by Nicole Meier
“Fine. Fine.” Her father’s head bobbed as if on a spring. “Although . . .”
Here it comes.
“If you were to tip a skosh of bourbon into that water and add a cube or two of ice, that would be even better.”
Sara bristled. The old man clearly hadn’t changed. She hadn’t forgotten how he treasured his highball brimming with ice and liquor. While he rarely lost control, there was a period at the end of his time with Joanne, when they were fighting, that it was typical of him to be well lubricated by dinnertime. Sara figured it was a miracle he’d survived the past two weeks in the hospital being alcohol free. But then she remembered the morphine.
“Sorry.” She folded her arms. “We don’t keep bourbon in the house. I’ll bring you some apple juice, though.”
“Ah, a bit of a teetotaler, are you?” The condescension hung low.
Sara turned and snatched a glass. The cupboard banged louder than she intended. “No. Not at all,” she called into the other room. “It’s just not wise for someone in your condition to consume alcohol.”
“Humph.”
Wonderful. It was only day one, and he was already at it. Sara gritted her teeth. She wasn’t sure she was going to have the fortitude for this. Thankfully, Sam would be away at soccer practice for another hour. TR needed to pull himself together if he wanted to spend any time around his grandson.
Delivering his drink, she produced a coaster and willed her nerves to settle as she lowered herself onto the nearby couch. TR blinked and said nothing.
“Are you in much pain?” she asked.
“Some.” TR regarded her but looked away quickly, as if he were embarrassed to admit weakness.
“Do you recall much about the fire? Was it an accident? Like something electrical?”
“Hmm. Don’t remember everything, but yes, it must have been an accident.”
“Must have been?” Sara peered suspiciously at her father. It seemed like a rather odd way to phrase the event that had landed him in the burn unit of a hospital.
“That’s right.”
“And you realized just in time to get out?”
He looked at her. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
This wasn’t proving fruitful. He was either hiding something or too doped up on pills to have a clear conversation. Sara wasn’t sure. Either scenario made her uncomfortable.
Sara wondered what he was thinking as he sat staring into space. Part of her yearned to study every inch of him. She had a profound urge to know this man who’d been missing for so long, to take in his features, his mannerisms, and even the way he cradled his drink. It was silly, but she’d missed out on so much that she wanted to catch up on. But another side of her was enormously uncomfortable. There wasn’t any closeness here.
She fiddled with the corner of a pillow self-consciously. The dishwasher hummed mechanically in the background.
At last TR brought the juice glass to his lips. He pulled a face and muttered something inaudible under his breath. Sara assumed she didn’t want to hear what it was.
Now what? TR continued to lounge with a stoned expression. Sara hadn’t the faintest idea of what she was supposed to do next. She realized how difficult this was really going to be. And it scared her.
Lying in bed that night, listening to the weighted silence of the house, Sara ran through a list of questions that Joanne had never answered. A whole lifetime of mysteries.
But all her inquiries would have to be put on hold. Because the man parked in her guest room wasn’t a friend and he wasn’t family.
He was a stranger.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TR
Suburbia, as it turned out, was completely void of pleasure. Without it TR wasn’t sure what in the hell he was supposed to do with himself.
On Wednesday morning, two days after he’d arrived at Sara’s, he rolled over in bed and winced at the stream of light leaking through the blinds. The lids of his eyes squeezed shut. The sound of cars rushed by on the busy street outside. A sprinkler hissed to life. He pushed his face into the pillow and groaned. Beyond his own stench, he smelled something floral. Lightly pleasant. But it wasn’t enough. He ached to fill his lungs with the vigor of briny air.
TR missed the sea. The roar of the crashing waves. The thick canvas of the bucketing fog.
He missed simple things too. Like the single hand-rolled cigarette he permitted himself after a long day’s work. He missed the ability to create on a whim. He missed waking up next to the soft curves of Marie.
Despite missing home, he wasn’t ready to go back even if he could. That would mean facing the damage from the fire, on top of everything else, and at the moment that was too much to bear.
After seeing his daughter, a guarded stranger, at the hospital, TR realized he’d been given an opportunity. Marie kicking him out had caused Sara to take him in. Never in a million years would he have believed it. But here he was anyway. Of course, he wasn’t sure how this experiment would go. After all, Sara was awfully angry. And he, too, was fairly uncomfortable being on foreign ground. But he couldn’t ignore the tiny seed of hope that sprouted the day she arrived. He hadn’t felt that kind of hope in years. For that reason, TR needed to see if closeness was at all possible with his long-lost daughter.
