Chuck It: Giving in and trying a new dive.
I FINISH my run at Uncle Phil’s doorstep more than an hour behind schedule. I’ve been to his house loads of times. But today, when I hear “Mercy, Mercy” playing inside, I can’t help but think, For me or him?
I take a deep breath and raise my fist to knock, but the heavy wooden door swings open before my hand makes contact. A tall woman with shoulder-length hair and smooth, brown skin startles at seeing me on the stoop. I get it. I’ve never seen Uncle Phil with a woman, and this one just caught me standing with my fist raised like a lawn jockey missing a lantern. She directs her face to the sunflower in her hand and rushes past me to her car. No introduction needed, I guess.
“I’ve been wondering when you might show up,” Uncle Phil says evenly. He holds the door open for me with his eyes fixed to the curb. “I called to confirm your arrival, but it seems you missed my calls. Please. Come in.”
“For a minute there, I thought you sensed me coming up the walkway,” I tell him. “My mom had a habit of answering the door before visitors knocked.”
“Your mother’s intuition has always been unparalleled. Unfortunately for me, the ability to anticipate things before they transpire isn’t a skill I possess.”
“She’s a tough act to follow in more ways than one.”
“Indeed she is. But I have no doubt you’ll make her proud.”
Uncle Phil’s woodsy aftershave hits me as I step past him into his huge foyer, making the pulse under my jawbone do a quick rat-a-tat-tat as I bend to remove my shoes. That smell used to be a normal part of our house. Now all I smell at home is booze and dirty dishes and the trash that needs to be taken out.
The heavy console table in the entryway holds an enormous vase of sunflowers that makes me stop short again. There were always flowers in this house, and anytime I came with Mom she would pluck one from the vase to keep for herself before leaving. But sunflowers were always her favorite. I guess seeing them in the hands of someone else leaving his house got to me.
“You look much like Sophia at the moment, lost in reverie, I’m loath to take you out. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I mean yes and no. That’s sort of why I’m here. Sorry about being late. I ran into a friend while I was out running. I should have checked my phone.” I pull it out and shake it like an Etch A Sketch before seeing I missed two calls from his number. “Nice choice of flowers,” I say, flipping a glance at the vase. “You didn’t happen to leave some at the cemetery earlier, did you? I’m asking for a friend.”
“Any friend in particular?”
“I’ll give you one guess.”
“Bruce Mackey. I presume. Sunflowers weren’t my choice for your father’s grave, though I did notice some were left for your mother. Did I ever tell you that my affinity for flowers was passed to me from a very special patient who saw meaning in multiple symbols?”
“Is the woman who just left the very special patient?”
“Not quite. We work together. She was, however, delivering the bouquet along with some research materials she neglected to round up on my behalf. Generally, I don’t allow staff to come to my home but the circumstances were extenuating. The patient I was referring to passed away unexpectedly, much like your father.”
My eyes dart around the living room, first to the massive bookshelves, then the wall of glass doors that overlook the canyon, and finally the marble fireplace, lit with a small fire even though it’s nearly seventy degrees today. When my mom was alive she’d leave or forget things here all the time. A cardigan sweater, her pill case, and most often her reading glasses. I do another quick scan for anything that might give away the presence of the woman who just left, but the place is spotless, not a bobby pin or glass stamped with lipstick that would suggest he’s lying.
“You’re looking around like you’ve never seen the place before.”
“I was just thinking about the times Mom brought me here while you were in the middle of doing research. There were always books and stacks of papers everywhere. Remember how she was always losing her reading glasses?”
“I recall trying to remedy that situation by buying her several extra pairs for Christmas.” He plucks a petal from a flower and rubs it between his fingers. “I suppose I’ve grown more fastidious over the years. Publishing my research still remains the crux of my career, of course. Without the recognition that comes from doing research, I’d just be another shrink without legacy.”
Another shrink like Dad.
I don’t say it, and neither does Uncle Phil.
Before they had their falling out he and Dad would joke about the difference in the paths they took in their field. Dad used to say Uncle Phil liked to read about himself in print. And Uncle Phil said Dad liked to hear his name during interviews with athletes. I don’t see much difference. They both wanted recognition.
So do I. Maybe that has everything to do with nature and nurture.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asks.
I nod before realizing I’ve stepped into Uncle Phil’s living room.
“It’s perfectly normal to reflect on the past when presented with the anniversary of a loved one’s death. But it is curious that the focus of your thinking today is on your mother and not your father.”
“Mom brought me here more. Her vibe kind of hangs all over this place.”
