Whenever I thought of my dad, my implacable animosity would only focus on the misfortune of my childhood. Alcoholism. I could miss him, but then I’d remember all of his neglect. I would worry for his health without me being there to check on him and make sure he had sustenance, and then I remembered being the one at fifteen years old, working to put food in the fridge. No matter the level of concern I felt, I was always brought back to the bad times. With my mind wrapped around fourteen years of problems, I gave up on finding the light at the end of the tunnel.
Turns out changing course and finding my own light didn’t shut down that old track.
As I parked my car in the unchanging dirt driveway of my dad’s house, I recognized that dark and dreary feeling. It’s called tunnel vision for a reason. But with all concentration centered on what awaits us, I never realized it wasn’t about my light anymore.
My dad found his. It was going to take me some time to catch up.
At the front door, with Brielle’s hand in mine, I pulled back the screeching screen door, and knocked. I could hardly remember the solid, green painted door ever being shut during the day. He never turned on the air conditioning unit. A high electricity bill cut into his liquor fund.
Scanning the yard while we waited, I gave a brief pass at the parked rig to the left of the house. He had the same sandy dirt driveway, same rotting porch, and no landscape to even maintain. Not even close to presentable, but it was home. The place I grew up. A place I wanted nothing to do with by the time I hit my teens, but nevertheless drawn to from uncharted comfort.
The sounds coming from the blaring TV inside the house had me imaging him sitting in his favorite worn recliner with a bottle in hand.
Closing my eyes tightly, I regretted for a moment that I was about to introduce my daughter to his nasty habit. But I was here for Brielle. To give her the chance at knowing who her family is and where we come from.
That didn’t mean I would not pull her back through this same, old squeaky door the moment he let her down and disappointed her aspirations the way he had with mine.
My daughter has what I never had. A loving and caring parent who would always protect her.
She wasn’t entitled in any way. We’ve lived comfortably these past two years. It was the greed in this world that I tried shielding her from. Exposing her to potential let down by my dad made this difficult to be standing here. But in ways I couldn’t claim as guidance for her, Brielle retained more logic and had more heart than most adults.
He opened the door sooner than I was prepared for. Not that I would have ever been ready.
Dad looked the same as I remembered, if not a smidgen slimmer. The plaid button-up shirt drooped around his belly where it tucked into his blue jeans. He showed minimal aging in his face since the last time I saw him. Though he’s always looked older than his actual age due to his rough choices.
His clear, blue gaze trails from mine to Brielle’s. Three generations of the same cerulean, sky blue eyes drifting between all of us.
My hand protectively wraps around Brielle’s shoulder. He gives nothing away. I want to speak, but not sure how to start. I’m two for two on the awkward doorstep reunions today.
He breaks the ice.
“Well, c’mon in.” Stepping aside, he invites us in with a sweep of his hand.
As with the outside of the house, I find nothing has changed inside either.
The first place I set my eyes on is the small table beside his chair. No booze.
I stand with an uneasy bearing in the center of the living room. Of their own accord, my fingers run through the ends of Brielle’s hair in a calming manner. It’s more to ground myself than her.
Walt faces us, rubbing the back of his neck. “I never thought I’d see you back here again.” He looks down at my daughter, nodding at her and asks, “This my granddaughter, huh?”
“Brielle,” I offer him her name.
“Spittin’ image of you.”
His longing gaze projects memories I’m dubious to. She’s the same age as I had been when it all went to shit. He chose to drown his sorrows in alcohol. I assumed the result meant he forgot about his cherished little girl.
Snuffing out the resentment I feel surfacing, I ask, “How have you been, Dad?”
“Good,” he nods. “Uh, that’s relative actually…”
He trails off, not finishing his statement.
My gaze wonders around the small space, trying to find where his drink must be laying open and unattended.
“You won’t find any,” he declares. I turn back to see him watching me closely, figuring out what exactly I’m searching for.
“Going out on a run then?”
It’s automatic, I meant no judgment, but he takes my assumption as one.
