Chapter 54
Standing in the foyer, I tossed my work shoes onto the porch.
My mom’s car was gone. She was probably taking boxes to her new apartment since she refused to hire a moving crew to save money, worried about the tariffs that were supposed to be coming in a couple of weeks.
There were murmurings that the administration was planning to cut HUD’s workforce in half, including in the civil rights and disaster rebuilding arms, where my mom worked.
She didn’t talk about this. I heard it on the news.
In the living room, my dad convulsed in his sleep like someone being electrocuted.
“Daddy.”
He didn’t move. I jostled his shoulder. He blinked awake.
“It’s time to change your bandage.”
“I’ll do it later.”
I sat on the sofa arm and stared at him.
It was the only way to get him to listen, silently crowd his space.
Eventually, with great effort, he rose. I hooked my arm around his, and we shuffled slowly to the staircase.
I grabbed his crutches out of the closet and walked behind him as he climbed, one step at a time.
It occurred to me that, even if he fell, I couldn’t catch him.
In the bathroom, he lowered himself onto the closed toilet seat, resting his hands on his thighs, an oddly prim posture on him.
I washed my hands then popped on a pair of disposable gloves, carefully unwinding the damp, yellowed bandage.
I felt him frowning down at me as he observed this role reversal.
He looked almost sweet when he wasn’t talking.
I cradled the dry, cracked heel of his foot with one hand and cleaned the wound with warm water and soap with the other after checking for swelling, strange coloring.
“Does it hurt still?”
He shook his head.
I wrapped a new bandage around his foot. Then, peeling off my gloves, rose to wash my hands. He was staring at the wall.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Moving to Brazil.”
“Let’s move, then.”
He chuckled. “With what money?”
“From my novel when I sell it!”
He threw me an amused look. “How much do they go for?”
“A novel?”
“Mm-hm.”
“I dunno. I think it’s enough to move to Brazil.” I saw an opening. “How are you feeling about Mommy?”
“What the hell you mean, how do I feel? She’s leaving me.”
He had a point. “Have you… maybe you should try therapy.”
“For what?”
“To help you cope with everything.”
“What they got to tell me I don’t already know?” He pressed his hand to the wall, wobbling to a stand. He was hobbling down the hallway with his crutches when, in a last-ditch effort, I called, “I’m here if you wanna talk.”
Nia’s accusation was a knife turning in my stomach. I served shitty food. I failed to write what was in my heart. I wanted what I wanted no matter the moral price. I was not the kind of person who changed the world. I was the kind of person who wandered it, lost.
I watched my dad’s back disappear into his room, feeling young and useless, like everything I knew was nothing when it started to matter.