These Days Series: After Tuesday | Forgotten Yesterday | Deciding Tomorrow

by Renee Ericson

  We hang up, and I sit back in the black vinyl seats, watching the city go by. I hate to admit it, but the four days apart were harder than I’d thought they would be. We’ve been spending so much time together—practically in each other’s space almost twenty-four hours a day for the last month—that those four days alone have felt like an eternity. I knew he was coming back, so that helped, but I’ve gotten entirely too used to having him around. In less than a month, he’ll be back in L.A., and I’ll still be here. If four days was painful, I don’t even want to think about his impending departure.

  The car stops at my apartment building. I pay the driver and exit onto the curb. I pull my key out of my purse as I tread up the walkway to the front door of my residence. Entering quickly to escape the cold, I dash up the steps and down the hall to my place. I open the door, flick off my shoes, and step around the corner into the main part of the apartment.

  It’s dark, but I don’t turn on the light because the room is illuminated by the glow from a tree in the corner—one that wasn’t here when I left. The soft twinkle, shining and reflecting on the hardwood floor, reveals that the plump, well-decorated tree isn’t the only difference in the room since I left earlier today. The bed has been rearranged, allowing space for a new small love seat and armchair.

  I don’t even recognize my apartment.

  “Cromwell!” I call, slightly peeved, while unbuttoning my coat.

  Brent comes out of the dressing area where he’s obviously been hiding while waiting for me to come home. “Yes?” he innocently asks, brows raised with a grin playing across his features. “Can I help you?”

  I slip off my hat and stuff it into my pocket. “What is going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I stomp my foot and drop my bag to the floor. “What the hell did you do?”

  He approaches, arms wide, and he envelops me, hugging me tight. His arms are meant to hold me, but my hands hang loose at my sides overcome by the additions to the apartment.

  “I missed you, too.” He kisses me on the cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  I lean back in his embrace, overwhelmed by him and having him back. My heart beats hard and steady. He smells the same and smiles the same, and he makes my blood flow wildly, just as I remember. Four days of absence are quickly forgotten.

  “What is all of this?”

  “It’s a tree.” He smirks. “Haven’t you ever seen a Christmas tree before?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen a tree before.” My hands join together behind his back. “But what the hell is going on?”

  “What? Didn’t you want a tree?”

  “It’s just a surprise, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting it.” I scan the entirely new-to-me layout. “Any of it.”

  “It’s Christmas, and this place needed a tree. Plus, I wanted one.”

  “I love the tree.” I look deep into his eyes, almost black in the dim light. “It’s beautiful.” My arms tighten around his lower back, refamiliarizing with his form. “Thank you.”

  I kiss him. My lips remember his, and they take their time exploring his taste and texture. Our first kiss in days somehow has a newness to it, but it is outweighed by its familiarity.

  “What about the other stuff?” I ask against his mouth.

  “What stuff?” He continues to play coy.

  “A lot more furniture is here than before I left for work.” I nestle my body into his. “It’s nice, but you can’t buy me furniture.”

  “I didn’t.”

  My hands drop. “Okay. Now, I’m confused. What the hell is going on?”

  “Well…” He steps back, combs his hand through his hair, and then leads us across the room.

  Brent plops down on the leather club chair and pulls me onto his lap. Tucking my hair behind my ears and away from my face, Brent kisses me a few more times.

  “This is nice, right?” he asks.

  “You or the chair?”

  “All of it?” He shrugs. “The whole thing.”

  “Yes, it’s all very nice.” My index finger traces the line of his jaw. I tap my foot on the arm of the chair. “But you still haven’t told me what this is doing here.” Then, I tilt my head toward the small pale blue sofa across from us. “Or that.”

  He clutches my hand. “I bought them a few weeks ago.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I wanted them.” He tongues the inside of his cheek. “That day we went into the store and I sat in this chair with you sitting across from me, everything just felt right. I never wanted to own something so badly as I did in that moment. Me in the chair, you in the same room…I don’t know. I knew it was impulsive, but I went back and bought them while you were at work. I had no clue what I was going to do with them. I put them in storage at first, thinking I would ship them to my place, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I was thinking.” He pauses, apprehensive. “Maybe I could keep them here…with you.”

  I sour my lips. “This sounds like some kind of tricky way for you to buy me furniture, like some loophole in our twenty-dollar Christmas gift agreement.”

  Brent doesn’t reply with anything other than a persuasive expression, his piercing eyes pleading.

  “Brent!” I playfully hit his shoulder. “No way.”

  “Well…” He hems and haws. “I guess I’ll figure out a way to have it all shipped to California.” He deliberately bats his green eyes with those dark lashes fluttering in exaggeration.

  “Ugh.” I laugh. “Fine. You can keep your furniture here. Just remember, they’re yours, not mine.”

  “Thank you.” His fingers thread with mine.

  “Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t told you my storage fee.”

  Cheerfulness returns to his face. “And what’s that?”

  “I only deal in kisses—lots and lots of kisses.”

  “Just kisses?”

  “I might be open to other offers.”

