by W B Dineen
Then he walks to the back door. “If you need me, I live in the cabin out back. Go out the kitchen door and I’m fifty yards down the embankment.”
“You live here? On the same property?”
He nods his head. “I stocked the refrigerator for you and there’s plenty of dog food in the kitchen for Buddy.” Then he turns and walks away.
“Wait!” I yell. “What do you mean there’s plenty of dog food for Buddy? Doesn’t he live with you?”
Jake shakes his head. “Nope. Buddy belonged to your dad. He’s yours now.”
After Jake leaves, I continue my tour through the house. There are three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living/dining room, and a kitchen. It’s compact, but incredibly charming. The decor doesn’t look like something a man would choose, though. It’s kind of French country meets shabby chic. It’s definitely the work of a woman. Whether that person was a decorator or something more is yet to be determined.
The first room I walk into is clearly Jeffrey’s. His shoes are sitting on the floor by the bed and there’s a pair of reading glasses on the nightstand. Next to the wall is a green corduroy dog bed with “Buddy” embroidered on it. I don’t want to be in here right now. I’m afraid the fragile pieces of my heart can’t take it, but at the same time, I can’t seem to stop myself.
I sit on Jeffery’s bed and inhale the scent of pine, which is both familiar and comforting. I pick up his glasses off the nightstand and look through them. They’re reading glasses, clearly used for magnification. I wonder if I stare through them long enough if things will seem clearer to me. I gaze out at the room as though trying to see through my dad’s eyes. I comprehend nothing as tears of confusion and grief begin to fall.
This house was my dad’s home. His home. As his daughter it should also feel like mine. I try to form a picture in my mind’s eye of little Kate running through the front door yelling in childish exuberance, “Daddy, I’m home!”
Then Jeffrey appears from around the corner and bends down on one knee. I see it as clear as day. He opens his arms wide for me, but I don’t move. Do I let imaginary Kate run into his loving embrace? Do I trust him enough to open my heart up to more pain? Can I even withstand more?
Ultimately, I just stare at him. More than anything, I want to allow the scene to unfold as it should, but I can’t force my legs to move. The daddy phantom looks sad and eventually stands up. “Katie,” he says. “The world is not what you think it is. It’s so much more than you can imagine. I need you to follow me and let me explain.”
As he walks away, I blindly stand up and trail after him. My heart is pounding so loudly I can hear it in my head. It feels as though a vice is squeezing it with every beat. Being here is tearing open a wound so old it should have healed long ago. What I feel is beyond mere pain. It’s more like my DNA is being rewoven. Like the child I was and the woman I am are coming face-to-face and forming a new person.
Once I cross into the hallway, the image of my dad vanishes into thin air and a rush of pure unadulterated relief flows through me. I pass a pale-green bathroom before coming to an office. It’s very tidy and organized looking, which is not the way I think of my father. I remember him always searching for something: his brief case, a floppy disk, or his shoes. He was constantly losing things, making this home seem entirely too orderly to be his.
The next room is a guest room. The duvet on the bed is covered in big pink cabbage roses, there’s a rocking chair in the corner, and a trunk at the foot of the bed. It’s very feminine and somehow familiar. I lie down to rest without even bothering to unpack or put my nightgown on.
I fall into a deep sleep and am once again assailed by memories. My dad is making pancakes while singing David Bowie’s, “Space Odyssey.” He flips the flapjacks high in the air before turning around wielding his spatula and belting out, “Can you hear me, Major Tom?”
When we sit down to eat, I notice a book sitting in the middle of the table. It’s Cosmos by Carl Sagan. I ask, “What’s your book about, Daddy?”
His face turns serious and his eyes glaze over before he answers. “It’s about life, possibility, and truth. It’s poetry, Katie. It’s the bible for scientists.”
The next thing I know the sun is streaming through the bay window. Buddy’s head is on the pillow next to mine and immediately perks up when he realizes I’m awake. He starts to wag his tail as if supporting my decision to be conscious.
In the light of a new day, I’m once again consumed by concern that I don’t have the intestinal fortitude to withstand whatever lies ahead. I whisper to myself, “You can do this, Kate. You’re tough. You’re strong.” But again, I’m not sure I believe me.
CHAPTER 7
A soon as I tumble out of bed, I make my way to the kitchen. Buddy is right on my heels. He scrambles to the back door and sticks his nose into it like he’s trying to push it open. I unlock it and let him out to do his business. That’s when I spy Jake’s cabin for the first time. Calling it rustic would be seriously upselling it. It doesn’t look like more than a decrepit fishing shack. Not that I’ve ever seen one of those in person, but I have been to the movies.
The coffee has already been brewed, and there’s a note on the table from Jake saying he’s in town running some errands and that he’ll bring back lunch. His note is right next to an envelope with “Katydid” scrawled on the front. It’s in the same blue felt-tip pen that was on the one he gave me yesterday.
I didn’t find out until first grade that my dad’s pet name for me was really a long-horned grasshopper, but by then it didn’t matter. It made me feel special and it was part of our bond. He called me Katydid, so I called him Daddydid. I haven’t thought of that in more years than I can remember. It’s one of those things that’s so random, yet so significant, I can’t understand how I ever forgot it. I wonder how many days or years after Jeffrey left that it finally slipped out of my mind.