“Yeah,” he says, tucking his hands in his front pockets. “Gotta run.”
We fall silent. Him watching me like I’m going to argue, but this is not the old days. I’m not his babysitter anymore.
“We won’t keep you long,” I start. “Brielle wanted to meet you. And I wanted to show her around town.”
“It’s a lot different than the city I imagine.”
“How do you know we’re living in the city?”
He scratches his head. “Have you been by Della’s or Luke’s?”
“Yes. Della was there, but Luke wasn’t. We’re going back tonight for dinner.”
Walt’s lips twitch, leaving some truth a mystery. “Ah. Well, I just figured that’s where you went to move up in the world. So, Brielle, what do you think so far?”
“I like all the little shops in town. And Ethan is a lot of fun.”
“He’s a feisty one for sure.”
Her little head tilts to the right, staring at him. “I like your drawl.”
It’s impossible for either of us to not smile at her response.
“That so? Lemme guess, you’re only around the hoity-toity folks and never met someone that talks like me.”
“What’s hoity-toity mean?”
“You can google it later.” I pat her shoulder.
“Are you in school already, Brielle?”
“Yes. We’re making a family tree. That’s why we really came. I needed pictures of my family.”
“I see,” he nods, walking over to his chair to have a seat. “Have at it, then. Take any pictures you want. Some are on the walls, and I’m sure your Momma has some left in her old room.”
I can tell her response hurt him. I can’t fathom why, he all but disowned me. But hearing her say we were only here for objective reasons and not personal ones caused a glimmer of sorrow in his eyes.
“Cool. I want to see your old room,” she tells me with excitement.
“It’s been a long time, Bri. I’m sure there’s nothing left in there.”
“I haven’t touched it. All the belongings you left behind are still in there.”
I nod, then guide her down the hall to the back of the small house. My old bedroom door coated in stickers comes into view. The pine door exhibits my obsessions from the ages nine to seventeen. Colorful ponies to adolescent attitude.
“I want stickers on my door,” Brielle says, eyes sparkling with interest.
Bold, red letters reading “Go away” takes me back to some angry times.
“We live in an apartment. Can’t put stickers on those doors.”
“Oh.”
I twist the knob and open the door. I expected dust to waft through the air upon entry, or at least get a whiff of a musty smell. It all looks the same as I left it that night six years ago. Yet, it smells like the rest of the house. Clean and familiar.
My twin size bed sits in the corner against the wall by the window. The bedspread pressed and folded nicely over the same sheets and same flat pillow. Unlike the door, my walls are bare. I never decorated the room with frilly things, or even posters of the boy bands I loved. I hated being here, and there was nothing I could hang up that would ever give me the right amount of comfort to want to be in this house for long stretches of time.
Other than my bed, I had a nightstand that is actually a short stool, and one dresser with a mirror. Nothing matched. Grandma, my dad’s mom, bought me the mattress when I turned seven. She passed away not long after that. I often wonder what could have been had she lived longer to help take care of me when Dad gave up. The dresser used to be Della’s. Her parents gave me that.
Brielle stood at the dresser peering at the few photos I left wedged between the mirror and its frame.
“That’s Della and you.”
“It is,” I reply, stepping over there to stand beside her.
“Who are those two guys with you in that one?” She points to another photo.
I peel it off the glass for her to see it better.
“That is Brady.” My finger points him out, then slides to the other guy. “And that’s Luke.”
The picture was taken in the early days of dating Brady. Della and I wanted to show off any way we could that we snagged the Bennett brothers.
“That’s my dad,” she says in a tiny voice.
It may seem harsh, but I’m glad she has no memories with her father. If Brady walking out of Brielle’s life was inevitable, then I’m thankful he did it before she could have grown an attachment. I’ve lived with the feelings of rejection from a parent stepping out on their kid. And though she’s had her moments when having no father has caused pain, I believe never knowing him has made it a slight bit easier.
“And Uncle Luke, who I’ll meet tonight.”
“Yep.”