But so far things hadn’t been easy.
Surely, given his terrible state, he should be allowed some creature comforts while he was laid up, miles away from anything familiar. But no. His daughter was not of the same belief.
TR’s healing process was to be a quiet affair.
This was mainly due to the rules. Ridiculous, uptight, bourgeois rules. There was to be no cursing, no cigarettes, and cruelly, no booze of any kind. To TR’s great disappointment, not even the smallest nip of a warm nightcap was offered on his first evening spent in a strange place. One might argue that given his condition, such a gesture would have been the hospitable thing to do.
But not in that house. “I don’t think we need to overdo things right now” was his daughter’s dismal directive. Looking around, TR doubted his daughter even knew the meaning of the term. This bland existence was not the life he’d expected any daughter of his to be living. No, sir.
And perhaps even worse, there’d been no visitors either. Not that he had many friends left anyway. Seemed they’d all evaporated with the money.
But still. Seeing as the husband was off traveling for work and the kid was otherwise occupied during the daytime, a visitor or two would have been a welcome distraction from the pain.
His presence, however, was not to be made known.
What did that even mean? TR had wondered.
So for two days he’d kept mostly to his room. After leaving him in the hospital over the previous weekend, Sara had returned Monday, tight-lipped and orderly, briskly signing her name to forms and jotting instructions for home care.
When he’d asked after the whereabouts of the kid, she coolly informed TR that the boy was at school. That’s what children do, she’d said pointedly, as if TR were an idiot. He assumed she was implying he would know such things if he were a real parent. And the one time he’d actually gotten a glimpse of the boy in the house, Sara had rushed the kid away to his bedroom before TR even had the chance to get close.
They were off to a rocky start.
On that first day, during the drive home, unnecessary conversation had been avoided at all costs. This was partially due to the winding roads that lulled TR into a sleepy state, and also because he worried over what he might say. He didn’t know yet how or when he’d tell her about Marie . . . or Bo. But to do so on their first day reunited seemed too soon. Instead, he’d watched from the corner of his eye as Sara gripped the wheel with whitened knuckles and scowled through the windshield. Why had his daughter agreed to take him in? Obviously, she was mad about it. So why do it?
And was she always this angry? He couldn’t recall.
The last time he’d seen Sara she’d been about sixteen or seventeen years old.
A beautiful, fair-skinned teenage girl. The event had been an art opening, if memory served. He believed it was the one celebrating his light and ceramic installations at a fussy gallery in Los Angeles.
TR hadn’t spoken to his ex-wife, Joanne, for a long time. This didn’t mean he hadn’t tried to communicate; in fact, he was in the habit of sending handwritten cards with the odd check whenever he could. He hoped to somehow make sure Sara was cared for. But he almost never received a reply. The regret and worry he’d carried around over Sara’s well-being never left him. It was an anvil that had the potential force to bring him to his knees, if he allowed himself to dwell on the mistakes of the past. But Joanne had all but hidden from society and taken their daughter along with her. Booze and women helped to numb TR’s pain and guilt over his failed marriage and nonexistent role as a parent. That, and the slow march of time.
Despite this, Joanne must have read about the event in the press because there she was that evening, uninvited and inebriated. Regardless of their strained relationship, she showed up, pushing her way through a host of flashbulbs and partygoers. She was dressed in a too-short cocktail dress and dragging an embarrassed-looking Sara behind her.
“Say hello to your daughter, TR,” Joanne had slurred slightly, the waxy red of her lipstick bleeding into the fine lines around her mouth. A horrified Sara was practically thrust into the middle of the crowd.
TR had been a bit boozy that evening as well, with so many people toasting the exhibit and plying him with free drinks. This clouded his judgment, but he specifically remembered trying to hug Sara and pull her to the side for a conversation. He’d been distracted by Joanne’s wild appearance but genuinely glad to see his daughter after so long. The rush of conflicting emotions had been virtually overwhelming.
Joanne ruined it all before it could even begin. He remembered accusations flying, cameras flashing, and then both women rushing toward the door.
What happened that night still wasn’t entirely clear. But that was Joanne for you. Unstable and emotional. TR was sorry Sara got tucked so tightly under his ex’s wing, but what could he do? His reasons for having to be gone were incontrovertible.
