He lived in a clean, upper-end trailer park in a nice neighborhood, with small but tidy, freshly manicured front yards. When I found the unit with his address across the front, I turned nervous, but mostly for the unknown. I was curious about this man, my father. A million thoughts ran through my head. How old was he? What did he look like? Did he resemble me? Would I recognize him somehow? What kind of person was he? I walked up the steps and knocked on the front door with all these questions. A large dog barked from inside.
And that’s when he opened the door and stared at me.
The first thing I noticed was his blue eyes, because they were mine. He was younger than I thought he’d be; dads were old. But he looked like he was barely hitting his forties. I also thought he’d be a little rougher looking. Though he did have brown stubble over his cheeks and around his lips, his overall look was one of respect, soberness, and thoughtfulness. I knew his kind: middle class, hard working, a man of few words. He had a high, long billed, truck driver hat on, and I wondered if that was his occupation, driving trucks. He could surely see the questions written on my face as we stared at each other for the very first time.
“Are you Wayne Robbins?” I asked. Stupid question, since I already knew he was. But I couldn’t think of another way to start the conversation.
“Yes,” he answered in a thick Missouri accent.
“Hi.” I reached out my hand. “I’m Rose’s daughter, Heather Robbins.” I hadn’t planned on shaking his hand; handshakes were formal. I hadn’t anticipated wanting to shake his hand. But I guess it was pretty natural to want some form of connection when first meeting a family member.
Automatically he shook my hand. His was rough and calloused, strong and capable, and felt good inside mine. But after a moment his eyebrows stitched together and his grip tightened.
To answer his silent question, I said, “I’m pretty sure we’re related.”
He didn’t say anything. He’d put it together quicker than I’d expected. By the look on his face I think he forgot that babies eventually grow up and become adults.
“Can I come in?” I was blown away by my composure; my hands didn’t fidget once. Calm interest replaced nerves on this occasion.
When he held the collar of the big, panting golden retriever and unblocked the doorway, I stepped into my father’s home.
The décor was more feminine than I’d pictured it. A large, framed cross-stitch of an old, Victorian-style home surrounded by colorful flowers was hanging from the dark, wood-lined walls. Two fake flower wreaths hung from a sidewall, and the same fake flowers were in a white glass vase on top of a small side table. A beige colored couch lined the back wall, and a coffee table rested in front with an open crossword puzzle book resting on top. Though the carpet was the same dark brown as the walls, the home didn’t feel dim. It felt homey and peaceful.
I gradually made my way toward a shelf, studying two plaques there. My father remained silent as I examined the shelf—I was right, a man of few words. The plaques were some sort of government or union awards that read “Manager of the Year” above my father’s name. Two years in a row he’d received the award; he was a hard worker. The shelf also held a small picture consisting of my father, a brown haired lady, and a guy about my age wearing glasses.
I couldn’t help but pick up the picture to study it. It didn’t make sense that I was examining a picture of him to see what he looked like, when the real him was right behind me. But pictures were easier to stare at. He was slender, but had a tall, strong body. His mouth wasn’t the smiling kind, I could tell by the picture. But his eyes were. And in the photo he was happy.
“Is this lady someone special?”
“My wife of seven years. She’ll be home from the bakery at five. She works there.”
I could tell he didn’t know what to say; he was uncomfortable.
“And the guy with the glasses?”
“My stepson. He’s at college, in Minnesota.”
The picture must’ve been relatively recent since my father looked pretty much the same and the kid had on a cap and gown, obviously his high school graduation. I couldn’t help but feel of tinge of jealousy that my father went to this boy’s graduation and not mine, but I quickly shirked the emotion. Nothing from the past.
The boy and his mom looked alike. They seemed like normal, nice people, from what the picture told.
“I’ve thought about you,” he said from behind me. I knew from the way his voice lost it’s strength, it hadn’t been easy for him to admit.
It took a moment for me to answer. “I’ve thought about you, too.” I placed the frame back on the shelf and turned to rub the head of the large dog that had been brushing against me since my arrival. Paying attention to the dog seemed a good way to hold back my emotions. “What do you do for a living?” I asked, glancing away from the dog and up toward him for a brief second. He’d taken off his hat and was holding it in his hand.
“I work road construction for the government.”
“And you’re in management?”
“I head a small crew. We work from three in the morning until two, every day but Sunday.”
“You must be good at what you do.”
“Well, I don’t…” He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”
I was still standing, wondering if I should take a seat or if he wanted me to leave.
He said a moment later, “Do you want something to drink?”
“No thanks, I’m good.”
I took that as an invitation to sit, so I walked to the side of the coffee table and sat on the light blue recliner in the corner of the room. The dog followed and sat right over my feet, which caused me to laugh.
“Bessie doesn’t usually take to strangers so well.”
“Yeah, I think she likes me.” I reached down to pat her, but her head lifted and licked my hand instead.
It was odd to be talking to the man I’d speculated about for so long. It was even stranger to look in his eyes; it was like I was looking in the mirror.
