We Now Return to Regular Life

by Martin Wilson

  My phone pings and I see a message from Donal: “Happy Turkey Day!”

  I’ve pretty much avoided Donal, like everyone else, these past few weeks. Soon, pretty much everyone at school will hate me. And I don’t care.

  I walk to the kitchen and get a Hefty bag from under the sink. I go back to my room and open my closet and start scooping all the gifts and cards and crap into the bag. I cinch the bag closed and walk back down the hall, then outside, to the trash container, and dump it in.

  ===

  By around one thirty, we’re all dressed and waiting. Mom and Aunt Shelley are in the kitchen. Sam and Earl and I are in front of the TV. Stupid football is on. Sam watches it like he’s interested, but he looks at the screen blankly. Maybe he’s nervous about Dad, too.

  I see Earl look over at me a few times, like he’s worried about me or something. I wonder how he’s feeling about this visit. He seems calm, but then again, he always does.

  I keep looking at my phone. 1:35. 1:38. 1:41. Stop, I think. 2:00. My stomach starts churning. 2:02. 2:05. 2:12. My heart rate kicks into overdrive. He’s late. As always.

  Then, at 2:17, I hear a car door slam. Sam sneaks a quick look at me, then turns away. On the TV, a quarterback runs in for a touchdown; the crowd goes wild.

  A knock at the kitchen door. Aunt Shelley answers. “Well, Hank, look at you. Handsome as ever.” Earl stands, and Sam follows him toward the kitchen, but I stay seated.

  “And you’re as gorgeous as ever,” Dad says to Aunt Shelley. That voice. I still know it, with that Midwestern nasal sound mixed with just a touch of Southern twang.

  I push down a flash of tenderness. I keep my face stony and join everyone else near the kitchen door.

  Sam has to go first. I know the moment calls for that. But before Dad says hello, before he even looks at us, he gives Mom an awkward hug. Then he turns to face us. He’s in jeans, a button-down, and a tan blazer. He looks the same as I remember, but with more gray in his hair. His beard has flecks of gray in it, too. The same, but older, more tired. He looks at me first, a quick flash, but then he sees Sam.

  “My boy,” he says, almost whispering. Sam goes to him and they hug tightly. Dad pats Sam on the back and then just takes him in. “You’re so big. So handsome. . . . Like your old man.” He flashes that grin at all of us, his audience. Then he turns to me. “Beth,” he says, inching closer. “Beautiful like your mother.” He looks back at Mom and lets out a little chuckle. Then he looks at me, but he seems nervous. “Can I get a hug?”

  I nod and he hugs me tightly and I remain mostly limp, my hands barely on his shoulders. When he pulls back, he says to all of us, “It’s so great to be here. Diane, Earl, thanks for letting me come—thanks to all of you. Thanks for letting me be a part of this.”

  “We wouldn’t have it any other way,” Shelley says.

  “We’re glad to have you,” Earl says, sounding subdued.

  Dad rubs his hands together. “It smells damn good in here.”

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Mom says.

  He nods, and I see him staring at Sam, like he’s trying to figure something out.

  We move into the dining room and Mom, Shelley, and I help bring the food to the crowded table. Turkey, ham, stuffing, cranberries, green bean casserole, a tossed salad, sweet potatoes, and regular mashed potatoes, plus homemade rolls. A feast. But I don’t feel hungry. My stomach is in knots.

  “Hank, do you want to lead us in prayer?” Mom asks, after we’re all seated.

  I see Dad pause. He hardly ever went to church. It was always just Mom and me and Sam. And then we stopped going altogether once Sam disappeared.

  “Me?” Dad says. “Uh, sure. Okay.” We join hands and close our eyes.

  Dad clears his throat. “Dear God, thanks for bringing us all together on this fine day. Thanks for this delicious food. Thanks for these wonderful people. . . . Thanks for my . . . for our beautiful daughter, Beth, who’s grown into a lovely young woman.” I open my eyes, but everyone else has theirs closed. I’m a little surprised he mentioned me first, before Sam—his only reason for being here in the first place.