“Can we take this picture home?”
“Sure can.”
Brielle looks around the room.
“This is a very boring room, Mommy.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I didn’t like to decorate much back then.”
“Well, I’m glad you learned. Our apartment is really pretty.”
“C’mon,” I reply, laughing.
We stepped back into the hall. She browses the framed photos. The few that remain hung up are scattered in a non-uniform fashion. Like he took down only the ones he wanted to. All the ones with my mother in them.
“You can take any that you want,” he calls out to us.
I look down at Bri to see if there’s one in particular she wants a copy of, but she walks away from my side and back into the living room with him.
“Can I take a picture with you? I want a new one.” That glimmer of hurt I saw moments ago reshapes in to one of happiness. At his nod, she turns back to me. “Will you take a picture of us, Mommy?”
I pull out my phone as she skips over to his right side. Brielle climbs up on the arm of his recliner, and Dad shifts awkwardly. She doesn’t care though, plops her little bottom on the cushion and cozies up closer.
After taking a few, Brielle inspects for approval. Dad looks over her shoulder.
“Can you send me those? I’d like to have a copy if you don’t mind,” he asks.
“Do you have a cell phone?”
He says yes, and I must make a comical expression, because his lips purse in a sulky manner.
“I’m up with the times these days, you know.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Biting the inside of my cheek, I fail at relaxing my face. He calls out his digits and I send the two best pictures from the bunch. Dad closed his eyes in the other three.
His cell chimes and he pulls it from his pocket. Seconds later the mumbling curses begin.
“Grandpa, let me help.” Brielle takes the phone from his bulky, rough hands.
My eyes shoot to him, and his to hers. We’re both stunned at the effortlessness of Brielle dubbing him Grandpa this soon. It’s natural for a child to take to their family with the kind of ease she’s demonstrating. It’s the effect on me that shocks my system. I feel it all; the elation and the pain. I’m not completely alone anymore. She has someone other than me to give all the love in her little heart to. But then there’s the regret of keeping her all to myself by rationalizing protection was what had been best. She was missing out on so much because of my selfishness.
My dad’s blue eyes sparkle as heavy puddles fill up. I can’t recall ever seeing that much emotion on his face.
Brielle sits next to him, oblivious to the tidal pool of jubilation circling her.
“There you go,” she chimes. “I put it as your lock screen too.”
“My what screen?” He clears his throat, looking down at the phone. “Oh, well, look at that. I didn’t know I could change the picture.”
“I guessed that. Why else would you have a flower as your background.”
“Okay, smarty pants.”
She giggles. “I can change the other background too.”
“Show me.”
Brielle taps on his phone some more. “This one. What do you want on it? You don’t have any photos saved to your phone. Except the ones we just took.”
“Uh…”
“Is that your truck outside?”
“My rig,” he nods.
“I can take a picture of that and save it as the background.”
“All right.”
We all walk outside together. Brielle holds Dad’s phone in position, standing back far enough to capture every foot of the big cab.
“Look at that,” he praises. “You’re quite the photographer, Brielle.”
“Thanks.” She smiles her cute grin up at him. “Can I sit in it?”
“My rig?” He repeats once again.
“Yeah. I’ve never been inside a semi truck before.”
“Sure. Let me grab my keys.”
As he walks back inside the house I take notice of the patches of grass growing alongside the fifth wheel. The driveway has always been nothing but dirt because of this vehicle, and now there’s actual grass growing. He says he’s about to go on a run soon. Why would grass be growing if driving in and out like the olds days constantly killed it?
He returns, opening the driver door and helping Brielle climb up. She asks a million questions about all gadgets and buttons and the sleeper. When he lets her pull on the horn she glistens with pure joy and giggles.
Brielle jumps over to where I stand a few feet away.
“Mommy, I’m hungry. Can Grandpa go with us to get lunch?”
“If he wants to.”
“Oh. Uh…” He shuffles side to side after locking the cab back up. “Where’re you going?”
“Can we go to the diner you used to work at?”
