by Rose Hudson
Apparently, never ends right now.
I KEEP TELLING MYSELF to focus on Patrick’s strong arm around my back, or Ruth’s hand clinging tightly to mine. When I squeeze my eyes shut for a beat to catch my breath, I even smell the unmistakable smell of Mom’s Shepard’s pie cooking and I tell my stomach to focus on that instead of drawing into the tight ball of fear that it’s in the process of forming. But as we stand in the doorway of the townhouse, I can’t command any part of my body to cooperate. When they say that fear is a powerful thing, they weren’t lying. He hasn’t seen us, but we’ve seen him. Sitting in a recliner in the far corner, hooked to an IV, frail and so much less than the man that I remember just five years ago.
“Y’all go on in. I gotta’ go check dinner and I’ll be right back.” Mom kisses my head, I’m sure leaving bright red lipstick as she pulls away and scoots around us in the tight space of the entryway. I watch her as she leaves the room and tears fill my eyes. Is it weird that she looks like a super hero to me right now? In all these years of chaos, and now this, she still seems to be the same Bobbi Jean she’s always been. What I’ve always seen as ditzy or dumb-blonde syndrome, now appears as the ability to stay strong and positive no matter the circumstances.
“Momma, do you care if I go with Grammy,” Ruth’s small voice questions beside me. I turn my head from where I watch my momma pulling Shepard’s Pie from the oven. Patrick’s hand makes smooth comforting circles on my back, bringing me back to the here and now. I shake my head in answer, unable to force the words from my throat. Ruth’s angelic form hurries into the kitchen and plops down on the same barstool I’ve sat on a million times before. Part of me feels like I should put Patrick out of his misery and let him join them in the kitchen as well, but the other, the one willing to admit they are scared and vulnerable, holds tight to his hand.
“Are you sure you want to come in with me?” My words come out as much a plea as a question. Like he can read my mind, like he knows all I need to give me strength and reassurance is his touch, he leans down and places a gentle kiss to my mouth. Pulling away just enough to see my eyes he says,
“I’m right here beside you.”
Stepping into the living room is like stepping into another dimension. The savory smell of meat and potatoes now replaced by lifeless sterility and chemicals. Complete stillness other than the ticking of the hand on the grandfather clock in the corner and the heavy thump of my heart, amplifying with each step I take. Step. His chair sits catty-corner to us in the room, so I can’t see him other than the curve of his left shoulder. A jagged bone-protruding shoulder. Step. A rising and falling, but shallow breathing chest. Step. Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Closed and sleeping and looking like they belong to any other person on this planet besides my father. My daddy. I turn quickly and bury my head into Patrick’s chest. I press my face deep into the muscle of his chest to muffle the sound of my cries, to hold back the urge to scream in hatred and fear and regret for all that’s transpiring in this moment. For all the memories of a childhood that I’ve spent so many years hating, that suddenly, I’d give anything to go back to. No amount of time, anger or illness, can take away the pictures in your mind of a person. I refuse to let this be the last picture of him I have in my mind. I claw at Patrick like the further I can crawl inside him, the further away from this version of my father I can become. He smooths my hair and leans down to my ear.
“Turn around, look at your dad.” I pull away from his chest and snap my eyes up to his, confused and questioning his demand.
“Erin?,” my father’s frail, raspy voice startles me from behind. I turn quickly, pleased to see the one part of him that no illness or disease could ever steal away; his vivid blue eyes.
“Hi Dad.” I step forward and sit on the edge of the ottoman in front of his chair. Our eyes sharing so much more than words could say. So much more than either of us would say, because that’s just not how we do things.
“Hi Butterbean.” He holds out his hand and I fill it with mine. The stark contrast between his cool and my warmth just another cruel reminder that I’m alive and he’s that much closer to death. I open and close my mouth several times, but words evade my tongue. There’s nothing I can say right now to make it better, and it doesn’t matter anyway. Garon Presley is a straight shooter and wouldn’t appreciate anything less. I’ve never bullshitted him before and I’m damn sure not going to start now.
“You look like hell.” A bit of color creeps into his features at my words and he squeezes my hand gently.
