slightly distant look on his face, our confusing conversation all but forgotten. Tru leans his dirty elbows on the kitchen island and perches his chin on folded hands, waiting for me to make a move.
I won’t play his games, though. If I’ve learned anything in my smattering of relationships, it’s that the best way to discourage behavior you don’t want is to ignore it.
It also works on dogs, which is telling.
He snorts when I turn without comment, but falls quiet behind me when I bend over to retrieve a pan from the cabinet to the right of the stove. I don’t read into it. Not really. But I do stand a bit straighter when I right myself and begin assembling the batter.
“How are you feeling this morning, Henry?”
“Oh, you know,” Dad replies, drumming his fingers against the wooden table. “Same old, same old. My brain is just broken.”
The egg in my hand splinters against the edge of a metal mixing bowl. I stare at the fault lines that spread from the site of impact. My hands tremble. When I suck in my next breath, it’s through my teeth .
The sink turns on behind me, but I can’t force myself to look over my shoulder. My nose burns and my vision blurs, those tiny cracks losing focus until I can almost believe the egg is whole again. That we’ve gone back in time and the damage is undone.
Warmth like an aura fills the space behind me. A tan, strong hand comes alongside my own pale and fragile-looking one. There are water droplets still freckling Tru’s knuckles as he encapsulates the egg—my hand with it—and splits it into the bowl. He lingers there, holding me while I cling to the empty shell, and whispers into my hair, “It’s okay. It’s just how he processes it sometimes.”
It’s the intimacy in that sentence, the way he knows how my dad deals with his diagnosis because he’s been here while I’ve been states away, that causes jealousy to bloom in my chest. I cling to it, because it’s better than the hurt it replaced. The aching. The regret.
“I know,” I quip, although I didn’t. “It caught me by surprise, that’s all.”
I drop the eggshell into his hand, suck in a breath, and force myself to turn and face him. He’s so close, his features so defined that I waver. But only for a moment.
“Can you take that to the trash?” I jerk my chin in the general direction.
Sarcasm is what I expect, or perhaps indifference. The kind he gave me all those years ago when I needed him most. But instead his cheeks hollow and his slate-colored eyes soften with something akin to sorrow. His gaze flickers over my face, and I remember I’m not wearing a lick of makeup. All he’s seeing is plain, unremarkable me. Good enough in practice, but never for real.
I break the stare first.
Butter sizzles in the pan. I finish mixing the batter and fill a ladle with it, then pour it over the bubbling liquid. The lid of the trash can slaps against the side of the cabinets when Truett steps on the pedal to dispose of the eggshell. Instead of returning to his place at the island, I hear his footsteps retreat to the nook.
A breath comes whooshing out of me, releasing some of the ache with it.
“Roberta ought to be here shortly,” Truett says. “It’ll be good to see her.”
“It will be. How’s she doing since…” Dad smacks his lips once, twice, then pauses. I make three more pancakes before he starts over. “How’s Lucy?”
My heartbeat stutters, then kicks into high gear. Since I arrived, we’ve managed to avoid this subject at all costs. Now, whether I’m ready or not, I’m going to get the answers I’ve been dreading.
Surely they aren’t dating or she’d be here instead of her son. Truett’s dad, Waylon, left town the week after everything happened, once he’d blasted her name to whomever would listen, but did he come back? Did they get a divorce? Does my dad still love her?
A wave of nausea rolls through me.
Dad whispered that confession to me through tears as Mom ransacked the house that night, tearing frames off the walls—from photos of her and Dad to shots of the three of us to pictures of Truett and me as children—and shouting loud enough to make my ears ring. I can still see him when I close my eyes, which I do now as I wait for Tru’s answer. Dad’s gaze is bright blue and red-rimmed, tears streaking down gaunt cheeks. His hand is splayed over his heart, a gold wedding ring still glinting on his finger as he whispers, “ I love her, Delilah. I’m so sorry, but I’ve always loved her. ”
How? I wanted to ask but didn’t. I was a child still, only seventeen, and watching my parents’ relationship crumble to the ground right in front of me. But my dad, the one I told all my secrets to, was giving me his own confession. One I couldn’t possibly understand.
How could this man whom I viewed as the picture of perfection, of dedication, do something like that? Hurt us like that?
I’ve turned to watch without realizing it. Truett glances at me, Adam’s apple bobbing, before smiling at my dad. The expression doesn’t reach his eyes.
“She’s good, Henry.” He traces the same wood grain I did the night I decided to leave. “Up on the hill, you know. Enjoying the nice morning.”
“She loves it there,” Dad whispers, gazing out the window at the hill in question. It rises up in the distance beyond the Parkers’ farm, shrouded in trees with spring-green leaves that shake and sway in the breeze.
Truett nods, lips pressed together. He looks at my dad with sorrow etched into his face that I don’t understand.
Before I can ask, though, the acrid scent of a pancake burning in the pan hits me. I spin around, grumble, “ Shit, ” under my breath, and flip it onto a waiting paper towel where the first, ugly pancake also waits. The discard pile.
Dad and Truett wait in silence while I finish the pancakes. True to my word, I only make enough for two—a short stack of three pancakes landing on each plate. I set one plate in front of my dad, who digs in right away, and cover the other with a paper towel.
“You’re not eating?” Truett asks.
I’m already at the mouth of the hallway. I glance over my shoulder at him. “No, I’ve got a meeting. Tell Roberta those are for her.”
There’s a warning in there, too. Don’t eat them.
