by W B Dineen
I know I have to call my mom, but I’m not sure what to say to her. Even though she’s remarried, she loved Jeffrey and was devastated for years after he left. How do I tell her that her first love is dead? As far as I know, she might not even think about him anymore. I don’t want to be the one to knock her back into past heartache.
When her voicemail comes on, I chicken out and say, “Hey, Mom, it’s me. I wanted to let you know I’m leaving for Oregon today. I’ll be gone through the weekend and will call when I get back. Love you.”
Over the years, I’ve grown strong in the presence of my mom’s weakness. I’ve developed a cynicism about love, while she pined for nothing more than finding someone else to share her love with. Bethanie replaced my father with Chuck, but for me, my dad is a ghost that’s haunted me for years, and it’s time I got some answers.
CHAPTER 3
Oregon is the greenest state I’ve ever seen. Abundant, lush foliage carpets gentle, rolling hills as far as the eye can see. Farmland abuts forested areas. It’s breathtakingly gorgeous, and I can definitely see how someone could get lost here.
The green landscape whizzes by and hypnotizes me as my brain begins to wander. I think of my childhood in Pasadena, just off the Caltech campus. We didn’t live in opulence, but we lived comfortably. Jen and I went to the private polytechnic school down the street from our house. It was where a lot of the professors’ kids went. I don’t know how my mom was able to afford to keep sending us there after Dad left, but we spent all twelve years of our education happily ensconced within its walls.
Caltech was my playground when I was very little. My dad taught aeronautics and applied physics. In the summer, I used to run through campus and meet him in the green space in front of Beckman Laboratories for picnics. I remember lying on a blanket next to him discussing the possibility of him shrinking me some day like in the movie Honey, I Shrunk the Kids.
He used to look around all shifty-eyed before leaning toward me and whispering, “Can you keep a secret?” Of course, I always said I could. He’d respond, “I’m closing in on the technology and I should be able to do it by the end of the year! What do you think we should do with all the money we’ll make once I sell the patent to my people-shrinking machine?”
Then we’d plot what to do with our newfound riches. I wanted to spend a month at Disneyland before spending another month at Universal Studios in Orlando. Dad wanted to take my mom on a honeymoon, because they’d never gone on a real one. Then we tried to decide which house we’d buy. I had my eye on one we passed during our weekly walks to Huntington Gardens. It was a two-and-a-half story Spanish Colonial Revival with a pool. My dad joked that he wasn’t sure it would be big enough for the four of us, even though it had to be at least five times the size of our bungalow.
Memories burst through my subconscious like a storm-engorged river breaching a failing dam. As soon as one pops into my mind, at least thirty more push their way forward with unstoppable force. I’m sitting on the plaid blanket we always used for our picnics, and my dad says, “Katie, life is never what you perceive it to be.” Then I’m lying in bed and he whispers, “Believe the unbelievable. Things are never what you think they are.” Suddenly, I’m flying through the warm Southern California breeze on my bicycle, and he yells out, “Just because you think these are trees, doesn’t make them trees. Always be open to the truth. Believe in what you can’t see.”
In retrospect, it’s clear he was trying to prepare me for something. At the time I just remember thinking, Silly, Daddy, of course they’re trees. What else would they be? In my child’s eye, everything was exactly as it appeared. My dad was my rock, my mom and sister were ever-present love and comfort, the sky was blue, and life was good. Until it wasn’t.
A beat-up pickup truck pulls a bit too close in front of me, effectively pulling me out of my reverie and back to reality. The driver gives me a look as though I’m somehow at fault for our near collision. I don’t see much of him as he speeds by, yet something seems off. He’s too young and urban—too shiny to be driving the kind of vehicle he’s in. The thought leaves my head almost as soon as it enters.
It’s been years since I thought about those times with my dad, all the fun we had at his work, the mysterious comments. After he left, I rarely set foot on Caltech soil again, even if it meant walking several blocks around campus instead of taking the shortcut. I avoided it like it was full of buried land mines and I didn’t have the map to avert disaster.