“Well, all except for them waterworks creepin’ down your cheeks, you look like you’re finally living life.” He reaches up and wipes away a stray tear with his shaky thumb, and I choke away a sob. “I don’t want to see any more of these while you’re here. Deal?” I shake my head in agreeance. “You gonna’ tell me who this is behind you?” I look up to Patrick and back down to him, smiling through the tears pooling behind the lids of my eyes.
“Dad, this is Patrick Lawson. Patrick, this is my daddy, Garon Presley.” I gesture back and forth between the two as Patrick steps forward to shake his hand.
“Good to meet you Mr. Presley.”
“Oh hell, I may be her daddy, but I still ain’t old enough to be a Mister. it's Garon.” I can’t help the pang of guilt I feel that Patrick doesn’t know how old my father is. Yes, my father is still Patrick’s elder at forty-eight, but that’s not the point. The point is, we’ve been seeing each other for two months and he’s here to meet my dying father and neither of us knows the first thing about each other. Before I can do my usual overthinking and dwell, Mom comes in the room like a freight train.
“Well good. You’re awake just in time for supper. Do you feel like eating in the kitchen or you want me to bring your plate in here?” Dad looks from me to her and proceeds to push himself out of his chair to get up, but falters. I can’t help my quick reflex to jump up and help, and he’s just as quick to shew me off.
“Now y’all go on. My legs ain’t broke.”
Most of my meals as a child and upwards into my teen years, were cooked by my grandmother. But there were certain times, mostly holidays, that my mother would cook and I always wondered why she didn’t do it more often because delicious doesn’t begin to describe it. Perfectly seasoned and prepared, her food is easily some- if not the best food I’ve ever eaten. Even with as many knots as my stomach is tied in, I couldn’t pass up a few bites of Momma’s cooking. But I’d be lying if I said that the center of my attention hinges on the food tonight. At least Dad’s eating. At least Ruth and Momma are having a blast talking about doing makeovers and whatever else girlie Momma can come up with. At least my lungs are filling with air, breathing in and out, keeping me alive on their own. Because right now, I can’t do much more than exist. I had no idea it would feel like this. That seeing my dad in the flesh, recognizing the very little life left in him that I would feel so torn apart. But I do.
“Oh, Erin, the hospice nurse ran late today and I didn’t get a chance to run to the store and grab the last few items on my list. I know it’s gonna’ be a madhouse, but after we finish up dinner I’m gonna’ run to the store,” Momma says sheepishly, keeping her voice low so that only Ruth and I hear. Daddy’s silverware clinks to his plate loudly, startling the three of us and revealing that Mom’s efforts to remain unheard were for not.
“Bobbi Jean, we done talked about this. You’ve got plenty of shit to cook already. There’s only five of us for God’s sake!” His words are clipped and heated. He would never use the word ‘money’ in front of others, but I know them well enough to know that the only time my dad gets like this with her is when money is involved. Dad’s outburst bringing back a piece of the chip on my shoulder, I sit up straight and look at him across the table, trying my damnedest to be polite with Patrick present.
“Dad, if you’re going to get pissed, do it when Ruth isn’t sitting beside you.” I turn from him to Mom. “I have to run to get a few things and there’s no way
you’re feeding all of us while we’re here. Write down a list and I’ll pick it up while I’m there.” Mom shakes her head and I feel Patrick’s hand on my thigh squeezing gently, reading my mind like he always does.
“Ooo! And Grammy can do my makeover,” Ruth squeals, grabbing Mom’s hands, making it difficult to tell which is the elder out of the two as they bounce and giggle. Makeup and hair can keep my mother on a high like no pills or alcohol ever could. It’s good to see her and Ruth bonding over something she loves so much. I look back over to Daddy, who’s eyes haven’t removed their locked position on my face.
“That okay with you,” I ask directly. As badass as I’d like to think I am, one death stare from him and suddenly I’m five again. Patrick’s phone rings beside me and I glance over at him for a second, waiting on my father to make up his mind as to whether he will answer me or not. Patrick’s brows draw to the center as he studies the screen before standing.
