October 4, 2017
“Just go even if it’s for a week,” my mom says as she shuts the refrigerator.
“What if I don’t come back and I end up on a milk carton?”
She pauses and drops the deli meat on the counter. “I don’t think they do that anymore—the milk cartons.” She thinks for a moment. “Besides, those are excuses, Alex, not reasons you shouldn’t go. You have nothing tying you to Belle’s.”
“What about Dad?”
“You aren’t responsible for your dad. I am. You’re a thirty-two-year-old beautiful writer who’s had some real tough shit happen. But that doesn’t define you. What do you have to lose?”
“Who’s going to cut Dad’s hair?”
“Red Plums.” Her answer is quick, as if not allowing her sadness to escape with her words. As if it’s just another item on her to-do list. Her eyes stretch the length of the counter. A smile barely touches her lips. She grabs the cheese and puts a slice on the bread.
“Who’s going to help you help Dad?”
“Alex, I’ll be fine. You aren’t supposed to worry about your parents. He’s not dying tomorrow.”
Both of us are silent. Weight from both our worries congregate somewhere in the middle of the kitchen, waiting for one of us to speak. Because tomorrow is only a twenty-four-hour time period. It doesn’t last forever, although I wish it would. Time passes. It’s inevitable.
“It will slowly get worse—or quickly, depending on the person,” Dr. McGoldrick said. “Middle stage of Alzheimer’s disease. Patients live four to eight years after diagnosis but sometimes twenty,” he concluded at my dad’s first appointment two years ago.
But, the way my dad’s been progressing lately, I’m not so sure twenty years is an option anymore.
Mom clicks on the television that sits on top of the refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen for a welcome distraction.
“And there you have it, folks, the tale of Andre the Seal. What an amazing little town this is. I’m Frank Burgess, reporting from Granite Harbor, Maine. Back to you in the studio, Shannon.”
My mom drops her jaw. Her eyes fall to me.
“National news?” I fight to resist the stupid idea of fate. “The story of Andre the Seal made national news? Are you kidding me? Must be a slow time of year.” I grab a piece of bread and shove it in my mouth, trying not to encourage this whole idea of twisted fate.
Serial killers, Alex. Think of serial killers.
“Who the hell is Eli?” I ask myself more rhetorically.
Mom presses her lips together and closes the sandwich. “It’s worth finding out, Alexandra. It’s worth finding out.”
“You ready, Gidget?” My dad comes in from the back door into the kitchen.
“Ready when you are.”
“Eat first.” My mom pushes a sandwich his way.
Old dad. The best dad. Philip Fisher—accountant, rancher, husband, do-gooder—has returned.
And I’m not sure what’s easier—the days where he’s himself, and I allow hope to creep back into a painted picture, only to be devastated once again when he returns from the bedroom, a blank stare asking where his pants are. I think the highs and lows are the hardest. Or the alternative, if he stayed sick, we could work on acceptance. But, as extreme as the highs and lows can be, we keep hope tied down, protected.
My dad and I drive up to my place, so he can assemble an entertainment system that he’s done a thousand times. I keep it behind Kyle’s truck in the garage.
He’ll ask for a few specific tools when we settle in the living room, and then he’ll remember he brought his own tools after I make the comment.
I’ll ask him if he wants a bottle of water at the beginning, and he’ll nod.
He’ll get frustrated when he assembles the drawers but not enough to where anyone else can tell.
I’ll ask him if he needs help.
“No, Gidget,” he’ll say.
Larry will sit, lounging next to my dad, watching.
He’ll complain about craftsmen work these days compared to thirty years ago. He’ll tell me a story about his dad, my grandfather.
I hate to love this time with him. I hate when he smiles brightly and looks adoringly in my direction. He’ll tell me how proud he is of me and the way I turned out. I hate this time because, tomorrow, it’s only the memories that I’ll have. Not his memories, just mine. By tomorrow, he’ll ask when he can put the entertainment center together, just him and me. Because, tonight, I’ll take the whole thing apart, put it back behind Kyle’s truck, and pray he won’t ask again. But he will. He always does.
