Sawyer
I’m back in my hometown by evening.
I knock hard on the door, its red paint starting to peel a little. Quick footsteps inside, and then it swings open, revealing my Aunt Linda. Her face shifts from thin-lipped determination to a gasp.
“Come in!” she cries. “Come in, come in. I can’t—” She looks up at me, her dark eyes shining. I can’t believe you came. That’s what she wants to say. She doesn’t.
I step over the threshold into the house and the smell of the place nearly knocks me out.
It smells so damn good.
Good like recently vacuumed rugs and the light scent of cookies in the oven.
Good like coming here after my dad beat me up and Aunt Linda ushering me up the stairs to sleep in the guest bedroom under clean sheets.
Good like the breakfast she used to make for me before school, not saying a word about my dad or what he did to me, and the pile of cleanly folded laundry she’d leave outside my bedroom door, the smell of her favorite linen-scented dryer sheets clinging to the fabric.
She closes the door behind me, and I decide to answer the question on her mind, even if she won’t say it. “I decided to make the trip.”
I don’t know what the hell exactly made me cave this time.
Linda’s called me before about coming home, three times in the last five years.
One of those times, she told me that he’d been diagnosed with cancer.
She didn’t say that he wanted to see me, she left it lingering in the air between us until I hung up. This time she asked.
After I left Paul’s shithole of a house, I squared up with Domino. Told him I was taking some time off. Packed up a few things, and drove out of the city in the car I keep in a garage most of the time. It’s a hell of a lot cheaper than parking it in a lot or on the street.
Linda puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad you could make it, Sawyer.
I’m really glad.” Then she clasps her hands in front of her, takes a deep breath in and lets it out.
“Would you like something to eat? I’ve got cookies baking in the oven that will be done in about ten minutes, and there is leftover lasagna in the fridge. ”
My stomach growls. Of course I want something to eat. But more than that, I want this little reunion to be over.
Linda heads matter-of-factly toward the kitchen like she’s on a mission, and I kick my shoes off on the mat by the door and follow her. The oven door opens, and I can hear the telltale slide of the metal tray against oven racks, and then it shuts closed again.
The rest of the house is silent.
The silence is what clues me in.
I step into the kitchen. “So where is he?” He obviously isn’t here.
Linda presses her lips together and glances across at me while she reaches in one of the kitchen drawers for a spatula.
She takes down a plate from one of the cupboards and starts lifting the cookies one by one off the tray and onto the plate, arranging them carefully so they can cool without touching one another. “He had an appointment.”
“He drove himself?”
“The oncologist he’s been seeing has a service.”
“A taxi service? That’s a talented guy.”
She shoots me a look. “A shuttle service, for patients who have trouble driving or need other transportation.” Linda takes in a ragged breath before answering the question on my mind. “He didn’t want to inconvenience me this afternoon.”
“What a standup guy.” The tone in my voice is acid, but I can’t stop myself.
This kind of shit—pretending to be a good guy, never wanted to do anybody any harm, inconvenience anybody—is what my dad would do.
Behind closed doors, he’s an asshole. So while I’m glad that he didn’t take up Linda’s time asking for a ride—
Linda’s expression has gone soft, and my stomach twists. She does not need to feel sorry for me. I came here for her, not because I have any need to make nice with my dad. “Well, they took him from there to the hospital. A night of observation, to make sure…”
“To make sure of what? He’s dying.”
She shakes her head, the corners of her mouth turning down, and I see how this is weighing on her. God. I’m a prick for letting her deal with this on her own.
My mom’s been gone since I was three, and Linda’s husband, Jerry, died before I graduated high school. She doesn’t have anybody else. Her one daughter, Alexis, goes to school on the opposite side of the country. She’s the only one who has her shit together.
“It’s touch and go, Sawyer.” Her voice breaks a little, sending a bolt of pain through my chest. “Every day it’s different.”
I step over to her, wrapping my arms around her narrow shoulders.
I’m not the kind of guy who hugs, but she looks like she’s on the verge of tears and there’s a tension in the room that I can’t shake off.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Linda.” It might sound formal and weird to most people, but it’s what I’ve always called her, and there’s nothing else to say.
One deep breath later, she responds, “It’s all right.” She straightens up, pats me on the arm, and turns away, reaching for another plate. “Lasagna?”
I sit down at the kitchen island, feeling like a teenager again. She plates up some leftover lasagna, heating up some green beans as a side. It’s good, as always, but the food sticks in my throat when I try to swallow. When her back is turned, I pull out my phone.
I can’t stay here all evening. I can’t do it. I need to go out, go to the bar. I don’t want to be some pathetic asshole sitting up at the bar by himself.
There’s one person left in Greenville who will go with me.