“I’m gonna’ step outside and take this real quick. Excuse me.” Watching until his form disappears around the corner, a fleeting moment of question passing over me, I turn back to my father.
“So what’s the verdict?”
“With you two? I haven’t figured it out yet, but I’ll let you know when I do.” Shaking my head and narrowing my eyes, I lean back, catching tiny bits of conversation between Ruth and Mom in the kitchen as Dad and I stare each other down.
“What’s that supposed to mean? And I meant the trip to town, by the way.” I smart off like a teenager with an attitude problem, wanting to know and, not wanting to know what his opinion is. Hell, I don’t even know what my opinion is, but if someone has some advice I’m willing to hear it out at this point.
“I mean y’all are playin’ games with each other when my granddaughter’s involved.” I bite my tongue until the metallic taste of blood is a whisper away from the surface at his use of the word granddaughter. Humph. Where’s he been for the last five years if he’s so concerned? Not willing to entertain this conversation and definitely not going to let it turn into an argument, I stand from the table, patting Dad’s shoulder as I look to the kitchen at Ruth.
“Momma, you got your list ready?”
I grab my sweater off the coat rack by the front door, feeling the change in the outside temperature just since we arrived from the air coming in from the cracked front door. Guess Patrick left it open when he stepped outside. Slipping my arms into the sleeves, I hear the deep rumble of his voice coming from the front steps. Unable to keep from it, I lean in to where the door is ajar, straining to make out his words.
“Yes, Ma’am. I can be by there tomorrow bright and early. Thank you.” We’ll still be in Memphis tomorrow… Shrugging my shoulders both to smooth out the sweater and to smooth out my thoughts, I open the door and step out just as he comes up the first step of the small porch.
“Hey. You okay?” His voice is concerned, laced with with…giddiness? Pride? “It was a parts house here. They are going to let me come by tomorrow morning and get something,” he answers the unasked question on my face without me having to say a word. Dammit. I hate it when he does that. Or, maybe I love it a little, but it makes me feel like he is in my head. It’s scary. It makes me vulnerable.
“Wow. On Thanksgiving Day?” I pull the door closed and start toward the vehicle. I know I sound like an immature girl instead of a woman capable of dealing with whatever this is, but I think I’ve met my max limit of bullshit today. I don’t know if it’s the fact that for the first time that I’ve seen my father in five years he looks every bit of the dying man he is, or if the fact that Patrick always seems to have a part of him hidden away from me.
“Yeah. The lady I talked to was willing to meet me early in the morning since I’m here.” His tone is dry and cautious. I open the driver’s door and get in, he walks around and pauses, making monkey faces at me through the window. Of course it works. I’m almost biting my bottom lip in two trying not to give him the pleasure of seeing me crack under his charms. He opens the door and gets in, placing his hand over mine as he settles into the passenger seat, looking up at me with the sharpest edge of silver in his eyes. “What is it beauty? You gonna’ tell me or make me pull it out of you?” His words mirror mine to Ruth from earlier and my lips creep into a lopsided grin until turning all full teeth and snort-laughs before it’s over. Head leaned back and mouth open in a silent laugh, Patrick takes that moment to lean over and take my mouth with his. Stealing my breath and all the problems I can’t do anything about right now. Bringing me back to him- the one place that I can’t or won’t run away from. There’s a different lure to his touch than usual. A completion. A joining. I know without doubt that there is fear in the message of my eyes when he pulls away. But almost as if pulling a certain file from a stack, focusing only on what’s pertinent at this moment, he chooses not to speak of it, just waits on my answer. Shaking my head and letting out a moan of disgust with myself and the accumulation of all the bullshit.
“I’m not going to lie and say that seeing Dad hasn’t brought about my attitude, but I’d also be lying if I said that’s all that’s bothering me.” He turns in the seat so his left knee is pointing at me, leaning back against the seat with his arm outstretched, fingers fiddling with the loose curls at my shoulder. Closing my eyes, trying not to overreact, but also wanting to be heard, I exhale roughly as I match his posture and turn to look at him. “You’re here, meeting my dying father on Thanksgiving, but I have no idea who you are. As much as I wish I could be, I’m no different from any other woman, Patrick. I want to know you. I want to talk to you about things that matter.” His look never falters, his fingers continue to caress my hair, but for a split second I see it. I actually see his heart giving in to my need for more of him. Like a layer of rock chipped away to reveal the wide-open cave of treasure behind; he gives in to me.
