His brow furrowed as he stared at me. His expression was wounded, and I hated myself for the pang of guilt I felt. He'd never felt guilty for anything he'd done, so why should I? "Your sister is comin' by to see you real soon. Says she hasn't seen you in a few years."
"Oh, did you think it was just you?" I asked with a cynical smile.
"Listen, Shelly, I'm not drinking anymore. I'm sober, go to the meetin's and everything."
Likely story. I rolled my eyes before reminding him once more, "It's Michelle."
"You used to like it when I called you Shelly."
"When I was, like, five. You weren't there much past that though, so I can see how you'd forget." It was exactly the truth, but I wasn't in a truthful mood.
"Why don't I show you your room? You look tired."
I was far from tired: I was tense and wary, but it seemed as good an excuse to get away from him as any, so I nodded my agreement. We walked a short way down the hall and I noted the dings and scratches in the wall. I was curious, but not enough so to ask and risk another conversation.
"Here she is," he said as we stopped in front of a closed door. He had his hands jammed in his pockets again, looking nervous as he teetered on the balls of his feet.
"Thanks," I replied tersely. I opened the door and let myself in, closing it behind me before he could follow. Hopefully he could take a hint.
I set my luggage down and surveyed the room. It was larger than I'd expected and not at all bad. The floors were wood, and though scuffed, I could see that they had been waxed recently. There was a large bay window framed by white, billowy curtains with a charming reading seat. Seeing that my dad had stacked some books on it, I wandered over to take a closer look. Upon further inspection, I couldn't help but snort a laugh. He'd put out the Little House on the Prairie and Nancy Drew books I'd read as a kid. He did realize that I was a grown woman now—or had that fact escaped him?
Leaving the books, I continued my exploring. The bed was a full, but it would be plenty big enough for me. The comforter on the bed was clearly made for a queen-size bed, so it dragged a bit. It looked oddly familiar, too, though I couldn't place it.
I had just checked out the adjoining bathroom—it was filthy and would require a good scrub-down with some bleach, but at least it had hot water—and was about to open the closet when I heard knuckles rap against the bedroom door. I sighed heavily and rolled my eyes, not even caring that I was acting all of sixteen years old. "Yes?" I asked expectantly when I threw the door open.
"You settling in okay?" His eyes shifted around the room and I knew he was waiting for me to say something, but I'd be damned before I showed him any kind of gratitude. I didn't owe him anything, not after how he'd abandoned me.
"Yep."
"You hungry? I made us some dinner. I bet you didn't know your old man could cook."
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that he hadn't been my old man in a long time, but I let it slide and settled for, "I don't know that dumping a box of crap into water counts as cooking."
"It does in some countries," he replied, unperturbed. "And lucky us, this is one them."
I rolled my eyes again, but followed him into the kitchen. Despite my protests, my nose couldn't help but notice that it didn't smell half-bad and my traitorous stomach growled, giving me away. I slumped down in a chair and let him bring me a plate. It looked like hamburger helper, with a side of peas and a dinner roll. Despite my desire to remain aloof, I pretty much tore into the food. I was starving, having been too broke for much more than a candy bar on the way here.
"How is it?" he asked as he sat across from me.
I mumbled noncommittally, but even I couldn't deny that it was pretty tasty. Dammit.
For a little while, he watched me scarf down my plate, but I didn't care. "Want some more?" he asked after I set down my fork. I nodded and handed the plate to him and he took it, returning with a second helping as big as the first. This time, he didn't seem content to merely watch me eat and cleared his throat. "So, how's life been treating you? Catch me up."
I snorted another laugh, my fork stilling in mid-air. "Pick a year."
He gave me a small, sad smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Tell you what, why don't you pick."
Sighing, I set my fork down. This could be a lengthy conversation. "Well, let me see. This has pretty much been the worst year of my life so far. I lost my boyfriend, my job," I ticked them off on my fingers, "my apartment…" And I have to move in here with you, I added silently.
