Chapter Thirty-Three Randall
When we drive toward my childhood street in Steveston Village, the congestion gives way to smaller streets and tall, narrow homes.
We’ve dropped off our bags at the inn and took a shower to freshen up. Together, to save time, obviously. That was my reasoning and I’m sticking to it.
Without conscious decision, I find myself on Hunt Street. We stop in view of the blue house with white trim around the windows and bright purple rhododendrons flanking a stone walkway.
“This is the house I grew up in,” I announce.
The pang of nostalgia makes it hard to speak, but I had to come out here. Visiting my childhood home is as significant as visiting my mother’s grave, which we’ll do first thing tomorrow.
In these moments, I allow myself to feel something I don’t usually let myself dwell on. Missing her feels like a chokehold.
Alongside the nostalgia, something else takes hold. Anger. My father sold it less than two years after Mom died. The sale closed in the middle of my first season in Columbus and it was like losing her all over again.
“It’s charming,” Elise says. “I bet you had one of those, huh.” She points out the ever-present hockey net.
“Yeah,” I mumble.
“Randall?” something in her voice draws me back to the present. I’m grateful because the last thing I need before facing my father is to be distracted by memories. Have to get through the evening. It’s what Mom would have wanted and what Dad expects.
I blink slowly and focus on Elise. She’s wearing that flowing red dress with cherry blossoms. The one she had on when we decided to try our friends-without-benefits arrangement. I shudder a little because that’s not a conversation I ever plan to have again.
Except this time, she’s wearing a light-colored cardigan over her exposed back. I like knowing that underneath her modest cover is skin softer than anyone’s I’ve ever touched.
“Yeah, baby?” I respond with words and with the clasping of our fingers.
She takes a deep breath before speaking in a slow, soothing tone.
“When my father died, I couldn’t look at his favorite mug or the chair he always used in our kitchen without bursting into tears. And it wasn’t just sadness. It was frustration and anger and whatever other stages of grief smarter people have documented and studied. It’s never that simple, though, is it? It isn’t one phase after another. It’s all of those feelings, positive and negative, in a cauldron full of memories and…and wishes that can no longer be granted. I guess what I’m saying is, although you’re not crying, you look the way I felt.”
The chokehold tightens and it’s hard to breathe. I stare at our linked hands and try to get more oxygen into my lungs.
“You can talk to me,” Elise continues. “No loss is the same, but I want to be here for you. I lost someone important to me, too, and maybe, I don’t know, I can understand at a different level? I hope so, anyway.”
“Having you here makes a difference,” I state honestly. “Loving you makes all the difference.”
“I love you, too,” she says. “I love learning about your childhood, your friends, your passion, your mentors. But I’m not here for only the good stuff. Learning about how you struggled with this colossal loss, that’s important, too. I like being a tourist in your hometown, but I refuse to be a tourist in your life, OK?”
Her eyes brim with moisture. With her free hand, she wipes away a stray tear.
Elise is saying things I had no idea I needed to hear. I’m so stunned, all I can mutter in response is “OK.”
After a pause, she asks, “Is there anything I should know before we have dinner with your family?”
“Other than don’t bring up my mom because we’re a bunch of emotionally stunted men who can’t stray beyond the safe topics of the weather, work, and money?”
“Wow, money is a safe topic in your house?” she asks, wide-eyed and cute as she tries to lighten the mood.
“Just be yourself, Elise. There isn’t a person in the world who wouldn’t feel better because you’re there.”
It’s true. She’s basically a walking, talking, loving beam of sunlight.
I’m going to marry this woman, Mom. I wish you met her. I wish you met my future wife.
When I’m near this home on Hunt Street, I can’t help but feel like my mother is over my shoulder, listening intently. Although she’s gone, I’m close to her when I’m here.
On this street where she taught me to bike.
Beside the garden where she first told me of her diagnosis.
Looking at a window that used to frame our Christmas tree.
Outside the door of a house she turned into a home.
Elise is amazing, Mom. I’ll do anything for the honor to share a life with her. Anything.
The words don’t come out of my mouth, but they occupy my entire being, filtering through my blood and storing the promise as a fact lodged in my brain. My heart always knew.
“Then that’s exactly what I’ll do,” Elise declares. “Be myself and be here for you. I love that you showed me your home. I can totally see you grow up here.”