A couple of professors used to visit us after Dad jumped ship. They came by to see how we were doing and bring fresh oranges from their trees or a bouquet of roses from their gardens. After a year or so, they stopped. I guess by then they figured Jeffrey was gone for good and they forgot about us.
The years between eight and twelve are kind of a blur for me. Our family life was pretty depressing with my mom crying all the time. She stood waiting at the mail box every day, in case there was word from dad. She was always the first to answer the phone when it rang. She was like a kernel of popcorn simmering in hot oil, on the verge of exploding with building anticipation and raw hope.
I was miserably sad but didn’t wear my emotions on my sleeve. Mom had overt agony covered for all of us. I spent most of my home hours with Jen during that era. It wasn’t fair for her to grow up with so much sadness, so I played with her, read to her, and tried to keep her from knowing how bad we had it.
Then my mom met Chuck right before I started seventh grade and things got weird all over again. When they got married, we stayed in our house. I always thought if you’re going to start over with someone new, you should start completely over, in a new setting. Yet, we stayed put, almost like she was still waiting for my father to return.
Chuck took over my dad’s spot at the dining room table as though it was his rightful place, not like he was usurping the throne, which is how I saw it. I didn’t dislike Chuck, and I was truly grateful to him for bringing some joy into my mom’s life again. It’s just that I was fourteen and I had a father; Chuck could never take his place in my heart.
For Jen, Chuck is the only dad she remembers, and he treated her like his own. He will always have my gratitude for that.
CHAPTER 4
I’m meeting Jake at a coffee shop in Albany to get the keys to Jeffrey’s house. Albany is a town of about fifty thousand people. It’s right off the freeway wedged between Salem and Corvallis, if that means anything to you.
I pull off at my exit and make the series of turns my map app instructs me to take. This town is picture perfect, old school, straight out of central casting. Many of the houses and buildings are Victorian in design and I’m completely charmed, against my will. I don’t want to like anything about Jeffrey’s life, but darn if I can help myself.
The coffee shop is called She Brews. I parallel park right behind a beat-up truck that looks remarkably like the one that cut me off on the freeway. Either it’s the same one or the Oregon countryside is littered with old pickups. I suppose both are viable options.
I don’t rush to get out of the car. Instead, I take several slow, deep breaths and start an internal pep talk. I tell myself, “Kate, you are a thirty-three-year-old woman. You’re tough, smart, and nearly indestructible. You can do this.”
I’m not sure I believe me, but I get out of the car anyway. I’m six minutes late, which I somehow conclude puts me in the power seat. I walk into the tiny shop and notice three things: I’m the only customer—so much for being in the power position; the whole place would fit onto my back patio. If heaven had an aroma it would smell like this, all vanilla and chocolate, with earthy espresso undertones.
I go to the counter and order an Americano and a piece of coconut cream pie from a woman about my age. While I wait, I sit at a tiny, wrought iron and glass table by the window, and people watch. Young mothers push strollers down the street, an assortment of men sit at concrete tables and play checkers, and a group of seniors protest something in front of a park. They do a lot
of smiling and waving, so I’m not really sure what they’re picketing.
When my coffee arrives, I take a sip and try to imagine where my dad fit into the local landscape. One bite of pie transports me right back to my childhood in Pasadena. Mom, Dad, and I used to walk down the street to Pie n’ Burger for patty melts and coconut cream pie. Pie n’ Burger is on the outer perimeter of Caltech. It’s a hole-in-the-wall diner established in the early sixties. By all appearances, they’ve never updated their decor, but that doesn’t matter to any of their local customers, of which there are thousands. Pie n’ Burger is an icon. It’s tradition.
There was always a line, so we usually chose to sit at the counter instead of waiting for one of the few tables. We ordered the same thing every time and always declared it was the best meal we ever had. Mom and Dad drank coffee and I had root beer, which they served the old-fashioned way by putting the syrup in the glass first, before adding the carbonated soda water. It’s still my favorite place to eat when I go home to see Mom and Chuck.