  “Good.” His lips touch mine. “Because I bought ice cream, too.”

  Twenty-Three

  An oppressive gray sky and scattering of snowfall greet us this brisk morning. It’s Christmas, and for the first time in all my memories, I awoke smiling on the holiday. Brent was next to me, and his steady inhales and exhales brought peace to the start of a stressful day. My objections about him staying for the holiday were completely about him, but deep inside, I’m glad he’s spending it with me despite my stubborn fight.

  We’ve been in the car for some time with Brent at the wheel and me in the passenger seat. It’s not much farther before we will reach the entrance to where my father has called home for the last three years. The gated area of the prison, expansive chain-link fence, concrete blocks, and watchtowers just came into view.

  Brent’s hand finds mine in my lap. Having been here before on several occasions, I’m not nervous about seeing my father. I’ve visited in the past, but coming with Brent is something new, and I hope my father takes it well.

  My dad’s not privy to my miscarriage. He doesn’t even know that I was ever pregnant. That was something I didn’t want to share with many, especially my father because I feared it would trouble his sobriety. However, he was there for my overly depressive state when Brent departed to Sweden. It was obvious Brent’s absence was directly connected to my demise, and my father might harbor some issues over that point.

  My father is aware that Brent is coming with me today. As part of the visitation procedures, we had to submit an application for Brent. Once the warden approved him, I received a letter from my dad saying that he was excited about seeing us, so I’m optimistic.

  We pull into the parking lot and find a spot. Brent turns off the engine, and wordlessly, we exit the vehicle.

  “Make sure to lock it,” I say, rounding the back of the car to join him.

  He clicks the button.

  “High theft rate, I guess.”

  “Makes sense,” he remarks tentatively.

>   We join hands and walk together toward the prison entrance. It’s the beginning of visiting hours, and many other families are here already, waiting to see their loved ones. We queue up outside of the facility.

  Brent’s arm wraps around my shoulder, shielding my body from the wind. “Is it always like this?” he asks quietly in my ear. “The line?”

  “Yeah, it usually is. Hopefully, it won’t take too long for us to get inside. Some days, the wait is really long.”

  About forty-five minutes later, we enter the building and commence visitor processing—checking in, getting badges, and going through security. By the time we reach the already crowded visitation room, almost two hours have passed since our arrival in the parking lot.

  Brent and I sit at the table set aside for us in a room full of laughter and tears. I’m anticipating my father’s entrance. It’s another fifteen minutes or so before he’s escorted over to us by one of the correctional officers. Rising from the table as he approaches, my grip tightens around Brent’s hand. It’s been a few months since my last visit. While my father seems the same as he did then, I never get used to his appearance. His frame is slighter than it was when he first came in. He’s lost about forty pounds over the years. His hair is shorter, exposing more of the gray as well as his age. Other than that, his appearance is good. His complexion is clear, and his posture is confident.

  One look from him with the slimmest hint at a smile, and the waterworks threaten to break my composure.

  The officer steps away, and my father’s warm brown eyes mist up as they meet mine.

  “Hi, kiddo,” he says, his voice breaking a little. He clears his throat. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas, Dad.” My lip somewhat quakes. Taking a step forward, I throw my arms around his neck. “It’s good to see you.”

  His arms slide behind my back, squeezing me in a hug. “You, too.”

  My father quickly kisses my cheek, his light stubble scratching against my skin. I return the gesture, not lingering too long, and then I step back, my thumb damming the unshed tear collecting in my bottom lid. At the circular table, we pull out our chairs and take our seats with my dad sitting across from Brent, facing the guards at the front of the room. I sit between the two of them.

  “Thanks for coming,” my father says.

  I reach out, squeezing his hand for a brief moment. “Of course I came.”

  He smiles widely, so wide it possibly reaches his hairline. Then, he says to Brent, “You, too. Thank you for coming.”

  “Merry Christmas, Jerry. And of course. Thank you for having me.”

  Over the next hour, we discuss school, Chicago, and life in general, never hitting on any overly hard or serious topics. We’re just enjoying the visit. My father gets reacquainted with Brent, seemingly accepting of having him here with no issues. Brent recounts how he and I got back together and how nice it is to be visiting me for his break. He also touches briefly on his career. After some time of idle chitchat, Brent excuses himself to use the restroom, but I think he’s doing it to give my father and me a moment alone.

  Together, we watch Brent until he exits the room and is out of sight.

  “So,” my father says, “you seem happy.”

  “I do?”

  “You do. I have a feeling he”—his head tilts in the direction of Brent’s path—“has something to do with that.”

  I shyly grin. “He just might.”

  My father leans forward, placing his elbows on the table. “It’s good to see you smile again. I haven’t seen that smile in years. Maybe not since you were in high school.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I do. I might not have always been there, and I’m sorry about that, but I noticed. I saw a lot more than you think.”

  “Dad…you don’t need to apologize for any of that.”

  “Ruby, I will apologize until the day I die for not being there when I should have.” He sits back in his seat and takes a deep breath. “I didn’t think you would ever be happy again after what happened in Florida.” He focuses on the table. “Or what I did to land myself in here.”

