The Right-Under Club

by Christine Hurley Deriso

  Dad will be so psyched by my visit that he'll insist on seeing me every weekend.

  Mom won't be able to bully him—or me—anymore.

  There were plenty more good reasons, but these were enough to assuage Tricia's guilt. She put her journal back on her bedside table and turned off her lamp.

  … … …

  Tricia had been silly to worry she would oversleep. Actually, she had barely slept at all… just tossed and turned. By six o'clock that morning, she was pulling on her jeans and her R.U. T-shirt. She was embarrassed about lashing out at the girls and hoped they weren't mad at her. But she'd have lots to report at the next meeting, and for now, she needed the symbol of moral support. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table: 6:04. She'd have plenty of time to be out the door before the rest of the family woke up.

  She retrieved a wad of cash—forty-two dollars—from her jewelry box and pulled her hair into a ponytail. Then she brushed her teeth, tossed a change of clothes into an overnight bag and crept downstairs to the kitchen.

  She slowly opened a drawer to keep it from creaking, then pulled out the phone book. It wasn't totally pathetic that she didn't know her dad's address; he moved around a lot and hadn't been in his new apartment long. Just a few months … a year tops. She flipped through the pages of the phone book, reached the Hs, then followed the list of names with her index finger.

  “Harper…Hathaway… Hayden.”

  That was it.

  “Hayden, Anthony … Hayden, Charles … Hayden, Patrick.”

  She sighed with relief. There was her dad: “Patrick Hayden: 116 Drawbridge Road, Apartment 3-C.”

  Should she call him first? Nah … she wouldn't risk any obstacles.

  Now that she had her dad's address, she flipped back to the yellow pages. What would the listing be, taxis or cabs? She tried cabs. No luck. She flipped more pages. Aaah… “taxicabs.” The first listing would do.

  She called and heard one ring, then two, then five, six, seven…. She was just about to hang up when a bored voice said, “A-1 Taxi Service. May I help you?”

  Tricia cleared her throat and smoothed her T-shirt. “Um…”

  “Can you speak up, please?”

  “Um…I need a cab ride, please, to 116 Drawbridge Road.”

  Tricia heard the operator typing information into a computer. “And where does the driver pick you up?” she asked.

  Tricia's mind blanked. Your address, she told herself wryly. Not a difficult question. “1445 Adamsville Road,” she said. “In the Cross Creek subdivision.”

  More clacking keys. Then, “A driver will be there in about ten minutes.”

  Whew. Now there was no turning back.

  Tricia inched the kitchen door open, gently closed it behind her and went to her driveway to wait for her ride. A breeze brushed her face and birds sang in the trees. In ten minutes, she'd be on her way to her dad's apartment. This was so cool. “So cool.” She said it out loud. So she'd believe it.

  … … …

  “How much?”

  Tricia had had no idea how much a cab ride would cost, but eighteen dollars was beyond the farthest reaches of her imagination.

  “Eighteen bucks,” the driver repeated blandly, nodding at the meter.

  Tricia pulled a twenty out of her jeans pocket and smoothed it. She handed it to the driver, who began to put it in his pocket.

  “Don't I get two dollars back?” she asked.

  He cocked his head in her direction. “Unless you'd like to … oh, I don't know … maybe give me a tip like people usually do.”

  Tricia blushed. “Sure, of course.”

  She grasped her overnight bag and got out of the car. A couple of people were getting into their cars in the parking lot, but otherwise, the apartment complex was still and hushed. A wave of panic welled in Tricia's throat. What was she doing here? Her dad might not even be home. This was nuts.

  But she swallowed hard. Why should it be such a big deal to go see her dad? Why was she freaking out? He'd be thrilled to see her. He told her repeatedly that if it wasn't for her mom, they'd be together all the time. Now she was old enough to make it happen, with or without her mother's cooperation. Still… this felt so weird.

  Tricia walked from the parking lot to the C building of the complex. The paint on the apartment doors was dingy and crumbling. The iron numbers on the doors were badly rusted; the two hung upside down. Oh, well. That meant Dad's was next.