By the way he slowly walked around the coffee table and sat tightly, I could tell he was way more ruffled than I was. I had so many questions, but they would overwhelm this type of man. I thought I might not like him, but I do like him. I found myself wanting him to be comfortable around me. I thought maybe if I asked surface questions….
“Do you like crossword puzzles?” I pointed toward the coffee table.
“I do two or three every day after work.”
I wanted to know him more, ask him all of my questions. Now wasn’t the time, though. And if I didn’t leave soon, they would start pouring out of me. I didn’t have the self-control to stay in a tempting situation without succumbing. “Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to meet you.”
He got up with me.
“I probably should have called first, but your number’s not listed. I hope I didn’t impose. I’m glad I came over.”
He responded by moving around the coffee table. It was Bessie who actually started to whine when I opened the door to leave. How did animals know?
“Okay, well, it was nice to meet you.” And I turned to leave.
“Heather?” I heard from behind me. I never thought I’d hear my dad say my name, my eyes burned immediately. I swallowed back the emotion and turned toward him. “Will you come back and meet my wife?” Was it my ears, or was his voice shaking too?
“Yeah, I will.”
“Her name’s Meg.”
“Okay.”
It was all right that he didn’t return my smile or wave. I met my father, Wayne Robbins. And I liked my father. And even though Bessie showed more affection than him, he asked me to come back. It was more than I could have ever asked for.
*******
All I could think of that night was telling Nick about meeting my dad—not the Nick who kissed his fiancé in the cafeteria, but the one who took me four wheeling. My Nick would be so proud of me. He had this way of celebrating my achievements with ju
st a look, or a few, heartfelt words. I had to remind myself that these type of cravings—to share my successes and failures and sentiments with him—was normal and would eventually disappear. And besides, he wasn’t my Nick.
But could I call him and tell him? Just because he was getting married didn’t mean we couldn’t be friends. Or did it?
Who was I kidding? We could never be friends. Because I couldn’t imagine a true celebration without his lips loving on mine.
*******
I shut the front door with my foot, quickly tossed my wallet on the counter, dumped my clean laundry from basket to bed, and then answered my buzzing phone. “Hello?” I said as a question rather than a greeting. “Anonymous” and “California” written on my caller ID threw me for a minute.
“Heather?”
“Yeah?”
“Hi, Heather. I don’t know if you remember me very well. It’s Nick’s sister, Emily.”
“Oh my gosh, Emily!” Emily? Oh my gosh! “Of course I remember you! Hi! How are you?” I moved the clothes to the side and sat on the edge of my bed.
“Really good,” she told me. “How are you?”
“I’m great! Wow, you sound so old.” I quickly did the math in my head, but asked to be sure, “How old are you now?”
“I’m sixteen.”
“No way! It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.” This was one of those times that really did feel long, unlike other times when my reflections took the place of all those years apart. But I still remembered Nick’s sweet younger sister, Emily. When we’d first met, the breezy, blue-eyed twelve-year-old had taken to me instantly. Asking me to sleep with her one night, making sure I was coming back for Christmas, and wanting my constant attention was all memorable proof that I quickly and easily became the older sis she never had. “It’s great to hear your voice.”
“Yeah, you too.”
“What’s going on? What’s up?” I was so excited to hear from her. Other memories that flooded into my mind were welcome ones too, happy ones. I wondered how she got my number.
“I wanted to talk to you about Nick. He seemed a little bit off when I talked to him last week on the phone.”
To respond how I wanted would be presumptuous. Of course he’s off, he’s with her instead of me, I joked with that untimed humor of mine.
“And I hate to see my brother like this. He’s been through so much in his life and I don’t want him to go through anything else that might make him sad again.”
“I know,” I agreed.
“I thought you would. I don’t know if you realize, but he was finally beginning to be happy again when he got engaged. I hope you don’t take this wrong, and I’m not trying to be rude, but I don’t want anything to mess up his life again, whether it’s you or anything else.”
Silence.
“His fiancé is a good person, and she makes him happy. I don’t think anyone should mess with that. You do want him to be happy, don’t you?”
Was I supposed to answer that? For me to say that to myself was hard enough. But to hear it from someone else? Especially his sister? I was ready to be humble with my own thoughts, but not hers.
“Um, Emily?”
“Yes?”
“I get what your saying. You want me out of the picture. But don’t you think that’s Nick’s choice?”
“I’m not trying to butt into my older brother’s business. I called because I wanted you to know that before you came along Nick was happy. And now he’s sad. If you’re making my brother sad, why not leave him alone? You should think about it.”
“I think you’re a nice sister to be worried about your brother,” I said right away. I didn’t need to think about it. I didn’t need to think about anything after all the thinking I’d done. “But I also think Nick can take care of himself.” What I failed to tell her was that I was already out of the picture. But a sixteen-year-old little sister had just made me feel stepped on, and I didn’t want to feel any more flattened.
