Grace
The towering welcome sign on the edge of town feels more like an omen than anything; it’s the same one we’ve had for decades, and you can tell by looking at it.
There’s paint peeling from each corner and the entire thing is several shades lighter than it used to be, thanks to the direct Eastern Tennessee sunlight exposure.
Honestly, the little illustrated family looks slightly demonic beneath the setting sun’s hues.
Dad still lives in the house I grew up in.
It’s the same house he’s lived in since his own childhood, although many renovations in between have made the house almost entirely unrecognizable from the one in Dad’s old photo albums. The place holds eighteen years of memories; from happy childhood memories, before I knew how cruel the world could be, to the day everything changed—the one that sticks with me, even now.
Despite my best efforts over the years, I never really escape it.
It’s always the mundane moments—getting a coffee on the weekend, grocery shopping, getting ready in the morning—that the memory rears its head, pushing thoughts of what could’ve been, what would’ve been, what should’ve been.
Images of a boy I once knew flood my thoughts for the briefest moment before they’re gone once more, as though they were never there.
My sneakers hit the pavement at the same moment the front door swings open, revealing my dad hobbling on his crutches and plastered leg.
There’s a waft of homemade cherry pie as I approach the porch signaling that someone’s been baking.
I sure as hell hope it wasn’t Dad. I bound up the small set of stairs two at a time and wrap him in a gentle hug, careful to avoid his injured leg.
“Hiya, kiddo.” It’s been months since I’ve been wrapped in one of his hugs. We talk often, but work’s been so busy with peak event season lately, so I haven’t been able to take time off for a visit from Dad. I squeeze my eyes closed for a moment to stave off the pinprick of tears behind my eyes.
“Hey, Dad,” I respond, squeezing him a little tighter before I let go. “That smells amazing. Did you have a visitor?”
He nods. “Lorelei dropped it over just before, made it herself. C’mon in, I’ll cut us a slice.
” He ushers me through the front door. Once inside, I hold it open for him as he awkwardly maneuvers the crutches over the threshold.
We wander into the house, and the latest renovation almost smacks me in the face.
What used to be a hallway is now completely open, with the dining room off to the left and the living room to the right.
The former has been repainted white, and decked out with a new timber table and matching chairs.
The latter appears to have been refurnished, too.
Well, for the most part. Dad’s favorite armchair still sits across from the TV in prime position, flanked by a love seat.
“You made it in good time. Did you hit any traffic?” Dad calls from the kitchen ahead, and I turn to catch up to him.
Pie in hand, we make our way to the living room. Refusing my offer of assistance—which is ironic given that’s the entire reason I’m here—Dad gracelessly plonks himself into his armchair and reaches to take his plate of pie from me.
“So, tell me, how’d you manage to get them to give you crutches? I thought people your age normally get a wheelchair or one of those strange, motorized scooters?”
Dad almost chokes on his mouthful. “People my age?” he gasps. “Young lady, I’ll have you know that the doctor told me I’m one of the fittest fifty-two-year-olds she’s ever seen. Good genes.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Best jeans in town, or so I’ve heard,” I tease as I tap my denim-covered knee.
Dad rolls his eyes playfully. “Good heavens, kid. Which one of us is the father here? Because that there was a dad joke if I ever heard one.”
I simply grin in response. “Got it from my daddy. But seriously, what did you do, sweet talk the nice doctor into giving you crutches instead?”
“She said ‘Mr. Clark, you’re too young and fit to be lookin’ old sittin’ in a wheelchair. Here, take these crutches’, and that was that,” he says with a shrug, smirking. “I wasn’t gonna fight her on it.”
“I don’t believe a word of that,” I say, chuckling. “You’re as stubborn as they come.”
He gives me a wink before taking another bite of pie.
Randy Clark has always been one hell of a stubborn man, and age hasn’t changed that.
Between mouthfuls, we continue to chat about my drive down and the previous week, until we’ve had two servings each and we’re both sickeningly full.
“So,” Dad drawls, almost hesitantly, “how’s it feel to be back?”
