Chapter 40 #2
I wish they had known about me too, because I have a feeling my life would’ve been very different if they had.
The awkwardness I thought I’d feel coming here and meeting them is strangely missing.
After the greeting at the door by my grandmother—which definitely made me feel uneasy because of how raw and overwhelming it was—I expected the tension to settle in. But it didn’t. Not really.
There’s a warmth here I didn’t anticipate. Something familiar in the way she fusses over me, ushering me inside like she’s trying to make up for lost time in the span of a single afternoon. Her hands tremble as she sets out tea and biscuits, as if keeping them busy might keep her emotions in check.
And my grandfather … he’s quieter. Watching me with eyes that study, not judge. He hasn’t said much, but there’s something steady about him, like he’s holding it together for all of us.
It’s bizarre being in a house filled with strangers who don’t feel like strangers at all.
I’m thankful I have my lunatic wife beside me.
She’s chattering away like she’s known them for years.
She’s already asked about their garden, complimented the wallpaper, obtained the recipe for the biscuits my grandmother baked this morning, and somehow managed to convince my grandfather to show me his model car collection.
She’s spoken more words in the short time we’ve been here than the rest of us combined.
And honestly, it helps. Her energy fills the silence I’m still struggling to step into.
Every time I feel myself slipping too far into my own head, she pulls me right back out with a comforting hand on my thigh, a smile, or one of her ridiculous comments that only she could get away with saying.
I can already tell my grandmother adores her just like I do.
Neither Lucia nor I drink tea. To me, it tastes like hot leaf water strained through an old sock, but I manage to force down a few polite sips, relying on the biscuits to cleanse my taste buds when I’m done.
Once we’ve eaten, Lucia and I follow my grandfather down the corridor towards the room that houses his collection.
My eyes briefly skim over the framed pictures that line both walls as we pass.
All of my dad, at different ages. I want to stop and take in every detail, memorise his face in every stage of life, but I don’t.
I keep walking, because I don’t trust myself not to become emotional if I do.
Their place is small and dated, but neat. It’s homely, and I would’ve loved coming here when I was a kid.
It could do with some renovations. Maybe when I get to know them better and feel comfortable enough to ask, I can help then with that.
“Here we go,” my grandfather says with enthusiasm as he opens the door to what I presume was once a bedroom.
Three of the walls feature floor-to-ceiling display cabinets with glass doors, housing his model cars, and I’m impressed by the sheer number he owns.
I’ve never had a collection of anything. When I was a kid, we couldn’t afford stuff like that, and considering we moved around so much, I always travelled light. Usually, I’d carry a plastic bag that held my measly belongings.
My grandmother eventually joins us as her husband points out some of his favourites and the rarer models.
“Gabe gave me this on our last Christmas together,” he whispers, opening the cabinet and gently pulling out a 1969 Ford Mustang. It’s black, flawless, and there’s not a single fingerprint visible on the shiny paintwork.
I hear the catch in his voice when he adds, “He put it together himself. Unlike me, he had the patience for all those fiddly kinds of things.”
He clears his throat, but I don’t miss the way he looks at the car with what could best be described as heartbreak before gently placing it back inside the cabinet.
“Would you like to see his bedroom?” my grandmother asks. “It’s untouched, just the way he left it. I didn’t have the heart to …”
The rest of her words die off, but I have a fair idea what she was going to say.
“Okay,” I answer with a nod.
There’s a part of me that’s desperate for any scrap of knowledge about that man. But there’s a hesitant part that’s afraid of what I might find. Afraid that walking into that room will make the loss feel more real than it ever has before.
We follow her out, and my grandmother stops by the door at the end of the hallway.
I don’t miss the way her frail hand shakes as she reaches for the door handle.
It makes me wonder how many times she’s entered this room since his passing, or if the pain of his loss is just as strong all these years later.
The door opens with a quiet groan before she steps aside and gestures for me to enter. I make a mental note to bring some WD-40 the next time I visit.
The air inside is stale and musty. “Everything is exactly how he left it,” my grandmother says from the doorway.
My eyes move around the room, and it feels like I’m stepping back in time.
Posters of Nirvana, AC/DC and Guns N’ Roses cling to the walls, their edges curled.
A Walkman and a bottle of cologne sit on the dresser.
Drakkar Noir. I take note of the scent, because I need to know what it smells like … what he smelt like.