  “And thank you, God, for returning our boy to us. Thanks for answering our prayers. Amen.”

  “Amen,” we all say.

  “Okay, let’s dig in,” Dad says, letting out a relieved laugh. He winks at me, then at Sam, holding his gaze.

  “Amen to that,” Aunt Shelley says, taking a swig from her white wine.

  Even though I’m not hungry, I sample a little of everything. For a good while, we just sit around and eat and talk about how good the food is—a safe topic.

  Earl asks Dad about his business, and soon they’re having a boring discussion about real estate, which Aunt Shelley loves. I can feel Sam fidgeting next to me. Sitting there, I wonder what Thanksgiving was like for him all those years. Did he and that man celebrate it, somehow? Or was it just another day? And I wonder if Sam’s thinking about that, too—how a year ago he was somewhere else, maybe eating turkey, maybe not, and all of those unknowable things make me feel queasy all of sudden, and I start coughing, gagging on the cranberries I was eating.

  “You okay?” Mom asks, and I grab my water and nod.

  After we clear the table and pack up the leftovers, it’s time for dessert. I help Mom and Shelley bring in the apple pie, the ice cream, and the chocolate cake. It’s all too much. I don’t think I can eat anything else.

  Once we’re settled back with our dessert, we eat quietly until Dad says, “So, Sam. Your mother says you’re working with a tutor.”

  I see Shelley kind of shoot him a look—like she’s warning him to be careful. Mom is looking at Sam, smiling—but it seems fake, like she’s holding something back.

  “Yeah, Lane,” Sam says. “She’s nice. I like her.”

  “That’s great.” Dad takes a bite of his pie, then looks back at Sam. “And you’re seeing a therapist.”

  Sam nods. Mom’s smile is gone. Now she’s staring at Dad, but he’s still watching Sam. The air in the room feels weird now—like there’s a bad smell we’re too embarrassed to acknowledge.

  “Sam’s adjusting really well,” Earl says, piping in.

  “We’re taking things one day at a time,” Mom says.

  “That’s great,” Dad says. “That’s all you can do. One day at a time.”

  Mom has always stressed that talking about any of this is off-limits. But maybe Dad didn’t get the memo.

  Or maybe he did and he’s defying her.

  “Why don’t we move into the den,” Mom says, pushing back from the table so hard that the table rattles. She starts grabbing plates.

  “Sure,” Dad says.

  I help Mom, rinsing the dishes, then putting them in the dishwasher. When we lock eyes, she gives me a tense smile. Shelley helps, too, while the others settle back in front of the TV, watching football. I can hear Dad and Earl talking. Outside it’s getting dark. Finally, we get the kitchen into reasonable shape and join everyone else in the den.

  “So, Sam. You playing any soccer?” Dad asks.

  “No. Not really.”

  “Sam’s a great artist now,” Mom says, the edge from her voice gone. “He draws these wonderful pictures.”

  “You should see some of his sketches,” Shelley says. “Sam, show your daddy some of your work.”

  “I’d love that,” Dad says.

  “Okay,” Sam says, sounding kind of embarrassed.

  “Wow, an artist in the family. Maybe you can draw my portrait?”

  “Sure,” Sam says.

  “And Beth is applying to Alabama for next fall,” Mom says, sounding a little too cheerful. I can tell she wants the focus off Sam. That’s the only reason she brought me up. I mean, we’ve barely talked about college. “And she’s still super involved with soccer. Her team has a real good shot at making
the state championship this year, right, hon?”

  “I guess,” I say.

  “You’re a midfielder?” Dad says.

  How does he know? “Yeah. More of a defensive midfielder.”

  “That’s great. Midfielders—those are the real workhorses on the team. You must be strong.”

  “She is,” Mom says, “and fast.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. She’s acting like an expert, but she’s barely been to any of the games. Earl sometimes came, and he explained Mom’s absence as being related to Sam. (“It all reminds her too much of him.”)

  “Any young men in the picture? A pretty girl like you, I bet boys—”

  “Stop it,” I say.