An anxious laugh bubbles out just thinking about answering that question. How do I feel about being back? It shouldn’t be such a loaded question, yet it is. “From what I saw of the main street, this place hasn’t changed one bit. It’s a bit like stepping back in time; barely feels like I even left.”
“You can tell me the truth, Grace. I know you ain’t a fan of these conversations, but you can talk to me. I don’t wanna be worryin’ about you for the next eight weeks.”
“I appreciate the concern, Dad, really. But I’m fine.
” I keep a nonchalant tone, shrugging. Even if I’m not entirely fine, Dad doesn’t need my troubles on top of his own.
“It was a long time ago, I doubt he even remembers what I look like.” I flash him a teasing grin.
Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t return it. Dad has spent many years dealing with my less-than-appropriate humor response to uncomfortable situations.
Although he’s used to it, he certainly doesn’t appreciate it.
He clicks his tongue, simply saying, “If you say so, peanut.”
“Trust me, you’ll be the first to know—that is, if there’s anything to know.
” With a pat on his un-plastered knee, I collect our plates and return them to the kitchen.
The archway opening along the countertop allows me to call out to Dad from right here.
“I’m thinking I’ll head to the store around five tomorrow. ”
His head swivels around dangerously fast. “What in the heavens for?” He gapes. “We don’t open ‘til seven.”
“I know. I just wanna make sure I’ve got a handle on things before opening. I’m sure seeing me behind that counter again will be a shock to a lot of people, so I want to make sure I’m prepared and hopefully won’t fuck up on my first day.”
A light chuckle echoes through the space. I’m wandering back over when Dad replies, “You, my wonderful daughter, will be fine. And I’ll be a phone call away if you need me.”
I can’t help but sigh as I throw myself onto the couch.
He’s either somehow forgotten the purpose of me being here—despite the crutches by his side and the cast on his leg—or he’s pretending.
Regardless, I refuse to humor him. “You, my currently crippled father, will not be receiving any phone calls from me. You will stay here and rest, and I’ll be fine, just like you said.
And if I’m not, I’ll call Lorelei.” Peeking up at Dad from where I lie on the couch, he makes a disgruntled sound as he gives me the fakest smile I think I’ve ever seen him sport.
I let out a belly laugh, unable to hold it in.
Only a moment passes before he breaks his composure and joins in.
Contentment eases into me, sliding along my veins and through my chest. Despite everything I stand to face tomorrow and during the eight weeks that follow, I’m so glad I’m here with Dad.
“I’m gonna turn in, Dad. Do you need anything?”
He beams up at me and my heart squeezes. “I’m good, kiddo, thanks. Sorry ‘bout the unmade bed, though.”
With a huff, I respond, “Dad, you raised a very capable daughter who can make her own bed.” I bend down to kiss the top of his head. “Love you.”
“Love you big time, peanut.”
I take my time wandering down the second-floor hall, browsing the photo frames like art in a curated gallery.
There’s thirty pictures of Dad and me; one from every year since my birth.
I might’ve been dealt a shitty hand in regards to my absent, not-made-to-be-a-mother mother, but Dad makes up for that tenfold.
Where Mom’s inability to be a parent had left me feeling less-than, Dad had never once made me feel like a chore, or something he didn’t love with every ounce of his being.
It isn’t until I’m standing in front of my childhood bedroom, willing myself to open the door, that I realize I’ve yet to think about how this would feel. The drive here was completely occupied by thoughts of a very different reunion, leaving no time to ponder or freak out about this one.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I turn the door handle and step inside.
It’s like taking a step back in time—except for a fresh paint job, my room is exactly how I left it.
One look at my old bed brings back memories I’d rather not think about.
Whispered conversations in the dead of night, all-consuming kisses, and being wrapped in the arms of someone I once thought would be my forever home.
When I lay my head on my pillow a little while later, I swear I can almost smell him. It’s insane, because there’s no way a smell can linger for so many years, right? Willing my brain to shut off is pointless. It takes longer than I expected to fall asleep, the memories playing on an endless loop.