“Dad?” It was late when I got home. Well, late for my dad. He usually went to bed by eight, and it was already past nine.
When he didn’t answer, I set my purse down on the cluttered, Formica table and weaved my way through the small house.
My childhood home—a cozy three bedroom, two bath with tight corners—had furniture packed in every available space. My dad bought this house for my mom when they were first married. They’d planned to upgrade when they had kids. But shortly after I was born, my mom got sick, and their plans halted.
After my mom passed away, my dad never considered leaving. Plus, there wasn’t any reason to with only the three of us.
Where my dad and brother were content to be cramped and close in the old, museum of a house, I had wanted to flee somewhere since I could remember. I’d moved out as soon as possible, headed for school and the big goals I’d set for myself.
Coming back here after everything that had happened felt strange, misplaced. I was too big for this house. Too old. I had shed this skin a long time ago, but somehow had to figure out a way to wear it again.
I had nowhere else to go.
Plus, Dad needed me.
I found him asleep in his favorite chair, a faded blue recliner that creaked every time the footrest popped up. The TV remote rested loosely in his hand and one of his house shoes dangled precariously from the tip of his toe.
Quietly, I slipped the remote from his grip and grabbed the nearest throw blanket, gently tossing it over his legs. He barely fit in the recliner meant for normal-size humans. My dad was tall, bulky and built from a lifetime as a mechanic. He routinely had to duck under doorframes and squeeze into tight spaces like cars, hallways and the Grand Canyon.
But that was my dad, oversized and larger than life even if he was more likely to shy away from conversation and people. He was absent a lot when Vann and I were younger. He had to work all the time just to make ends meet, and after my mom died, it was hard for him to come home anyway.
There were too many reminders of mom. Every room was touched with her decorating style and framed pictures of before she got sick. In a corner of the backyard sat the remnants of her abandoned garden. The ground had never recovered, tangled with weeds thanks to our neglect, but reminiscent of her all the same. And us— Vann and me— spitting images of the woman he had loved so deeply and lost so early.
So he stayed away, isolating himself from the aching memories and painful present. We had everything we needed, but never enough of what we wanted. And so my lonely childhood had turned into an adolescence filled with desperation to escape. But now my exodus had turned into a last-resort homecoming to take care of the man that had done everything he could to take care of me.
These were things I accepted a long time ago. And whatever bitterness or resentment I felt during those earlier years had faded in the light of his real love for us.
I had come to accept his distant role in our lives, even count on it. It was easier to have a father that loved me but didn’t want anything to do with me when I was doing things I shouldn’t—when I was living a life he would never approve of anyway. His love was real. I told myself that was all that mattered.
And now, looking down at him while he slept in his favorite chair, I actually believed it.
He stirred, probably sensing me staring at him. Heavy eyelids fluttered open, and he rubbed his face with one of his big, rough hands.
When I was a child, I was morbidly fascinated with his huge hands. As a mechanic, his hands were constantly black, streaked with dirt and oil and whatever else he worked on. He would stumble through the kitchen door at the end of his shift smelling like the equipment he worked on and covered in grease. Those big, dirty hands of his would lift to give us all a weary hello, and then he’d turn to the sink and start scrubbing.
They were clean now. He had to retire two years back when he first got sick. It wasn’t cancer yet, but he was too sick to keep up his manual-labor lifestyle. Thankfully, his pension could cover all his medical expenses.
“Vera May,” he mumbled sleepily.
“Hi, Daddy.” My voice stayed a whisper even though he was awake now.
“Just getting home?”
I gave him the tired smile I imagined he gave me all those years. Our roles were reversed now. I was the one wandering in after a long day’s work, exhausted and filthy. My clothes were covered in dried paint and my skin in salty sweat from working in the heat all afternoon.
“Yeah,” I affirmed through a yawn. Sliding down on the couch nearby, I plopped my bare feet on the coffee table and tipped my head back. My eyes closed without permission.
His warm chuckle floated through the quiet room. “You’re working yourself too hard. You haven’t even opened yet.”
I lifted one droopy eyelid and shot him a stern frown. “Says the man that worked two jobs his entire life.”
He chuffed a laugh. “Not because I wanted to. That was for survival.”
I tilted my head back against the couch and closed my eyes tightly again. “Yeah, well this is for survival too.”
I heard the creak of the recliner as my dad sat up as quickly as he was capable of. “Why do you say that now? Have you heard from him? Has he been bothering you again?”
I shook my head, keeping my eyes closed. “No, it’s not him. I haven’t seen or heard… He hasn’t bothered me.” Banished memories flooded my mind unbidden. My heart kicked into a gallop, pounding against my chest, beating to break free from the nightmare of my past. I opened my eyes, hoping to escape the thoughts that seemed to imprison me even after a year of freedom. Meeting my dad’s worried gray gaze, I said, “This is for me. This is all for me.”
His forehead scrunched, pulling his wrinkled skin into deep lines. “I’m proud of you, Vere. You know that, don’t you?”
I looked at my dad, a shadow of the strength and stability he used to be. He was so sick now. He quite literally worked himself to death. But, he was still the same man I grew up trusting. He was still the same man that provided for Vann and me when all he wanted to do was crumble and give up. He was still the man that had given me his approval when I ran away to Europe, even though he was the one that had to stay to fight my battles and banish my demons.
My dad was a survivor. A lot of my life had been spent running from this house… running from the things that I thought I didn’t want. But I wanted his strength now. I wanted to be a survivor, too—exactly like my dad.
I cleared my throat, so he didn’t hear the emotion clogging it. “I know, Daddy.”
He leaned forward, earnest for me to understand. “And not just about the food truck, yeah? I’m proud of you for all of it. For getting out. For knowing when to get out.”
I swallow back more tears and the lies I felt coating my tongue. My dad only knew part of the story. He only knew the sugar-coated version I could bear to give him. But what he knew was bad enough.