He gave me a nod, as though he could hear what I wasn't saying. "And then there's the cancer, of course."
My lips parted, but no sound came out. I blinked rapidly, trying to formulate a response. But I felt so cold and detached all of a sudden that even the anger that I knew was pulsing just underneath the surface couldn't touch me. How could he know about that? Only three people knew; one of them was me, one my ex-boyfriend…Lucy. The answer came to me without having to search too hard. Of course she would have told him. Lucy was the peace-maker, the reconciler. She probably thought—misguidedly, of course—that if my dad knew about my cancer, it would motivate him to repair our relationship. Which meant that she'd also thought that, given my diagnosis, I'd let him. The thought made me so angry I thought I'd be sick.
"Now, don't be mad at your sister," Dad said, holding his hands off as though to ward off the lasers that were shooting from my eyes. "She just thought I should know."
I tried to snap back a comment, but my throat had closed up and I found that, for the moment, I was incapable of speech. It was a pity, really, since I had plenty to say on the matter. For starters, why should he have a right to know anything about me? Hadn't he given up that right when he'd left without so much as a backward glance? I certainly thought so, and if Lucy disagreed, well, it wasn't her cancer.
"You know what, I almost forgot, I've got a little something for you."
I wasn't fooled. I knew he was just trying to get away from the hot pools of lava in my eyes before he got scalded. I picked up my fork and took another bite of pasta, but the noodles stuck in my throat, tasting about as appetizing as sawdust. I didn't want to cry. I wasn't going to cry, dammit—those days were behind me. I wasn't eleven years old anymore.
When my dad walked back into the kitchen, carrying a simple white gift box, I'd managed to get my tumultuous emotions somewhat under control. He put the box down on the table in front of me, watching me expectantly.
I eyed the box as though it might bite. Maybe that had been his plan all along, maybe he was going after Lucy next. Go ahead and get us kids out of the way so that he could live out the rest of his days doing what he damn well pleased—which was what he'd always done, but at least then he wouldn't have to feel guilty about it. The idea of my father feeling any type of remorse made me smile wryly.
"Go ahead and open it," he urged, misreading my expression.
I shrugged and flipped the top off. To my surprise, there were layers of crinkly pink tissue paper. I gave him a dubious look before shaking something free of the tissue paper. It landed on the table in front of me and it took me a minute to process what I was seeing. It was a small stuffed rabbit holding a strip of pink silk cloth between his worn paws. One ear was bent, and one eye was literally hanging on by a thread. "Where did you find this?"
"At your mother's."
My stomach lurched. He had been in her house? How could he, after all he'd put her through? How dare he? "When did you…" I held up a hand before he could answer, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves. "Never mind. I'm going to bed."
"Shelly, wait—"
I ignored him and continued toward my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I flopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling without seeing. What was I doing here? What had I been thinking? That I could somehow make it work, despite the hatred that came pouring off me in waves every time he so much as breathed in my direction? Not likely.
Grabbing my cell out of my pocket, I hastily d
ialed Lucy's number, not sure whom I was angrier at.
"Hey, Sis," she greeted me after the first ring.
"You were expecting me?" I asked drily. Of course she was. Lucy was always three steps ahead of everyone else.
"I knew I'd hear from you sooner or later. How are things going?"
"Lucy, how could you take him to go through Mom's things? What were you thinking?"
"That he loved her too," she answered with quiet dignity that I couldn't dispute.
I wanted to. Oh, God, how I wanted to, but I knew that Lucy would just get emotional being put in the middle. She was only trying to help—I knew that, but I wished I cared a little less about hurting her feelings so I could tell her to mind her own business next time. "And my cancer?" I asked with barely restrained anger. "Why did you feel the need to tell him about that?"
"Because he's your dad, Michelle."
I rolled my eyes and huffed into the phone. "Says who?"
"DNA," she answered in that infallible way she had. "Whether we like it or not, neither of us can change that—or the past. All we have control of is the future."