“Perhaps you bring that vibe with you.” He tips his head slightly. “You know you’re always welcome here, Theo. Especially if it makes you feel closer to your mother. We are family, regardless of contrary opinion. Let’s have a seat so you can tell me more about this project you mentioned yesterday. I gather it has you thinking more about your own legacy, which could prove beneficial in the end if all goes according to plan.”
“It’s definitely bringing up questions about the nature of family.”
“It’s a concept that can’t always be easily defined. Growing up in foster care, as your mother and I did, forced us to look for our families outside the parameters of the strictest definition. The result of those searches culminated in you considering me as your uncle. Not all families are as simple as mother, father, sister, brother.”
Uncle Phil rolls up the sleeves on his light-blue button-down as I sink into a brown leather chair opposite him. He picks up his silver Zippo lighter from his glass side table and flips it around in his hand, tapping the edge against his thigh on each rotation. Waiting for me to speak again.
“I know you always carry that lighter, but I don’t remember ever seeing you smoke.”
I know it’s a diversion. He does too. I see it in his eyes before he humors me with a response.
“I did smoke,” he says. “Once upon a time. The lighter is more of a talisman now that represents an old friend, as well as an older more egregious habit.”
“I guess the matches I keep under my mattress are sort of the same thing.”
“Depends on whether or not you still light them.”
I look away. Truth is, I have struck a few matches, in the shower or bathroom sink, but never near anything flammable.
“Have you tried speaking with your grandfather about the fire yet?”
“You mean have I told him it was my fault?” I shake my head.
“Is it better to continue holding onto the guilt?”
“If the truth ends up being the thing that kills him, too, then yes. I have enough Mackey blood on my hands.”
“You started the fire, Theo. But you’re hardly a killer. Telling him might be cathartic.”
Uncle Phil and I have talked about this before, the fire being an accident. It doesn’t change the facts.
“I’m curious,” he says, “about your grandfather’s health. I’ve heard, well, you’re the best person to tell me how he’s doing.”
“I think he has a cold. Other than that he’s as cranky as ever. More when he’s been drinking a lot. The same old GP.”
Uncle Phil taps the lighter under his chin. “Does he know you came to me for help with your family history?”
“I brought up the idea this morning and he sort of snapped. I got the feeling he might start locking himself in his office again. Remember when I told you he used to do that and ignore me completely? Sometimes for days.”
“I recall you mentioning that behavior, yes. Alcohol abuse can sometimes come in waves, making a person more or less inclined to maintain normal behaviors, including eating and pursuing hobbies. It’s a disease closely linked to depression.”
“The only hobbies GP has that I know of are arguing with Curtis and fishing. I used to hear him tinkering behind his office, right after Dad died. It sounded like he was tearing and shuffling papers. I pictured him building model airplanes or something. Isn’t that the kind of thing retired people do?”
“It’s the kind of thing people with a collecting instinct do.” Uncle Phil leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Do you mean to tell me in all this time you’ve never been inside your grandfather’s office?”
“No, I have. Chip and I picked the lock once after Dad died. Once I saw the row of empty Jack Daniel’s bottles on his desk, I figured I’d seen enough.” Something tells me to leave out the part about seeing GP’s gun in a drawer because that gave me nightmares too. “It’s just a messy paneled office with a desk and chairs,” I tell him. “His man cave or whatever. My whole situation with GP stresses me out. Can we talk about Mom instead?”
“Of course. Your mother has always been my favorite subject.” He leans back in his chair and picks a piece of lint off his pants. “I haven’t found anything concrete I can give you in the limited time I’ve had, but I’m happy to keep digging and share everything I know or can ascertain about the Rogans as soon as possible.”
“Whatever you can give me will help. GP said he’d try to help out with the Rogan side. But even if he gets too drunk and forgets, my class is going to the county clerk’s office on Monday. They should have something on file.”
“This Monday?” he asks. “I’m not sure if you’ll discover anything via that route. The files on foster and adopted kids are often sealed. But I’ll be interested to hear what they can offer you.”
“Me too.”
I chew the inside of my cheek and stare at the golden flames flickering in the fireplace. It doesn’t take long for me to become mesmerized. I should tell him the other stuff, right now. While the fire is hot (pun intended). But I don’t.
“I don’t need a degree in psychology to see there’s something else on your mind,” Uncle Phil says.
I sigh and let it rip. “I do need your help with something besides Mom,” I tell him. “Something my dad wouldn’t have been able to solve with affirmations and mantras.”
“This is about diving?”
“I wish it were that simple.”