I’ve sealed off the memories of my life with my father out of self-preservation. Somehow, the knowledge that he’s dead has opened the flood gates as though the little Dutch boy has pulled his finger out of the dike. If I’m honest, it’s wonderful because it takes me back to an innocence I should have enjoyed throughout my whole youth. Yet, it’s also ungodly painful as those recollections mark the end of any real happiness. Tears stream down my face, and I have no interest in wiping them away. Maybe I’m cleansing my soul; maybe I’m slowly drowning it. I have no idea.
By my third bite, I’m pulled out of my reverie when I see an astonishingly gorgeous man walk toward the coffee shop. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, faded blue jeans, and work boots. He looks like Sam Heughan from Outlander before he dyed his hair red. I venture to guess if this man lived in LA, he’d have a constant mob of hopeful women chasing after him. If I weren’t so preoccupied by my own sadness, I might even join the throng. He’s accompanied by a truly stunning golden retriever who’s walking on his own without a leash. This is one seriously cool canine.
The man walks in and calls out, “Hey, Tiesha, I’ll have my regular.” I wonder if my dad came here and was able to do the same thing. Then I wonder what his regular was. Yet somehow, I’m sure it was the same pie I ordered.
While the hunk is paying for his coffee, his dog turns around and trots over to me. He sits on my left foot and gives me a loopy “happy to see you” dog smile.
After collecting his change, the man turns around and heads my way. I’m sure he’s coming to collect his pet, but I allow myself a moment to pretend it’s me he’s after. He smiles, and I nearly swoon. Instead of grabbing the dog’s collar, he sticks out his hand. “Hi, Kate, I’m Jake.”
What the what? This is my dad’s good friend? On what planet? And how does he know who I am?
My smile falters as my fantasy and real worlds collide. I manage, “You’re Jake?” Then I add, “What I mean is, you’re young.” He arches his eyebrow questioningly. “I didn’t expect you to be so young.”
He gestures toward the chair across from me and asks, “Mind if I sit down?” I nod my head, not trusting my voice. He continues, “I see you’ve met Buddy.”
Buddy, now that’s a dog’s name. You want to play fetch with a Buddy. You want to curl up on the couch and watch Doris Day movies with a Buddy.
Jake pulls a manila envelope out of his jacket pocket and pushes it in front of me. On the front it says, “Katie” in blue felt-tip marker. I choke up at the sight. My dad is the first and last person who’s ever called me Katie. Panic builds and my hand shakes as I tentatively touch my name. I look up into Jake’s eyes and see his lips move, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. All sound blurs into a conspicuous white noise. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. And just as I think that, my whole world goes black.
CHAPTER 5
Just to be clear, I’m not a female who faints. I have never fainted and, truth-be-told, for someone who always needs to be in control, it’s a strange experience. When I come to, I’m lying on the floor of the coffee shop, with a curious dog sitting on my feet, and a worried-looking Jake staring down at me.
At a loss for words, the only thing I can think to say is, “I’m not a fainter.”
My father’s friend smiles. “Clearly.” Then he adds, “I don’t think you should be driving right now, so I transferred the luggage from your car. I’ll take you over to your dad’s.”
“Could you drop me off my hotel? I think I should lie down for a while first.” I don’t really need to lie down, I just want to postpone the inevitable for a bit longer. I mean seriously, if I faint seeing my dad’s handwriting, what will I do when I see his house? Convulse in an epileptic seizure?
Jake looks confused. “Why in the world are you staying at a hotel?”
“Where else would I stay?”
“Your dad’s place?” he suggests.
That thought never even occurred to me. The vision I had of seeing Jeffrey’s house went something along the lines of spending a couple of days there, not nights. Then I’d dispose of his worldly possessions before calling a realtor to put it on the market. Sleeping under the same roof where he slept, drinking out of his glassware? The idea never entered my thought process.