The truth is, my stomach is tied in too many knots to even consider eating a pancake. Whatever semblance of peace I felt this morning has gone out the window. I’ve spent the weekend in a bubble of almost-normalcy, pretending that night didn’t happen. For my sake and my dad’s. It’s easy to shove away the anger and hurt when the reason for it isn’t glaring at me right in the face.
But I can’t sit here and listen to them talk about Lucy without feeling like I’m going to throw up. Because she isn’t just some woman my dad fell for and had an affair with, though that would be bad enough. She’s Truett’s mom, for Christ’s sake. The one who helped me put makeup on him when we were eight years old and hosed us off when we played too hard in the pasture. I can’t count the number of times I sat on a barstool pulled up to their kitchen counter and listened to her tell stories while she baked, all the while wishing she were my mom instead of the one I got. She was at every volleyball game, cheering me on with Truett in the stands. She held me when I cried because the boy I had a crush on asked someone else to homecoming, though I couldn’t tell her then it was her son. I hated her for taking herself away from me just as much as I hated her for tearing apart my family.
It’s why I couldn’t blame my dad for his tearful confession, even as it shredded my heart into pieces. Because I loved Lucy Parker, too.
“Hey,” Truett says, that strong hand landing on my shoulder. I pause with my back to him, soaking in his touch for a beat before shrugging away from it. A tiny indulgence I allow myself.
Maybe I’m more like my dad than I’d care to admit.
“I told you; I’ve got a meeting.”
I swing open the door to my bedroom but hold tight to the knob, fully prepared to slam it in his face. But he moves too quickly, slipping in behind me before I can turn around.
The silent treatment, then. If he won’t go away, I’ll ice him out.
I pull out the chair in front of my vanity and take a seat, plucking open my laptop. Truett stands with his hands on his hips, scanning my childhood bedroom. He’s seen it a thousand times. Still, there’s a shiver down my spine, that sensation of having all my secrets exposed, as he spins in a slow circle.
My nails click against the keyboard as I log into my computer and load my email. I try to ignore the large man behind me, but his overwhelming scent makes it nearly impossible. I’ll be smelling fresh air and Truett’s sweat tonight when I go to sleep, I just know it.
The responding pulse between my legs at the thought of that causes me to flush. I cross my legs and squeeze, hoping to quell the ache.
“What do you do for work?”
My fingers pause, hovering over the keys. It’s such a mundane question that swinging my brain in that direction after trudging through the pain of my memories gives me whiplash.
Truett sits on the edge of my bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. I squeeze my thighs tighter.
I can see him in my peripheral, staring at me expectantly. Even if I couldn’t, I feel his gaze on me like a spotlight. Or a target.
So not the silent treatment, then. I sigh. Maybe the only way out is through.
I shift in my seat, rest my left forearm across the back of it, and level him with a pointed stare. “I’m a Client Relationship Manager.”
A wrinkle forms between his eyebrows. “A what?”
My finger twitches, desperate to smooth it out. I curl my hand into a fist. “I work for a company that sells a product called a CRM, or customer relationship management tool, and it’s my job to teach the people who buy that product how to use it.”
He stares at me blankly.
“I hold training calls, answer questions, send tips via email, help reset passwords…”
“Oh, so you’re like customer service. ”
I bite the inside of my cheek, but I can feel the heat blanketing my face. “Sure, Tru. If that’s all your Neanderthal brain can understand, then I’m customer service. Now can you leave so I can service this customer?”
As soon as I say it, his eyes go wide. Embarrassment knots my throat.
“That’s not what I meant?—”
He removes his hat, his sweat-darkened locks sticking out in every direction, and presses it to his chest, which is shaking with laughter. “Well if it isn’t our temptress, living up to her name after all.”
I bristle. Suddenly all the pent-up frustration I’ve been biting back comes rushing to the surface. And not all of it may be related to him or remotely his fault, but a lot of it is. That’s my defense for losing my carefully managed cool and surging out of my chair, finger pointed at the door.
“Get out.”
“Aw, come on, Delilah, you know I was just joking.” He sighs out the remainder of his laughter, his face falling to a more serious, thoughtful expression. His gaze makes a pass over me, and he sits up, folding his hands together on his lap. Whatever he sees in my face dulls his amusement. He shakes his head softly, his gaze dropping to his hands. “I’m sorry if it struck a nerve. What Kyle did?—”
“Get the fuck out of my room, Truett.” The prickling anger has turned to full-blown rage. “I understand you and my dad have a close relationship, and for his sake, I’ll put up with it, but we don’t have to talk. In fact, don’t talk to me unless it’s about my dad’s condition and care. Got it?”
He stands and takes a step toward me. “I said I was sorry, Delilah, and I meant it. Just let me explain?—”
“No,” I interject. My tone is firm, my shoulders squared. I may be a solid six inches shorter than him, but I’m not backing down. “We don’t need to talk about it because we aren’t friends. Not anymore. You’re just the son of some woman my dad had an affair with. That’s it.”
Pain ripples across his face. “Actually, about my mom…”
“I don’t want to talk about Lucy.”
He presses his lips together, holding back whatever retort he had planned. Good. I didn’t want to hear it anyway.
“Now, as I said, I have a meeting. So go.”
His lips part like he’s going to speak, to defend himself, to do whatever people like him do. But then he thinks better of it or decides I’m not worth the fight, I’m not sure which, and turns on his heel to face the hall. In two strides he’s through the door, one hand on the knob as he lets his gaze fall to mine a final time. He winces when our eyes meet, but he doesn’t look away.
Instead it’s me who ends it. Who turns, cutting him off. He shuts the door softly without another word.