“And you deserve that.”
“And you keep saying that. How about just giving me you. I deserve you.” My voice is a little harsher than I intended, but for fuck’s sake, enough is enough. Strong. Smart. Hard working. Kind. God! I could go on for years. But yet,he says I deserve more than him. Or more than what he gives me. How can you be so accomplished and sure of yourself on one hand and doubtful and shamed on the other? “I can be patient Patrick. For you I will be patient. But you have to give me something along the way. That’s all I need.”
When we returned home from the nightmare of a shopping trip, which I knew it would be, Ruth was all dolled up and looking every bit of sixteen. Causing me, and surprisingly Patrick, to lose our shit. Pictures were snapped right before makeup removing wipes were handed out.
“Oh good lord, Erin. You have to let her have some fun.” My mother had said to me as I helped her organize all the food to cook for the next day.
“I know that, and she does have fun. But that doesn’t mean I like the idea of my daughter looking or acting years ahead of her time. That’ll be here before I know it anyway, Momma.”
Patrick, Ruth and Daddy played Rummy while Momma and I prepped everything to pop in the oven tomorrow morning, hell bent on not spending the entire day in the kitchen. We had discussed what to cook for breakfast, sitting down for the first time in hours, watching the card game from the couch. Patrick eventually spoke up and said he’d pick up some pastries and croissants when he went out early to get his parts. So, with breakfast out of the way, that left time for Momma and I to focus on lunch and dinner. I guess me being flat-ass tired kept me from getting into my usual freak out for control and organizational crack mode. At that point I couldn’t have given two shits about organization or schedules. We sat and talked and watched until I couldn’t do anything other than lean my head against the old retro cushions of the couch and close my eyes. Physically and emotionally spent and unable to adult one more second.
At least that’s what I assume, since now I’m lying on the old lumpy mattress in the guest bed, looking over at Patrick’s sleeping face under the stream of moonlight
seeping in through the window on the opposite wall. Unable to go back to sleep without checking to see where Ruth is since there are only two bedrooms in this small townhouse- one upstairs where I am, and my parents downstairs, I ease out of bed and stand. I smile and my cheeks heat as I realize that my leggings are gone, leaving me in my panties and the t-shirt I’d worn under my sweater earlier. I don’t think that even in a state of sleep that I could remain cool and collected taking his pants off, and I can’t help but wonder if a part of him didn’t want to wake me up and finish what we started this morning…err..yesterday morning since apparently it's one-thirty A.M. Damn I was asleep for a while. I reach in the closet and pull out my duffel bag, pulling out my sleep pants and slipping them on. When I reach the bottom of the stairs and peer around the corner into the living room, I find Ruth sleeping soundly on the couch. Seeing her sleeping on that couch as the young woman she is turning into makes me want to turn back into the emotional nutcase I’ve been all day, but instead I check the doors and head back upstairs.
Pulling the bedroom door shut quietly behind me, Patrick scares the shit out of me when I turn and see him sitting on the side of the bed.
“Shit,” I whisper-yell at him from the foot of the bed.
“I woke up and you were gone. Thought something was wrong,” he says sleep deep and groggy. I walk around to his side of the bed and sit beside him, needing to be close to him, but just to sit with him, not ready to lay beside him. I always figured that when you grow older, the urge to just hold hands or sit with someone goes away. But that is exactly what I want right now. I want to sit beside him and hold one of those sweetly rough hands. I want to hear him breathing beside me and be thankful for this moment, because it all feels suddenly so fleeting and I can’t begin to process the ticket stamps on this roller coaster ticket. His eyes follow my hand as I run my narrow fingers between his five times bigger fingers that somehow feel so marvelously made for mine. He looks back up to me through sleep rumpled hair falling over his forehead in long pieces and my breath stops midway up my throat as his eyes steal it away.