I don’t answer Jake’s questions. I don’t even yell at him for being so presumptuous as to move my luggage without my permission. Instead, I uncharacteristically let him lead me out of the coffee shop and into the cab of his truck. We silently cross a bridge that takes us over the Willamette River, leaving the downtown portion of Albany behind. Jake drives through a residential area, and before I know it, we’re surrounded by countryside. He turns right, crosses a railroad track, and we journey through picturesque farmland. We pass signs for millennial farms, which I conclude means they’ve been in people’s families for at least a hundred years. We pass barns and fields of sheep. The whole vista is surreal for a Southern California girl.
When Jake finally turns off the main road, we progress onto a smaller thoroughfare that eventually leads to a dirt driveway. We move into forested area before he stops the truck and announces, “We’re here.”
I immediately think of those maps at the mall with a large red X that say, You Are Here. I’ve always found them to be kind of profound. As a species, we spend so much of our lives planning the future or dwelling on the past that we rarely live in the present. Every time I see one of those signs at the Beverly Center, it pulls me into the moment. I’ve left Boss Sushi behind. I’m not at Ann Taylor, yet. I. Am. Here. Wow.
I’m in front of a charming log home with a porch that runs the length of the house. There are two wooden rocking chairs that look like they’re waiting for company. It’s a scene straight out of one of those calendars people buy to escape the chaos of life. It’s an ideal setting, serene even.
I don’t make a move to get out of the truck, but Buddy has perched himself directly on top of me and is wiggling his behind with an abundance of enthusiasm. Clearly, he’s spent a lot of time here with Jake and is eager to get out. I open my door to facilitate his exit. He bounds out but doesn’t run to the house. Instead, he turns around and jumps back into the truck like he wants me to go with him. Jake walks around the back to get my bags, then whistles for Buddy. We’re here. I Am Here, big red X to mark the spot.
CHAPTER 6
My phone rings as soon as my feet hit the ground. I check the number and see it’s Jen, so I pick up and greet, “Oh, my god, I just got to Dad’s house. Can I call you later?”
“Of course,” she responds. “I just wanted to say I love you, and to tell you that you can do this.”
I sigh, “Thanks, Jenny.” I want to say, “I wish you were here,” but I don’t. She doesn’t need the guilt trip and saying it wouldn’t change anything, so why bother?
Jake and Buddy are standing on the front porch staring at me. The door is wide open, and I have the strangest sensation that when I walk over the thr
eshold I’ll be like Alice falling through the looking glass. I take a deep breath, force my feet to move forward, and jump.
As Jake turns on several lights, the first thing I encounter is the picture wall opposite the front door. My feet are riveted to the floor like I’ve stepped into an invisible puddle of super glue. I exhale all the oxygen out of my body, without thought of replenishing it, and get lightheaded. I take a deep breath and order myself to quit being such a ninny. I’m tough. I’m Kate Ellis Randolph. I can do this, I think.
I take two steps forward and see that every single framed eight by ten on the wall is a picture of my family before my dad left home. There I am swinging on my wooden swing that hung from the olive tree in the back yard, blonde braids flying behind me in wild abandon. There’s a photo of Mom and me the day Jen was born, sitting on her hospital bed. There’s one of Mom and Dad on their wedding day, looking optimistic and full of hope. There’s a picture of me and Dad on one of our picnics at Caltech. I’ve never seen this one before and have no idea who took it, but obviously someone did and gave it to Jeffrey. Under the picture wall is a narrow side table with more framed photos on it; every single one was taken while he was still at home, almost like we’re frozen in time.
I look up at Jake in confusion. “Why did he leave if he wanted to be reminded of us? Do you know? Did he ever talk about it?”
Jake looks sad for me. “It’s not my story to tell, Kate.” Then he says, “All of the answers to your questions are here somewhere. You just have to take the time to find them.”
Bewildered, I respond, “I was planning to leave on Monday, once I’d met with a realtor and listed the house.”
He smiles kindly, “There’s a lot of paperwork to go through before you can do anything of the sort. You can leave Monday if you want to, but that won’t be enough time to settle the estate. You’ll definitely have to come back at some point.”