  “What?” Dad looks at me and cracks a smile, then glances at Mom and Earl in a confused way, like he’s seeking their guidance.

  “Stop pretending you care about me.”

  “Beth,” Aunt Shelley says.

  “What?” I say, my eyes laser focused on Dad. “I know you only came down here to see Sam. I was here for three years and I never saw you, but the minute Sam comes back, you’re dying to be here.”

  “Beth, calm down,” Mom says.

  “No,” I say. I feel my skin burning, and my adrenaline kicks in, like during a game when the ball is coming toward me. “It’s true. Sam’s the only one who ever mattered to him. To anyone in this house. Including you, Mom.”

  “Beth, honey,” Aunt Shelley says.

  “Don’t expect me to jump up and down and act all happy that you’ve actually acknowledged me. You’re all here because of Sam. You only care about Sam.” I stand up from the couch. A kind of fury is building inside me, but my throat tightens and I feel my eyes welling up. But Dad’s still smiling at me, trying to be an adult.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” I say to him.

  “Stop it, Beth,” Sam says.

  My father looks down then, unable to meet my eyes. I feel a vein throbbing at my temple and I wonder if I look crazy to him, to all of them. “You’re not my father. You’re a stranger to me,” I say, still feeling fury, but also a hard burst of sadness. Because what I’ve said is true. He is a stranger. I don’t know him at all.

  “Stop it!” Sam says again.

  I turn to him, and his wet and angry eyes only push me to keep going. “And what about you? You just mope around like a ghost and we have to pretend that everything is fine and normal, and it’s not. None of this is normal.”

  “Stop, please,” he says, softer this time.

  “Beth,” Dad says.

  But I can’t face him anymore. I can’t face him or Sam or anyone else. I walk away toward the kitchen, then out the kitchen door, through the garage and down the driveway and into the street. I start walking up the hill, away from our house.

  The cool night air feels good. I breathe deeply, feeling charged up but also exhausted, like I just ran down the field. And as I walk, that sadness blooms in me and it takes all my energy to keep moving. After a few minutes I hear Aunt Shelley calling after me. I keep walking, but she catches up.

  “Lord, slow down, girl. I might have a heart attack.”

  I ease my pace, but I keep walking, my arms crossed against the cold. For a while Aunt Shelley just walks along with me. Then she puts her arm around me. “You’re having a hard time of it, aren’t you?” I don’t say anything, because my throat is lumpy and dry. “I can’t imagine what it’s like, having to deal with all this adjustment. The years of ups and downs. You’re a stronger girl than I was at your age.”

  “I’m not strong,” I say, enjoying the feel of her arm, the smell of her flowery perfume.

  “Oh you are, and you know it. You’ll get through this. All of you will.”

  This. Whatever this is. Like it’s something physical. Like it’s a place that we can just drive past.

  “I wish Dad hadn’t come,” I say.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “He’s always loved Sam more. Mom too.”

  “Honey,” she says. “Listen to me.”

  I stop at the crest of the little hill but keep facing forward.

  “Love’s not a pie. There aren’t limited pieces to go around. Your parents love you both equally, just in different ways. When you’re young, I know that love can feel like a burden, or it can show itself in funny ways. But trust me, that love is overflowing.”

  I think about Dr. Rao, about what she said earlier, and start to feel a little bad that I stormed off.

  “You know, I speak to your daddy. A few times a month.”

  “You do?” I say.

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you all this, but I’ve had some wine. Plus, you’re almost an adult now. Heck, you’re already an adult, the stuff you’ve gone through.” Shelley starts walking, so now I’m the one following her.

  “Yeah, he calls me a few times a month, sometimes more. He has ever since he left Tuscaloosa. And after Sam vanished he called a lot. He was a wreck. I hate to say it, but he sort of became a bad drunk again. He’s better now, I think. But during that stretch, he’d call me, a mess. He always said it was his fault that Sam went missing. If he’d only been there, this would never have happened.”

  Would that have made a difference? If he had stayed? Probably. It would have altered the entire future.

  “But he didn’t worry about me. He hardly called,” I say.