God, my sister was such a pain in the ass sometimes. Why did she have to be so smart and reasonable? Would it kill her to just hate along with me? "Okay, okay," I grumbled. "I hear you. But it's not going to work, Lucy. You know that."
"He's trying, Shelly."
Too little, too late, I thought before I deftly changed the subject.
Chapter 2
The next morning when I woke up, I didn't want to get out of bed. Not because it was particularly comfortable, but because every minute spent in my father's presence thus far had been even more difficult than I'd imagined. Still, I knew I couldn't hide forever. Eventually, he'd come looking for me.
I took a long, hot shower, shampooing three times and letting the conditioner set for fifteen minutes before I finally climbed out. I took my time toweling off and getting dressed. Normally, I was a casual person, but since I planned on going job hunting—I really needed a job and it came with the added benefit of keeping me out of the house—I selected a pair of heather gray slacks and a burgundy top. I eyed my reflection critically, wishing not for the first time that I looked more like my mother. Lucy had inherited her deep mahogany hair and light green eyes while I looked much more like my father. We had the same thick, dirty-blond hair—though his was more silver these days—and matching midnight blue eyes framed with dark lashes. He'd passed down his straight, Roman nose and propensity to burn after half an hour in the sun. The only thing I'd inherited from my mother was a narrow waist and high cheekbones.
He'd given me other things, too, though they weren't things you could see with the naked eye. Not all of them were bad, but I didn't like to think about any of them. It only left me feeling hollow and wounded—I'd spent too much of my life feeling like that and I didn't want to waste another second wallowing in bad memories and self-pity, which was why it was imperative that I find a job so I could get the hell away from him.
It's all Ben's fault. The thought came unbidden and before I could pull myself away from it, I was remembering his bright, sunny smile, his hearty laugh, the feel of his hands on my skin. I tingled with the memory and a shiver ran through me. He must have been something special to inspire such feelings in me even hundreds of miles away. Of course, I already knew he was something special; not a day went by that I didn't miss him, that I didn't ask myself why. For the first few weeks, my fingers had itched every hour on the hour to call him and demand he explain himself. I'd always talked myself out of it, but that didn't mean I didn't still want to, that I didn't long to hear the sound of his voice telling me everything would be okay.
I plodded down to the kitchen, smelling bacon and eggs frying on the stove.
"There you are." Dad offered a smile, spatula in hand. "How'd you sleep?"
I grunted at him and plopped into a chair.
"Coffee?"
Of course coffee, you moron, I thought to myself. Do I look like a morning person to you?
Fortunately, he seemed to get the message without me having to say it aloud and he pushed a chipped mug of steaming black coffee toward me.
"What, no sugar? Are we on rations?" The words came out biting and hard before I could even think twice.
"Right in front of you, Shel—Michelle."
I grumbled to myself as I spooned three generous spoonfuls into my cup and stirred. I took a deep swallow and as the coffee—not to mention the caffeine—began to warm my body, I had to admit that it wasn't bad. In fact, it was pretty good, not that I would be volunteering the information.
"What did you have planned for the day?" Dad asked as he pushed a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me.
I snatched up a piece of bacon and took a bite of it, savoring the delicious, salty fat before I replied. "Job hunting."
"Already? You just got here." Before I could reply, he answered for me. "Of course. You were never one to stay sittin' still for long. Give me a sec."
I munched on my second piece of bacon as he left the table. Dad was living in the same town Lucy and I had grown up in, only a few streets down from the old house. I don't know how he could stand to look people in the face, knowing that they knew he was a degenerate gambler, but he'd moved back shortly after Lucy had left for college.
"Here."
I arched an eyebrow at the proffered newspaper until he explained, "I circled all the help wanted ads for you."
For a moment, I was caught off guard. Thinking of others wasn't something I thought of as my dad's strong suit. Still, I took the paper and turned it over, noting the four red circles. A quick glance showed that none of it was out of my range of experience, which surprised me further. "Um…thanks."