His bed is made, sort of. The sheets are rumpled, and the comforter is tossed haphazardly, like he was in a hurry. Oblivious to the carnage that awaited him once he left the safety of this house.
There’s a flannelette shirt draped over the end of the bed, and scuffed high-top sneakers sit on the floor.
A model of a vintage motorbike, half-built, waits patiently on the desk.
“Is this the same bike he used to ride?” I ask, pointing to it, even though I’m pretty sure it is. I’ve stared at the photograph Lucia gave me of my parents enough to recognise it.
“It is,” my grandfather answers. “A 1960 Triumph Bonneville.”
I step further into the room. It’s like walking into a memory I was never part of. It’s almost as if I’ve stumbled into a version of my father when he was nineteen years old, and very much alive.
My throat tightens. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, trying to keep it together, but it doesn’t work. Not when I see the Polaroids pinned to the wall with thumbtacks. Some are of him, a younger version of my grandparents, his bike … my mother.
I don’t feel like a man meeting the past; I feel like a son meeting the father he never got the chance to know. And that’s tough.
Tears blur my vision, so I give myself a moment to pull my shit together before I turn back around.
“Come,” my grandfather says, placing his hand on my shoulder and leading me out of the room. “I want to show you something in the garage.”
“Would you be able to help me get lunch ready?” my grandmother asks Lucia. It makes me wonder if she’s saying it just to give my grandfather and me a moment alone.
I’m feeling a little apprehensive when we step into the garage. “I wanted to show you this,” he says.
My grandfather crosses the room and pulls off the dusty sheet that’s covering something in the far corner, and I can’t believe my eyes when I see what it is.
My father’s bike.
Well, I think it is. Either that or a carbon copy. But the following words out of my grandfather’s mouth confirm my suspicion.
“I couldn’t let this go after the … accident,” he says, running his hand over the smooth leather on the seat. “I had it towed back here and spent the next few months restoring it. I was surprised by how little damage it had, considering the crash took his life.”
He pauses, as his eyes trace the lines of the bike like they still hold pieces of his son. “It felt like something I could save … when everything else was already gone.”
I shove my hands deep into my trouser pockets as I watch him. “I’m sorry. I can imagine how hard that must have been for you.”
He nods his head once before turning his face away. “It almost broke me,” he admits. “Gabe bought this bike when it was just a chassis and nothing but potential.”
“It’s a beauty,” I say, genuinely in awe.
You can see the love in every inch of it, the kind of work you only put in when it means something.
My grandfather looks at it for a long moment before turning to me. “I want you to have it, Romeo.”
Those words hit harder than expected. “No,” I say, shaking my head almost instantly. “I couldn’t possibly take it.”
His gaze softens. “I distinctly remember him telling me once, ‘Maybe I can give it to my son one day’.”
I stare at him as my damn throat tightens again. I knew this visit would stir up memories that would be hard, but I never anticipated it being this difficult.
“He’d want you to have it, and so do I. It still runs.
I come out here and start it once a week, so the motor doesn’t seize.
I’ll always have the memories of us building it together,” he adds quietly.
“And all the road trips we did, travelling around to find the parts. They are good memories … precious memories, but it’s time to let the bike go.
I’m an old man; it’s of no use to me. Maybe you could hand it down to your own child one day. ”
Your own child.
Maybe it’s naive and selfish, but when he says that, a part of me wants to believe it’s possible, even if Lucia is not so sure about becoming a mother.
I want to be that kind of father. The one who does extraordinary things for and with his kids. I want to build those kinds of memories. Be the kind of dad I never got.
Things I’m only now realising my father probably would’ve done with me … if he’d survived that accident.
I don’t have the heart to tell him that Lucia once told me she wasn’t sure if she wanted kids.
That maybe a family wasn’t part of the life she pictured with me, but I still hold out hope.
Hope that somewhere between the late nights and early mornings, and impulsive, reckless decisions, I’ll knock her up before she finds the words to say it again.
“Why don’t you think on it for a while?” I eventually find myself replying as I rub the back of my neck. “Don’t do anything impulsive that you might regret.”
He flicks his hand. “I don’t need to. I may have many regrets when it comes to my son, but not about this particular thing.
I had already decided to give it to you the moment I found out you existed.
Please say yes, it would make this old man very happy if I got to fulfil at least one of his wishes. ”
Fucking hell. How can I say no to that?