  “Dad…it was an accident. You do your best.” I play with the ends of my hair. “We all do.”

  He shakes his head, smiling in disbelief. “My best wasn’t good enough though, and that’s why I’m in here. I’m working on it. I’m trying to do better.”

  “It’s Christmas. We don’t need to rehash all of that.” I scoot closer to him. The scent of fresh soap on his skin hits my senses. “Nothing to be done about it now. Let’s just enjoy this time together.”

  “I should have been there for you.” He taps my left arm once and then folds his hands together. “I was trying to get there.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask softly. “Get where?”

  “Ah, kiddo, I should have told you before, but I didn’t want you to think it was your fault.”

  “Dad?” I plea. “What’s not my fault? I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.”

  Apology is written all over his face. “When I heard about your accident, Cody was already down in Florida. He’d been there for five days. Jas told me. He had to wait for me to sober up before I would even believe him, I guess. I wasn’t doing too well then. I’m sure you remember. But you were hurt, and I felt so helpless. There was nothing I could do.”

  “You…you couldn’t.”

  “I wanted to, and…well, one thing led to another.” His eyes glass over. “I wanted to be there. I wanted to help you. You needed help.”

  “Dad,” I say, consoling him, my hand over his, “it’s okay.”

  “It’s not. I’m your father. You should know, that’s where I was headed when I got in the accident that landed me here. I was coming to see you.”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  The guilt hits me, but I override it, knowing the accident or him being in prison is not my fault. It’s taken some time for me to accept this. Al-Anon meetings have helped immensely with that process as well. As the child of an addict, it’s difficult not to feel responsible in some way for my dad’s issues even though they so plainly aren’t mine.

  “Me being in here…” he continues. “I don’t want you to think it’s your fault. You had enough you had to deal with, but you should know that I wanted to be there for you.” His expression pleads with apology. “I love you. You’re my daughter, but I couldn’t get to you. Please know I wanted to come. I was trying. You were always first for me, always on my mind, but I guess…my demons won. They always seem to win.”

  It saddens me to see my father like this—ridden with guilt and feeling so helpless. I gave up blaming him, his demons, and their power over him years ago. His addiction is part of who he is, and I accept that. He battles himself enough, even in here. He’s been sober for about three years, and he’s still fighting with the sickness. He will always fight with addiction.

  “I love you,” I reassure him. “No matter what. No matter your demons.”

  “I love you, too. You’re a good kid, too good.” He rests his hand on mine. “I just hate that you have had to do so much on your own. I couldn’t really be there for you when you needed someone.”

  “I know,” I whisper.

  He frowns, somber.

  The moment passes, and then he pats my hand twice before returning it back to his lap.

  “So, Brent is back?” he asks, changing the subject. “I was surprised when I got your request.”

  “Yeah, he’s back.”

  “And you’re happy about this?” He assesses my face. “That’s probably a dumb question. I can see that you are.”

  I smile. “I am happy.”

  “Is he good to you?”

  “Dad…”

  “Hey, I’m still your father. I’m allowed to be concerned about who my daughter is dating.”

  I bite my lower lip. “Yeah, he’s good to me.”

  “You two worked out your issues? I haven’t forgotten about how things we
re and how you took it when he left.”

  “We have.” I play with the ends of my brown hair. “I think we just needed the time apart, but we’re doing good. It’s been really nice having him back.”

  “Do you love him?” he asks without missing a beat.

  “Yeah, I love him,” I say, focused on my hands. It’s such an intimate question. “I love him very much.”

  “I thought so.” He sighs and then lifts his eyes to the space above my head.

  Brent rests his palm on my shoulder and kisses me on the head with no regard to my father watching us. Then, he pulls out the chair next to me, resuming his seat. Without any thought, my hand reaches for his under the table, joining and resting them together on his thigh.

  “Visiting hours will be ending in twenty minutes,” an officer at the front of the room announces. “Please be sure to say your farewells in a timely manner.”

  “It always goes by so fast,” I state.

  “Time is a funny thing in this place,” my father adds. “It’s almost irrelevant.” He stands up, taking a step in my direction. “Come and give your dad a hug.”

  “We have twenty more minutes,” I say, refusing to rise from my seat.

  “We do, but we should say good-bye. I don’t want them rushing you out of here.” His eyes dart to Brent and then back to me. “I’d like to talk to Brent alone, if you don’t mind.”

  Looking at Brent, my eyes widen in question.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  Standing up, I squeeze his hand. I give my dad a hug, a long one, too long for what the facility considers to be appropriate, but I need it. He pats my back, indicating we need to disengage, but I ignore it.

  “I love you, Dad,” I utter. “I’ll come and see you again in a few months. Sooner if I can.”

  “I love you, too.” He steps back, holding my shoulders. “And don’t worry about me in here. Concentrate on school and take care of yourself.”

  “I will.” I wipe away the tear rolling down my cheek and then turn around toward Brent. “I’ll wait for you at the door.”

  Brent’s hand floats along the curve of my back. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”