  Tricia stood in front of 3-C and took a deep breath.

  “He's probably asleep, stupid,” she said out loud. But here she was. She pressed the doorbell. Nothing. Maybe it didn't work. She hadn't heard it from outside. She pressed again. Nothing.

  She knocked, gently at first… tap, tap, tap. Still nothing. She knocked harder, then harder, then started pounding on the door with her fist. She felt like crying. This was so stupid. Why hadn't she asked the cab driver to wait for her? That way, she could have gone straight home and pondered her forty-dollar mistake. Stupid, stupid.

  “Tricia?”

  The door was flung open and there stood Tricia's dad in tattered jeans and a faded T-shirt, scratching his beard and peering out at her.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  Nobody was nervous around their own dad, right? So why was she so nervous?

  “What are you doing here?” Her dad's soft blue eyes squinted in bewilderment.

  Tricia shrugged, aiming for nonchalant. “Just felt like dropping by.”

  “Dropping by?”

  Her heart sank. Was he even going to let her in?

  “Oh…,” he said, stepping back from the door as if reading her mind. “Come in, sweetie, come in.”

  Tricia walked in and wrinkled her nose at a musty, sour smell. A tattered plaid chair sat in one corner of the room, her dad's guitar propped against it. A card table with a wobbly leg stood in the adjoining dining area, with one metal chair pushed under it. That was all the furniture she saw. Newspapers and magazines were strewn everywhere. A couple of coffee cups were on the floor, one on its side. It was the one she had given him for Christmas: “World's Greatest Dad.”

  Her father still looked stunned, but he opened his arms expansively. “So,” he said sheepishly, “this is my place.”

  “Furniture is highly overrated,” Tricia said.

  He laughed, but he looked troubled. “Does your mom know you're here?”

  “Yeah …” Tricia couldn't believe how easily she had just lied.

  Her dad's eyes narrowed. “She does?”

  She nodded quickly but couldn't look at him. “What's the big deal?” she asked defensively. “Like I said, I just thought I'd drop by… maybe spend the weekend.”

  Panic flooded her father's face. “The weekend?”

  Tricia laced her fingers together anxiously. “Just the two of us.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “That sounds sensational, sweetie, but…Did I know you were coming?”

  “It's a surprise,” she said, then impulsively kissed him on the cheek. “Can't a daughter surprise her dad?”

  Her voice was light, but her heart was sinking. This didn't feel right. Why not? A daughter should be able to surprise her dad with an unscheduled visit. But then, a daughter should also know where her dad lives without having to check the phone book.

  “Sweetie, I'm not exactly set up for guests,” her dad said, squeezing his chin nervously.

  “Guests?”

  That was what Tricia was—a guest. And an unwelcome one, at that.

  “You know …” Her dad waved his arm apologetically. “I haven't had time yet to do much with the place.”

  Tricia took a deep breath. “Dad, just chill,” she said decisively. “I don't need furniture. I just want to hang out with you.” Her eyes wandered. She spotted the guitar, then remembered the Right-Under solution.

  “Why don't you teach me how to play the guitar?” she suggested, willing herself to relax.

  Her dad shook his head, as if trying to dislodg
e the goofy thoughts tumbling around in his brain. “You're sure your mother knows you're here?”

  “Duh, Dad. Are you going to spend our whole visit giving me the third degree? You're always telling me how you wish we could spend more time together. Well, here I am.” She held out her palms as if offering proof.

  “Okay then,” he said slowly, brushing a hand through his unkempt shoulder-length hair. “I don't usually give guitar lessons at five a.m. on Saturday mornings….”

  “It's almost seven,” Tricia corrected him.

  “Right. Seven.” He tossed his hands in the air. “Sounds like the perfect time for a guitar lesson. Let me just…I don't know… freshen up a little.”

  He disappeared down a hallway and she sat in the sole chair in his living room. He came back smelling of toothpaste, his hair pulled into a loose ponytail.

  “Where will you sit?” she asked him.

  “My favorite spot.” He plopped on the floor beside her and cradled the guitar. “Okay,” he said, his voice mildly shaky, “the first thing you need to know is: Every Boy Gets Donuts and Eggs.”