I still can’t talk so she simply leans back and relaxes. Watching her so content and happy soothes me.
We stay till the tightness of my body loosens. It gives way to the care and protectiveness I want to give Elise and it opens me up to her care and protectiveness in return. That’s how I feel around Elise. Safe and loved.
We leave the familiar street to get to the newer part of town in time for dinner. With the increase in population, “town” is a bit of a misnomer for the Steveston I grew up in.
Fancy new condos by the waterfront sprung up in the last five years. My dad owns a two-bedroom unit on top of a coffee shop serving fancy muffins with names like lemongrass-cranberry-protein-blast or some such shit.
It’s walking distance to the only office he’s ever known and closer to his frequent walks by the trail. It’s a life of comfort, order, and predictability but with zero remnants of the one he shared with my mother.
Staying with him makes me feel the loss acutely because in James Haughland Sr.’s new residence, we didn’t lose Margaret Haughland, he erased her.
Which is why I can’t bear to be in his place for more than the time it takes to finish dinner.
Dad opens the door before I knock. My father is a tall, fit man. More wiry than I am but with the same blue eyes and light lashes. Mom used to say he was like if Robert Redford rocked eyeglasses.
It takes a gravelly throat clearing to get me going.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Randall,” he responds. Dad gives my girlfriend a half smile. “You must be Elise. Please come in.”
We step into the threshold, which leads to a living area featuring a stunning view of the Steveston docks. The vertical masts of sail boats poke up like white needles past the commercial dock brimming with people and plants, pets and flowers. The bustle of touristy shops and restaurants is charming. When I visit Dad, eighty percent of the time I look out the window and people watch.
“Thank you for having us,” Elise says.
Dad shakes her hand before shaking mine. Everything about the greeting is stiff and awkward.
I’m embarrassed by the impression Dad must be making on my girlfriend. Compared to the way Geraldine welcomes everyone to her home, my father’s coldness stings.
“Come in. Can I get you a drink? Corinne and Jim are stuck in traffic, and Charles won’t make it after all. He’s got an important case convening this week, so he sends his apologies.”
“I’ll take a beer,” I say because fuck I need one right now. I keep my eyes outside, hoping to distract Elise with the pretty view.
“Elise? What would you—” I begin to ask but am interrupted by the swoosh of her skirt and the sound of her voice. She’s spun away from me and followed Dad to the kitchen.
“Water for me please. It’s hot out there. Randall mentioned something about you walking every day. It’s a lovely trail. How long is it?”
“I go about three kilometers out and come back. It’s much longer than that,” Dad states stiffly.
He probably doesn’t know the answer and is insulted Elise put him on the spot. He’s easily miffed.
“Can I help with anything? It smells amazing!” Elise comments, blissfully unaware of Dad’s signs of disapproval.
I don’t think there’s a single person in his professional and personal orbit who would deign to stroll into his kitchen, peek under a piece of foil, and chatter like they’re old friends.
He gets her a glass of water, which she sips while leaning her hip against a cabinet.
“Thank you. Traveling is always so dehydrating.”
“Didn’t you have a nice flight?” Dad asks with furrowed brows and an accusing look in my direction.
“It was a lovely flight! I was entertained by tantalizing glimpses of your beautiful town through the television show Once Upon a Time.” When she says the title, Elise puts her hand out like she’s reading a billboard.
Dad’s answer is a snort. He’s above verbally commenting on film crews that inconvenience his neighborhood.
“I even saw your offices, which is in a gorgeous building,” Elise continues. “How far back do these structures go?”
Dad clears his throat and dons the public service announcement voice.
“Well, the Shipyard and Canary were built in the late 1800s. Much of the commercial buildings followed in the early twentieth century. The building has gone through much renovation, but we’ve tried to preserve the integrity of its design.”
“I can see that,” she says with a nod. “I bet that’s part of the tourist draw, including the appeal for filming television shows. There’s a unique mix of maritime life, historic architecture, and small-town appeal.”
Dad blinks quickly before recovering. “You should take a tour of the Georgia Cannery. It’s a landmark of this part of the country.”
“Definitely. Come with us! I’m sure you’ll have insights beyond what a tour guide could memorize. I’d love to learn more about the area,” she announces with no guile whatsoever.