“Okay,” she said. “Good to talk to you.”
“Mm, you too.”
And she hung up.
*******
I’d thought about him a lot over the next few weeks. His sister’s phone call only did the opposite of what she intended it to do. You don’t fall out of love immediately, after all. Sometimes the love never dies, and I was pretty sure this would be the case with him. A spot in my heart would always exist for the guy who made life worth living while I rested in a coma. Dreaming for years about his smiles, his calm demeanor, the way he loved me, our chemistry together, everything that made us so right once upon a time, that kind of love doesn’t die overnight, or even over a lifetime. I was okay with this. I was coming to grips with the fact that he could still have a place in my heart if not in my arms. I was still working on the amount of my heart that he had, but if I couldn’t fix it, time would.
Maybe it was because I’d met my father that I was still hopeful with my life. Or maybe because I’d found another kind of love in my jewelry creations. Or maybe it was neither, and I just liked to have hope. God only knew what I was hoping for, but at least someone did.
Chapter 13
Saturday morning Liz and I planned to meet at the grocery store, but she was a no-show. After putting the groceries in my car, I grabbed my phone to call her. But my phone buzzed with what I assumed was her incoming call.
I was so shocked to see his name on my caller ID instead that I answered on the first ring. I heard him mumbling in the background, and then the call ended. Five seconds later his call came in again. Same thing: from far away he said my name and then what sounded like a few sharp words, and then the call died. When it happened a third and fourth time I turned worried. Something was wrong.
After knocking several times, I let myself in. Because the exterior of his home looked the same, I expected the interior to as well. I was wrong. I didn’t even recognize the inside. The walls were painted in an inviting taupe color and the trim and doors were attached. It looked like a home rather than the whitewash maze of last time.
Now that the cabinets were in and the finish work was done, my fireplace looked out of this world. I might have stayed and stared until dark if I hadn’t heard the front door close. I turned my head to see Aunt Eliza emerge from the entry.
“Hey sweetie. I thought that was your car.”
“Eliza.” I wasn’t expecting her. “I’m completely trespassing. I was looking for Nick, but I guess he’s not here. Sorry—”
“You might want to check behind the house,” she interrupted. “He’s living in the shed he built, until the house is done.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
When I passed her to walk out the front door, her hand fell on my shoulder. I tried to process the look she gave as our faces met, but it didn’t seem compatible with any other vibe I’d received lately. Liz didn’t mention his name anymore, Creed never talked about him, little sister Emily practically told me to leave the country, the last picture I had of Nick was him macking on his fiancé, and I was expecting the same type of lovely reinforcement from Aunt Eliza.
Her hand squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t give up on him. He’ll come around.”
They were words from a higher source, in a language I didn’t understand; it was like faith floated in from another dimension, from some far away, bighearted, bounteous world.
I turned and wrapped my arms and my earnest emotions around her. She didn’t know what I knew about Nick’s decision, but for some reason it still felt glorious to have someone on my side, who still believed in me, in us. Normally the thought would be too painful to dwell on. But my love was learning how to expand—selfless, generous, the right way to love someone.
“Thank you,” I told her.
She softly patted my back and then let me leave in silence.
The shed Nick lived in was a single room. Two pillows and a brown duvet atop a bed and box spring on a thinly carpeted floor, finely constructed built-in shelves lining a sid
ewall, a small kitchen with the barest necessities, and a flat screen hanging from the wall were the extent of the furnishings. Meandering a small circle around the unoccupied, dinky living space, I noticed little details that were distinctly him. Only two books took up shelf space, both on architecture. An empty, extra pulp orange juice box sat on the counter—he loved his OJ with extra pulp. The pillows on his bed were pushed to the sidewall, of course—he always slept on his stomach and always without a pillow.
As I passed the kitchen I opened a top drawer, finding papers, a few scattered pens and pencils, and a guitar pick.
A memory leaked into my head. I allowed it, journeying through the forgotten memory from so long ago:
They were sitting on his bed in his house from college, and he was working the guitar, playing a song he’d written. It was a song about them, about her. He sang about how she was his pillow when he was tired, and his feast when he was hungry and the wit inside a joke and the courage in his fears. He sang about their first date together, how she was a cool swim in a fresh lake, and a daring climb up an apartment deck, and a rousing motorcycle ride down a dark mountainside. And the chorus continued:
You’re my air, you are a vision
I breathe you and I see
You are music, you’re my soul
You are a thousand perfect things to me
The last note went flat and the guitar twanged when she tackled him into her arms.
The memory ended with him rolling on top of me. I couldn’t revisit the intimate memories any longer without serious side effects, so I cut them off. Reverently, I placed the guitar pick back in the drawer, on top of a piece of paper with Nick’s writing on it. Curious, I lifted the note…addressed to Paige. A car door slammed from outside and I panicked, the note quickly finding its way into my pocket and then the drawer slamming shut—how quickly my righteous intentions turn wicked.
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