  Tricia's brow knitted. “What?”

  “Every Boy Gets Donuts and Eggs. Those are the notes a guitar is tuned to: E, B, G, D, A and E, starting from the bottom.”

  He plucked the strings one by one, naming them as he went along.

  “Why isn't it tuned to A, B, C, D, E and F?” Tricia asked.

  Her dad smiled. “Because then there would be no need to memorize Every Boy Gets Donuts and Eggs.”

  “Speaking of donuts and eggs,” Tricia said, “I didn't have breakfast before I left the house. I'm kinda starved.”

  Her dad looked panicked again, even a little irritated. “Sweetie, I told you, I don't have much food. If I'd known you were coming…”

  “Fine, fine,” she said. “Just keep teaching me.”

  “Well…I might have some soda,” he said. “Give me just a second and I'll see what I can find.”

  He stood up and walked into the kitchen. Tricia heard him rustling around in the cupboard and refrigerator. He came back a moment later with two glasses. He handed one to Tricia and she took a sip. Coke.

  “My kinda breakfast,” she said.

  He returned to the floor, placing his glass at his side.

  “We'll start with a few basic chords,” he said, settling the guitar back on his lap.

  Tricia couldn't help smiling. She loved the serene expression on her dad's face when he played the guitar. It brought back a million memories of him singing her to sleep. He was the coolest dad ever… even if he didn't have any furniture. Maybe even because he didn't have any furniture.

  She watched closely as he showed her where to put her fingers; then she put her glass on the floor and took the guitar from him. Following his directions, she placed a finger on the third fret of the high E string, then strummed from the D string down.

  “G,” her dad said.

  “Gee?” Tricia repeated, puzzled.

  “G. The G chord. You just learned your first chord.”

  Tricia grinned. “Teach me more.”

  They sat there for another hour or so. Tricia's fingertips on her left hand were sore from pressing the strings, but she wasn't about to say so. She was even getting used to the musty, sour smell, a smell that was replaced with a smoky odor when her dad emerged from the bathroom.

  “Were you smoking in there?” she asked him, more playfully than probingly.

  “Promise me you'll never smoke, Tricia,” he responded without answering her question. “It'll kill you.”

  “Promise,” she said. Now that the awkward tension of her unannounced entrance was over, Tricia was savoring her dad's company. She loved seeing his world. It wasn't exactly neat or orderly, but it was his.

  She was practicing more chords when he refilled their glasses and sat back down beside her. “You know, I wrote a song about you,” he said.

  Tricia beamed. “Play it for me.”

  He hesitated, but then took the guitar from her, cradled it in his lap, closed his eyes and sang,

  “The first time that I saw her, her eyes, they said it all.

  They said, 'You're my whole wide world, so will you catch me when I fall?

  'And will you sing me songs and will you keep me warm at night?

  'And when the thunder rumbles, will you please just hold me tight?’”

  Tricia closed her eyes and swayed.

  “In Patricia's eyes, I'm brave and wise, and I'm stronger than the sea.

  Oh, I wish that I could somehow be what my daughter sees in me. In Patricia's eyes, I can realize all my wildest hopes and dreams. Am I what I seem to be in Patricia's eyes?”

  Stillness filled the air as he sang the last word. Tricia didn't want the moment to end. She was still swaying, willing this moment to last. But she opened her eyes when she heard her father sniffling. He was wiping a tear from his eye.

  “Dad?”

  He forced a smile. “I just love you so much, honey. I really do.”

  “I love you, too, Dad,” she said with a sense of urgency. Thoughts tumbled in her head. Maybe I could live with you! We could play the guitar together every day! There's no reason for us to go whole weeks without seeing each other! I want my dad back. Please?

  Her dad took a drink from his glass, then held it in front of him. “A toast,” he said, “to the new guitarist in the family.”

  21

  Three hours and five trips to the refrigerator later, Tricia and her dad were still playing the guitar. By now, Tricia was hungry and exhausted.

  “Dad,” she said, laying the guitar aside, “I think I need a break.”