An uncomfortable prickle dances across my skin when I imagine the same looks we received earlier in town. My old boss still ran the diner, he would till the day he died, and unless he’s already dead, I did not want to deal with the third degree questioning on my new life.
I gaze down at Brielle, and say, “Maybe another time. I was thinking we could get something by the hotel that way we can clean up before dinner at Della’s tonight.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble. Y’all go on without me,” Dad adds.
“It’s no trouble as long as you don’t mind tagging along.”
“Please, Grandpa.” She turns those pretty blues on him, and clasps her hands together in front of her face.
He purses his lips. “Can’t really say no to that face, now can I?”
“Nope.” Brielle cheeses.
“All right then.”
Dad locks up his house and Brielle climbs in the back of my car. I’m shutting her door and about to open mine when I catch him staring at me over the roof.
He gives a small nod to where Brielle sits inside. “He’s not here if that’s what you’re worried about.”
My hand rests on the car door knob. “Della told me that too.”
“What else did Della tell you?”
I let my head fall to the side, curious by his choice of words. Although, it’s not really his words, but how he says them. My dad’s a straightforward guy. I’ve never heard sarcasm come out of his mouth.
“That he lied about why his daughter isn’t in his life. I saw all the looks from everyone in town when we got here.” I stare down into the car at Brielle sitting peacefully in her seat.
“That’s why we’re having lunch somewhere else, huh?”
I nod.
“Well. The looks won’t last much longer once Luke knows you’re back.”
“I’m not back, though.” His lips twitch with an I-beg-to-differ kind of smirk. “We’re not moving back, Dad. This is just a one time visit.”
His silent humor dies off.
This reunion has gone better than I could have ever possibly imagined, but I don’t want to mislead him or anyone else here. It may be my home town, but it’s no longer my home.
“Della and Luke have their lives here, and I have mine in Tampa.”
“Will I ever get to see Brielle again?”
I sigh, scratching a fictitious itch on my forehead. “Of course. I didn’t mean I’d never let you see her. I don’t think she’ll ever let me keep her away again.”
“Because I want that,” he says, carrying on like he didn’t hear me. “Livvie, I know I pushed you away, but it was a mistake.”
“You kicked me out.” I felt the need to rectify his meaning on “pushed away.”
“I was a stupid drunk.”
“And I’m afraid you’re only saying that right now because you are sober for the moment.”
“Then let me prove it to you.”
I lock eyes with his pleading ones. The dire need to correct his wrongs rolls atop the roof, putting the ball in my court.
“We’ll see how it goes,” I reply.
“Thank you.”
“Let’s go eat,” I say, pulling on the handle and opening my door. Before I can get both legs inside, standing with all my weight on the left foot, he speaks once again.
“I get the impression Della has left some things out while you two were catching up this morning.”
“We didn’t have long to chat. That’s why we’re gong back tonight.”
“Maybe so, but your old friend likes to play word games. Just be careful.”
That makes no sense. Della was never the type of person to play games period. She had too much confidence to worry about scheming just to get her way.
Nevertheless, I ask, “How so?”
“She’s got a bit of high horse syndrome, if you know what I mean.”
“Dad, just because her and Luke have done well for themselves, and live a huge house doesn’t make them…”
“And that’s what I’m talking about.” He points a “gotcha” finger at me. “There ain’t no Luke and Della. Her fiancé’s name is Paul, Luke’s best friend.”
Paul?
Luke’s best friend…
Oh ho ho ho. The irony is too much.
And I understand his reference to word games. Della played it very stealth. She never name dropped who her fiancé actually was. I jumped to the conclusion she and Luke were still together after all this time. Of course, I was under the assumption Luke got back together with her after I left, and we all know Brady’s a liar, but I never specifically asked about her and him as an item. Not that Della was required to clarify any of that for me. But she could have mentioned Paul. Instead, she intentionally kept saying “fiancé.”
The question, more for myself than anyone else, is simple and yet loaded like a canon full of gun powder.
Why?