I pour a cup of coffee before opening the letter. Oddly, my favorite creamer is in the refrigerator and I wonder if Jake’s a fan, too. Otherwise, how would he ever know I use sugar-free nondairy hazelnut creamer?
I sit down at the old farmhouse table in the kitchen and sip my coffee. I run my hands over the envelope and even bring it to my nose to smell it.
I pull out one sheet of lined paper in my dad’s handwriting.
Dear Katydid,
There are a million things I want to say to you. But the very first is that I love you. I never stopped. I thought of you every day and wished with all my heart things could have been different. For reasons you will learn later, I cannot easily explain why I left. I will tell you the story though, but it must be in my own way.
It's important you don’t dispose of my things for a full year after I’m gone. I’ve left plenty of money to pay the taxes and keep the house up in the interim. Please trust me on this.
I’m sure you’re wondering why you should trust me about anything, but I promise I won’t let you down again.
If Buddy isn’t to your liking, Jake will take him. But if you wind up loving him as much as I think you will, I promise there’s never been a better friend in this world.
My Whole Heart,
Daddydid
Dear God, how can I do this? It’s taken me twenty-five years to get the laceration left by his departure to scab over. Being here is like ripping it off without anything to numb the pain or staunch the flow of blood. I have to keep this house for a whole year? I know I don’t have to come back after this weekend, but that’s really not an option. I need to figure out the mystery of Jeffrey’s disappearance for my own sanity. I’m entitled to some answers.
After reading the letter, I open the manila envelope Jake gave me yesterday. Inside is a note from Dad’s lawyer explaining that all his assets were left to me and Jen. It says I’m to call him upon my father’s demise for further details.
I pour myself a bowl of cereal before starting my search. That’s when I discover the dishes in the cabinet are the same kind we had
in my early childhood. When I get a spoon out of the drawer I realize the silverware pattern is identical, as well. To say I find this strange would be a gross understatement. Why would a man leave his home and family only to surround himself with pictures of them, and even go so far as to replicate the tableware they shared? I’m starting to think that maybe Jeffrey was mentally ill, and his disappearance had something to do with to the fact he wasn’t quite right in the head. While it could never change the devastation I experienced at losing him so young, I would definitely feel sorry for him if this turns out to be the case.
Being here is kind of like being in an alternate universe. Things seem both familiar and very strange at the same time. I’m completely off center and want to go back to California and seal off this part of my past, but not before I get some answers.
CHAPTER 8
By the time Jake gets back with lunch, I still haven’t made any move to go through my dad’s things. I figure now that I have a year before it needs to be done, there’s no sense rushing in full-steam. So instead of working, I’ve been wandering around the house sitting on different surfaces, trying to absorb his environment from various perspectives.
I lie down on my dad’s living room couch and stare at his television, wondering if he watched it often and what his favorite programs were. I sit at the kitchen table and gaze out the back window. I perch on the kitchen counter and try to envision him doing mundane things like making meals and putting away groceries.
Finally, I sit on the porch and switch back and forth between the two rocking chairs, before deciding on the one I’m currently planted on. I observe a family of deer nosing around the woods for the better part of an hour. They don’t seem the least bit afraid of me and the big stag even ventures forth into the clearing not five yards from me.
When the deer makes eye contact, his stare is so penetrating it’s like he’s looking straight through me. I remind myself I’m in Oregon and not Narnia, and that he probably isn’t going to talk to me any time soon. Although, I’m not sure I’d be surprised if he did. That’s how strange everything feels right now.
The animal doesn’t move until he hears Jake’s truck come up the driveway. But even then, he doesn’t run, he just saunters slowly toward his mate and two babies. My dad’s friend jumps out of his pickup carrying two bags from a place called Burgerville. He calls out, “Good morning!”
I force a slight smile, not ready to agree with him. It’s not been a bad morning, but a good one? Not so much. In my opinion, a good morning would be one where I’m helping autistic kids overcome challenges through music. A good morning would be walking on the beach before reading a good book. A good morning would be one where I’m still in my pajamas at home watching a funny movie. You see where I’m going here? Sitting on a rocking chair on my dead father’s front porch is not my idea of a good morning.
Jake walks toward me and lifts the bags in the air. “Comfort food.”
I didn’t think I was hungry until the heavenly aroma hits me. In response, I get up and lead the way into the kitchen.
“How did you sleep?” He drops the food on the table.
“Okay, I guess.” I add, “It was dreamless and fast, so I must have really passed out.”
He nods, “Yesterday had to be pretty tough for you.” Reaching into the bags, Jake pulls out battered fish and waffle-cut fries. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”
I take a bite of halibut to see if it brings the promised comfort. “I need to know why my dad left. I can’t imagine that’s too much to ask.” Putting my food down, I ask, “How hard can it be to say, ‘I fell in love with another woman’ or ‘I lost my mind and went crazy’? All I want is one solid sentence explaining why.”