  “He wanted to. But he was . . . I don’t know, afraid. Ashamed. Like I said, he felt like it was his fault. And your mother had Earl. She didn’t need him.”

  “I needed him.”

  “I know you did. I’m not excusing him. But he . . . I guess he couldn’t face you. He couldn’t face your disappointment in him. He should have gone to see you. But he kept staying away, kept putting it off.”

  Hearing all this, I don’t know what to think. All these years I pictured my dad barely thinking of me. A stranger.

  “Sometimes I couldn’t knock sense into him. He’s not a perfect man, Lord knows. He’s got his problems. We all do. But I just thought you should know that he’s never stopped being your father.”

  We walk on. It’s completely dark out now, the streetlamps casting crescents of light on the street. I can see inside the houses we pass—dining rooms full of people, or people camped out in front of the TV, scenes of togetherness. We used to run around this neighborhood on summer nights, playing kick the can and elaborate hide-and-seek-type games. Hiding in backyards, in pool sheds, under cars in garages. Running around alone in the dark. Back when we thought bad things happened to other people. Back when the worst thing was having to come in at night, having to brush our teeth and take a bath and go to bed.

  “We really do have so much to be thankful for, you know?” Shelley says. Our neighborhood is a big circle, and we come to the base of the second, steeper hill that will lead us back to our house. When we reach the top I see that Dad’s car is gone. I’ve spent weeks dreading this visit, and now I want to run down the street, call out to him, beg him to come back.

  ===

  I wake at the crack of dawn, the light from the sun barely poking through the curtains of the living room. All the theatrics from last night come flooding back to me and for a minute I feel frozen under the covers. But then I think of Dad. He’s not coming for breakfast anymore—all because of me. I realize with a stabbing sensation that I can’t leave things broken between us. I have to see him before he leaves town.

  I crack the living room door open and smell coffee. I walk to the den and see Shelley on the couch, with an afghan over her legs. The TV is on, the volume so low it might as well be on mute. A mug rests on the coffee table.

  “They’re already showing Christmas movies, can you believe it? Even at this hour,” she says.

  I sit down next to her and she puts her arm around me and starts rubbing my shoulder. It will be Chri
stmas in a month. Another occasion to mark—Sam’s first Christmas back at home. Presents and tidings of good cheer.

  Unless I’ve ruined everything.

  “I want to see Dad,” I say. “Will you take me to his hotel? Will you go with me?”

  Shelley grabs her coffee, takes a sip. “Your mom would kill me.”

  “If we go soon, we could get back before anyone wakes up. We can say we went for doughnuts. I need to see him. If you don’t take me, I’ll just go by myself.”

  She sighs and looks at the ceiling as if asking for divine assistance. “Okay,” she says. “Just let me get some decent clothes on.”

  ===

  We drive down Skyland, toward the Hampton Inn near the interstate. The sun casts a pink glow in the sky, peeking through the morning clouds. Hardly any other cars are on the roads at this hour. It’s a quick drive. When we pull up I say, “Can you stay in the car? I think I want to see him alone.”

  “Sure, honey,” she says.

  I walk into the small lobby. There’s a skinny guy in glasses behind the counter. “Can I help you?”

  “Can you tell me what room Hank Walsh is in?”

  He hesitates, like maybe he’s not supposed to tell me that information. I push my hair behind my ear and smile. “I’m his daughter.”

  “Oh, okay.” He types information into the computer. “Room Three fifteen.”

  “Thanks.” I head down a dimly lit hallway to the elevator and take it up to the third floor. I knock. No response. He must be asleep. Or maybe he’s gone. Maybe I’ve missed him. I knock again, louder. Please be there. And soon I hear feet shuffling toward the door, and finally he opens it. He’s in a T-shirt and jeans, his eyes tired from sleep, his hair flattened. But when he registers me he looks shocked, and then his shock turns into a genuine, gentle look of happiness, like he can’t believe his eyes and doesn’t want to make a move or I might vanish like a dream.

  “Beth. What—what are you doing here? What time is it?”

  “It’s early, I know. But I wanted to say good-bye.”