We pull up to my house that overlooks Belle’s Hollow. It’s the hill just over from my parents’. We’re used to the views that allow us to see the entire Eel River Valley. The Eel River snakes through the middle as a redwood tree line runs around the perimeter of thirty square miles, the Pacific Ocean on the right. Patched lands of green are threaded together by a fence line.
Dad rocks back on his heels, pushes his cowboy hat off his face, and scratches his forehead. His old, worn jean jacket and faded Wranglers wouldn’t tell you that he comes from old money. That he became an accountant to help his father financially get his affairs in order before the cancer came back again.
“Dad?” I walk to him, and my stomach drops as I wait to see if it’s him or a man I usually meet on a weekly basis who threatens our hearts.
“Gidget, this view never gets old.”
I breathe in relief, allowing it to reach the deepest spots in my lungs.
“I need a few tools.” He hesitates. “Kyle have any?”
I know why he paused. Kyle and my dad were close. But he didn’t pause for himself; he paused for me, carefully stepping around the pieces of my heart that I’m slowly trying to gather, trying to find a new spot for in this life.
“You’re not going to find what you’re looking for here, Gidg.”
I stop. This isn’t part of the song and dance we do. The protocol. This is new.
“Overheard you and Mom.” He takes off his hat this time and taps the brim with his other hand. “I know I’m sick. I know that I’m slipping. I know that it kills you and Mom—the fact that I can’t remember things. But, Gidget, you’re not going to save me. You can’t stop living because of Kyle. You can’t stop living because I’m sick. You need to find a new beat. A new step. Something different than here.”
I stare at him. “What if I can’t?”
Dad walks to me and takes me in his arms. His familiar scent brings me back to when I was ten.
“But, Daddy, I can’t do it.” My lower lip quivered from behind the curtain. “There are a lot of people out there. I just can’t.”
My father got down on his knees and pushed a strand of hair from my eyes. “Gidget, look at me. I’ve seen you shoot a rattlesnake clean between the eyes to protect a calf. I’ve seen you take a kick to the gut from Skeeter, and then, out of pure determination, you got back on and rode him. You have to meet your fear at the doorway and knock it on its face. You can’t get anywhere in life if fear stands a chance.”
“But, it’s easier, Daddy. It’s easier not to go out there.”
He took my hands in his. “Easy is a two-way street that’s full of decisions and right roads that we didn’t have to make.”
“You have to meet your fear at the doorway, Gidg.” My dad’s voice brings me to the present moment. I’m still against the folds of his jean jacket. “Oh, I have that tool set I left here last Christmas.”
I nod, pulling away, holding down the grief and hope, which creates a nauseating feeling.
We walk inside, and I throw my keys on the kitchen counter. “Dad, want some water?”
“Yeah, Gidg. Water would be great.”
As my dad works, I pretend not to watch him as I sit in the dining room at my computer. Still, Larry sits at his side, waiting for a free hand to wander in his direction.
My phone dings. It’s a text from Bryce.
Bryce: I met him.
Me: Him who?
Bryce: The one.
Me: Where? At 215 Lounge?
Bryce: This isn’t a Netflix Original. This is the rest of my life, Alex.
Me: Well, all right then. When do I get to meet him?
Bryce: He’s not from here. Honestly, it was a one-night stand. He’s gone. I didn’t get his number. Nothing. I’m so pissed at myself.
It’s not like her at all. Not even close. But she already knows that, and I’m not going to tell her something she already knows.
Me: Pissed at yourself because you did it or pissed because you didn’t get his number?
Bryce: Both. :( I’ll call you later. I’m going to take a cold shower and wash off his remnants.
There’s no connection with that side of me anymore—the love part, the sexual part, the need for someone else’s hands on my body. Someone to take care of my needs with his own is gone. After Kyle died, I’ve been perfectly comfortable with dying as an old cat lady.
But the questions poke around in the parts of my mind that Kyle always seemed to take care of. What if I’m not? What if part of me doesn’t want to die as an old cat lady? What if I just need a change of pace? What if my dad is right? What if my mom’s words are truer than I thought?
Maybe I’m not going to find what I’m looking for here.
But what if I’m too scared to take the leap?