It’s as if she asked someone like Auntie Kim to join her for a stroll.
Dad is so disarmed by her laidback friendliness, he merely nods before returning to cooking.
I’m reminded of Elise in her own house, casually steering conversations and candidly bartering opinions with her guests. That ability is proving handy today.
Dad has said more words in the last ten minutes than I’ve exchanged with him if you put together all of our conversations this year.
“We’re here! Sorry we’re late. The traffic on the tunnel was horrendous.”
I’m first to meet my brother and his wife in the tiny foyer from the door to the living room. I hug Corinne and shake Jim’s hand.
“Where’s your girlfriend? Dad already scare her off?” Jim mutters and Corinne swats his forearm as in don’t be a smartass.
“Actually, they’re in the kitchen.”
“Dad never lets anyone in the kitchen when he’s cooking,” Corinne says, stepping forward determined to see with her own eyes.
“Elise goes wherever she wants to go,” I say with a proud smirk. “Even Dad isn’t immune to her charm.”
Jim and I stay back as Corinne and Elise hug through their introductions.
“How’d a clown like you nab such a classy girl,” Jim says.
“Hell if I know, but I’m not questioning it.”
“Can’t believe Dad is letting those two women stay in the kitchen while he’s making dinner. I’m not sure it’s safe to approach.”
Before he finishes his last sentence, Corinne has hooked her arm around Elise’s elbow and Elise fastens it there with her other hand. They’re like two school friends skipping down the street.
Is there anyone in this world who doesn’t immediately adore Elise Chen?
“This is my husband, Jim.”
“Hi!” Elise says with a hug. “I was admiring Corinne’s scarf and she said you got it for her in Paris during your honeymoon. That’s incredibly romantic. I’d love to go there one day.”
Mental note: bring Elise to Paris as soon as humanly possible.
“When you do, there’s this amazing bistro in Montmartre you must visit…”
Corinne’s voice trails off because she’s brought Elise to the living room to sit back and chat.
If there’s someone happy to have a girlfriend to hang with during dinner, it’s Corinne, who has patiently put up with the Haughland men’s spectacular lack of social skills. She was close to Mom, too, and has felt the absence of her female ally in ways even I can’t imagine.
Dinner isn’t a picture of warm hospitality, but it’s less frosty, a dip on the Oregon Coast instead of a plunge between icebergs.
Dad’s prime rib roast that he makes with all the fixings, including mashed potatoes and green beans with toasted almonds, is perfect as always. Except this time, instead of taking it for granted because it’s always the first meal he serves when I’m in town, Elise asks him to elaborate on his herb rub or whatever. They talk about recipes and the price of gas in Canada.
Before I realize it, two whole hours have passed with surprising ease.
“Leave the dishes,” Dad says, stalling Corinne’s efforts to load the dishwasher. “You still have quite a drive, and Elise and Randall are tired from a travel day.”
“I’m not tired at all,” Elise chirps.
“There’s only traffic during rush hour,” Jim says with a shrug.
“What do you guys usually do for fun after dinner?” Elise asks expectantly.
Corinne coughs up some of her wine because fun is not a word you hear very often in this vicinity.
“Do you go for a walk after dinner? Watch a movie? Play board games maybe?”
“We used to play a card game called five hundred,” Dad answers, shocking everyone except the person he’s talking to. “My wife, Margaret, she insisted the boys learn it.”
Stillness. Complete, utter, silent stillness.
The only moving object is my heart that has turned into an erratic drum.
Elise feels the change in the air brought on by the weight of my mother’s name and the shock of my father’s admission.
But she doesn’t cower under its pressure at all. Instead, with a compassionate voice and a sweet smile, she tells Dad, “I’d love to learn the game, if you’re up to teaching a novice.”
“I haven’t played in years. I don’t remember how to score the winning hands,” Dad says, dumbfounded.
“I remember,” Corinne pipes in. “She taught me, too. I have a picture of the scoresheet. Margaret wrote it out before…Anyway, I took a picture so I wouldn’t forget.”
Corinne barely gets the words out before her audible sniff and Jim’s choked hiccup. Elise stands beside me the entire time. The ground is unstable, but she’s keeping me standing just by being there.
We stay for another two hours.
For the first time since before Mom got too sick to do anything, we played her favorite card game.