Jake doesn’t address my question. He just says, “You should know something before you meet anyone else.” I wait expectantly while he finishes a bite. “Your father went by the name Theo Hawks here. I’m the only one who knew his alias.”
“He had an alias?” I demand. Then I rapid-fire ask, “Why did he change his name? Why Theo Hawks?”
“Because that was his name. Your father was born Theodore Randolph Hawks right here in Albany, Oregon. Many of the people you’ll meet at his funeral knew him as a child.”
My world is tilting off its axis. “My dad was born in Monrovia, California. I know because he used to drive me past the house he grew up in. He showed me his grade school.”
My dad’s friend moves a fry across his plate. “He showed you a house, a grade school.”
I demand, “Why would he do that?” And before he responds, I roll my eyes and shake my head. “I know, it’s not your story to tell.” I’m starting to think I don’t want to know anything more about my dad. All this mystery can’t possibly be worth it. Having said that, I know I’m not walking away without the answers I came for. The problem is I’ve only been collecting more questions.
Jake doesn’t hang around after we finish lunch. He claims to have things to do at his place. I can’t imagine what unless he’s going to raze it and rebuild from scratch. I don’t mind though. It’s not like I’m going to learn anything useful from him. And while he’s pretty spectacular to look at, I’m a bit too preoccupied with real life to indulge in fantasy.
When he leaves, I think about my mom. She can never know any of this. She’d be devastated all over again. I don’t know how to handle it, and he was only my dad. Imagine being married to him and creating a family together, then discovering it was all a lie. I can’t help but wonder, who was Jeffrey Randolph and why in the world was my dad pretending to be him?
CHAPTER 9
I spend the rest of the day looking around Theo’s house. In his desk, I find loads more pictures, many of which are the same as ones we still have at home in Pasadena. I can only assume he made copies before he left, which again begs the question, why leave if you want to see your family all the time?
I look a lot like my mom, with the same blonde hair and slim body structure. We’re both tall for women and her Scandinavian genes shine through. My dad was average-sized for a man with dark hair and swarthy skin tones. He was of Slavic descent. Jen looks a lot like him. I study the early photos of Jeffrey, or Theo, or whoever the hell he was, and the only thing I seem to have gotten from him are his prominent cheekbones. Otherwise, I’m a mini-Bethanie.
I try to log on to my dad’s computer, but I have no idea what the pin is. I try a variety of dates: his birthday, the day my parents got married, my birthday, Jen’s birthday, even the day he left us, but none of them work.
I snoop through his closet and see that all his clothes are perfectly pressed and hanging like uniforms. His shoes are polished and sitting side-by-side like soldiers. There are three umbrellas in a stand that look to be in their original wrapping, like they’ve never been used. The more I look around, the more I have no idea who this man was. To the casual observer, the house looks like a perfectly comfortable domicile. But to me it looks like a movie set. In other words, it looks fake.
***
The next morning Jake drives me into town to meet with my father’s attorney and to finally pick up my rental car that I left on the street. I’m guessing Duncan Fenway is a man about my dad’s age. He relays that he and Theo had been friends since grade school, but lost track of one another when they both went away to college. They picked up their friendship when Theo moved back to Albany ten years earlier. He abandoned us twenty-five years ago. Where the heck was he during the first fifteen?
My dad left me and Jen a grand total of eight hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars, plus his house and property, estimated at another seven hundred thousand. Who was this man? Maybe he was part of the Colombian drug cartel. How else could he have so much money lying around?
According to Duncan, we aren’t allowed access to the bulk of the estate until Theo’s been dead for a year. Each of us can use up to fifty thousand dollars in the interim, but only for things on an approved list, like for a car, or house repairs.
Jake and I stop for lunch at a cool farm-to-table restaurant in North Albany. We eat in the bar, as per his suggestion. He asks the hostess for a booth and then instead of sitting across from me, he pushes his way in next to me. It’s completely awkward and totally infringing on my personal space. I elbow him in the ribs and demand, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“It’s kind of noisy in here. I thought it would be easier to carry on a conversation if we were sitting next to each other.”
I suppose that’s true, but his knee rests against the side of mine, and I get tingly in places that haven’t tingled in a very long time. Also, he smells incredible. I don’t know what kind of soap he uses, but I have to force myself not to lean into him and sniff his neck. I don’t trust any of my emotions right now, least of all this attraction I seem to be feeling for my dad’s friend. I try to remember all the questions I have, but my mind comes up blank.
After we order, Jake nudges my arm. “So, do you still want to know all about your dad or do you think you want to go home and come back next year when you can sell?”
“Of course, I want to find out about him. I mean, I thought he was in Albany all this time. Now I discover he was somewhere else for fifteen years before coming here? What the heck?”
Jake takes a sip of his ice tea. “Sometimes it’s better not to dig for answers and just accept things at face value.”
“Would you be able to do that if you were in my situation?”
He smiles. “No, but I’m obstinate and pig-headed.”
I stick out my hand, “Pot, meet kettle. I’ve been waiting for twenty-five years to get these answers. I’m not quitting now.”