  Silence.

  “Dad?”

  She glanced over at him. His eyes were closed. He was still sitting upright, but his head was bobbing slightly.

  “Dad?” Tricia said.

  The phone rang. Her dad didn't budge. Tricia sat there anxiously, not sure what to do. After the fifth ring, the answering machine picked up. Tricia heard her dad's jovial recorded greeting, then a familiar voice.

  “Patrick, are you there? Patrick, pick up. Please!”

  Tricia's heart skipped a beat as she recognized her mom's voice.

  “Uh… Dad,” she said, then nudged her father. His eyes remained closed. “Patrick, please pick up! Tricia is missing!” Her mother's voice broke. “She's missing, Patrick!”

  Tricia heard Troy's voice in the background.

  Oh, no…. What had she done? Her mother sounded frantic. Tricia had never heard her that way before. She always seemed so…in control.

  Tricia looked down at her dad. His eyes were still closed and his head had slumped to one side. She nudged him harder.

  “Dad! Dad, wake up!”

  Tricia's mom begged Patrick to return her call, then hung up. Tricia felt desperate to see her mom. How could she have done this to her?

  “Dad!” Tricia shook him roughly.

  His eyelids parted into tiny slits.

  “Dad, wake up!” Tricia shouted.

  His raised his eyebrows, but his eyes were still barely open. “Dad, that was Mom on the phone,” Tricia said breathlessly. “I lied to you. I didn't tell her I was coming. She's really worried. I have to get home, Dad. Now.”

  He stared at her with glassy eyes.

  “Now, Dad!” Tricia begged.

  She got out of the chair and pulled his arms. He slowly rose to his feet, then staggered for a moment.

  “Wha…,” he said.

  “Get your keys,” Tricia commanded. “You have to take me home. Now.”

  He nodded but still looked disoriented. Tricia spotted the keys on the card table in the dining area. She grabbed them and stuffed them in his hand. “Let's go, Dad.”

  “Right,” her father responded groggily. “Time to go.”

  … … …

  “Dad, pay attention! You're weaving.”

  Patrick's head bobbed erratically as he drove Tricia home. He was driving so slowly… ridiculo
usly slowly. All Tricia wanted was to get home. In ten minutes, she'd be where she belonged. Ten minutes. Hurry, Dad, hurry, she thought.

  “Thank you for coming to see me, baby,” her dad said, slurring his words.

  “You're welcome,” Tricia replied tersely, looking straight ahead as if willing the car to get her home.

  “You're my girl… you know that, don't you?”

  She rolled her eyes. She usually loved it when her dad told her that kind of thing. Now she just felt so impatient to get home.

  “You know that, don't you, Tricia?” he repeated loudly.

  “Watch the road, Dad!” Tricia barked. He was scaring her.

  “You know I love you. I love you more than anything. You know that, don't you, baby?” her father said, leaning his face toward hers.

  But Tricia didn't hear him. She was too fixated on the car in front of them.

  “Dad… Dad!”

  She managed to spit a piece of shattered glass from her mouth before falling unconscious.

  … … …

  “Baby?”

  Tricia groggily opened her eyes. Everything was blurry. Where was she? And why did she hurt so badly?

  “It's okay, baby. You're okay now.”

  The voice was her mother's. Tricia felt cool fingers gently running through her hair.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, sweetie. I'm right here.”

  Tricia strained to focus her eyes, but the fog remained. “Where am I?”

  “You're in the hospital, honey. But you're fine. You're gonna be fine.”

  Tricia saw a couple of figures bustling about. One approached her and fiddled with her hand. Tricia touched the hand and felt something plastic coming out of it.

  “Try not to touch,” the figure said. “We need to keep the medicine flowing.”

  “Am I sick?” Tricia asked through swollen lips. She tasted dried blood on her teeth.

  “You had a little accident,” the figure said. “But we're taking good care of you. I'm one of your nurses. My name is Sophie. You're gonna be good as new before you know it.”

  Tricia heard sniffling. She moved her head in that direction, then moaned in pain. But worse than the pain was discovering the source of the sniffling. Her mother was crying.