"You're welcome." Dad sat back down and had the decency to leave it at that.
I went back to eating, studiously avoiding his eyes so that I wouldn't see the smug satisfaction I imagined would be on his face. I had to get out of here. Being around him made me feel like that eleven-year-old little girl I'd long since left behind, desperate for his affection, hungry for his approval and angry because I was all too aware I couldn't have it.
"It might rain later on. Why don't you take my truck? Give your car a little time to recover from the long drive."
This time I met his eyes, suspicious. Who was this man? Did he think this act was fooling anyone, least of all me?
He's trying, I heard Lucy's voice in my ears. I didn't want to hear it. But the truth was, my car was on its last leg, a fact my father must have been aware of. "Okay." I wasn't going to thank him a second time—not that he seemed to mind. He went back to eating and though I tried, it all felt so surreal that I pushed my plate away and leapt to my feet, telling him that I was going to go ahead and check out the leads he'd given me. He handed me the keys without saying more than "good luck" and I ran for the door, eager for escape.
I knew where each of the places in the paper were—not much seemed to have changed since I'd lived here. First stop was the floral shop, where they were looking for an assistant, then on to the DMV. I thought I'd have all four knocked out in an hour, tops, but I'd forgotten to account for the fact people would want to catch up. The people of Pike County took polite conversation to an art form and it was only proper to stop and say hello to each person you saw. I knew nearly every one of them and they all wanted to offer their condolences on my mother and ask after my father. I flushed in embarrassment every time he was mentioned, knowing that my father had long held the position of the blot on the town's reputation.
"He's just fine, thanks," I'd say, smiling awkwardly and trying to find an excuse to get away as soon as possible. I ended up getting home just before lunch and had no reason to feel optimistic. While everyone had wanted to stop and chat, no one seemed to be in any hurry to fill their vacancies. Or maybe it was just me they didn't like. Either way, I was feeling pretty down by the time I pulled into the driveway.
"That you, Shel—Michelle?" Dad called
out as I let myself in the house.
Who else would he be expecting? "Yeah, Dad."
"Come on in here. I have something I want to show you."
I set the keys down on the hall table with a sigh, making my way to the living room. As I came closer, I heard the sound of the television. It sounded like children laughing. Then I heard a voice I knew to be my mom's, saying, "Do you want a turn, Michelle?"
Just the sound of her voice was enough to freeze me in my tracks. He wouldn't…but when I summoned my courage to peek into the living room, I saw him sitting on the couch, hunched forward, his focus on the old home video that was playing. What would make him think I'd want to watch this? Why was he watching it? Was he some sort of masochist?
"Push me, Daddy, push me!" the blond little girl on the TV exclaimed.
"Sure thing, Shelly." He'd picked me up and swung me around until I'd giggled.
I closed my eyes against the images. I couldn't do this. I wasn't ready to remember the good times, not when it made the bad ones all the harder to take. I might never be ready. I stole away without a word to my dad and closed the bedroom door gently behind me, hoping that he'd leave me undisturbed until dinner.
The week passed by in a blur. I stayed out as much as possible, though I only put a few more applications in. Mostly I just walked the old neighborhood, often pausing to look longingly at the house in which I'd grown up. There had been some good times, but after Dad had left they'd become few and far between.
I'd been quite a handful. Pretty much from the time he'd left, toting that battered suitcase with him, I'd made my mother pay for the pain his absence caused. I'd turned surly and difficult, which only worsened when I became a teenager. She never responded with anything but patience and love. It made me feel bad, which only made me act out even worse. I'd ended up okay, but not a day went by that I didn't wish I could see my mama one last time and tell her how sorry I was.
It's his fault, I thought, gritting my teeth. If not for him, none of this would have happened. If he could just keep a job…if he could have helped her financially…if he would have kept his promises to come see us… The list went on and on. At the end of the day, the only thing I knew for sure was that my mother had deserved a better husband. When it got right down to it, she'd deserved a better daughter, too.
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