And now here he was, decades later, under his grown daughter’s roof. Grateful yet confused.
At the onset, TR had been appreciative of a real mattress and decent night’s rest. He’d already suffered through weeks of nurses waking him on the hour to check his vitals and peer suspiciously at his wounds. Now at his daughter’s, he was free from that relentless schedule. Gone was the stink of antiseptic and urine that drifted in every time the door leading to the corridor opened. Gone were those nosy cops too.
But his misery wasn’t over quite yet.
Each morning, just outside the guest room door, the footsteps of his warden could be heard. It was bad enough she had to dress his wounds. But Sara would start by poking her head around the corner and instructing TR to get up and wash. Like he was a damned moron.
It was emasculating as all get-out.
“You’re going to have to hold still,” she’d say, approaching him, her face forming a tight pucker. Sara didn’t admit it, but TR got the sense the medical aspect of his care might’ve set her teeth a bit on edge.
She’d start by laying out a complicated collection of first-aid materials. In his opinion she was overthinking it. What was wrong with a simple piece of gauze and a Band-Aid? Hell, even a paper towel and some tape would suffice. But no, Sara went by the book, never skipping a step of the instructions doled out by the hospital nurses. She’d make a big production out of going into the bathroom and washing her hands and then coming back out to unwind bandages and uncap ointments. For his part, TR was instructed to sit still on the edge of the mattress as she drew the table lamp nearer to gingerly peel back the old dressing and scrutinize the burns on his right side.
Her breath was soft as she delicately pressed a warm washcloth to the tender area. TR would try to cooperate, remaining quiet and focused on Sara. While the act itself was fairly painful, he welcomed the experience. How lovely to have his daughter’s face hovering inches from his own, allowing him the freedom to study the girl he’d missed for so many years. It was peculiar to see her all grown up, her strawberry hair pulled loosely down around the nape of her neck, her peach complexion now marked with spots of sun damage and a scattering of fine lines. He longed to know her again.
The problem was Sara wanted to know things about him too.
“So tell me more about how you escaped the fire,” she’d probe. “You were inside the house when you smelled smoke? Did any alarms go off? Were you able to save anything?”
“Yes, I was inside asleep and managed to run out when the smoke came. I only got out with myself and nothing more.” He winced then, acting as though speaking were too much amid the pain. And sometimes it was. But mostly he was afraid if they started discussing the fire, he’d inevitably slip and disclose information about the complications in his life. He hadn’t figured out how to handle everything himself, let alone how to broach any of it with her. He hoped to establish some kind of civil relationship with Sara before admitting things about his life that might hurt his daughter.
And so their routine went each morning. A few questions and a lot of avoidance.
He’d then make his way into the kitchen for medication and breakfast only to find a lukewarm cup of weak coffee and a plate containing a single runny egg. While he attempted to sit and eat in peace, she’d run the blasted vacuum cleaner over the rug as if her life depended on it. The constant whirring drowned out any chance of connecting with his own thoughts.
His daughter made it known she intended for him to suffer.
But today was playing out differently.
As he stood adjacent to the small bathroom vanity and ran a steaming washcloth over his face, TR detected voices coming from the kitchen. Until now, everyone practically walked around on tiptoe in that place. Like they were afraid to bother one another. But a sudden crashing of silverware against dishes in the sink, accompanied by an outburst, told him something was off.
The dog barked.
A male voice rose and then clashed with Sara’s.
Must be the husband home from his trip, TR thought. Charles or Chuck something. He replaced the towel and strained to listen. If he was to walk out into trouble, TR wanted to know what he would be getting into. He glanced at his naked and still-bandaged reflection in the oblong mirror. He frowned. Not exactly in fighting shape.
The kitchen was just a ways down the hall, and the conversation was mostly muffled. TR still recognized the tense tone. He’d experienced many a row with girlfriends over the years, most recently with Marie, and could identify that type of bitter exchange anywhere.
Unevenly, he shuffled over to the closet and jerked a borrowed robe off the hook. He grunted at the sight of the worn terry cloth. Also probably the husband’s.
The voices escalated.
TR felt a little sweaty. He wasn’t sure what to do next. His eyes flicked around the room for some sort of weapon. Perhaps he needed to defend Sara. If this guy turned out to be bigger than him, he didn’t have much in the way of protection.
TR cursed. There wasn’t anything but a cashmere throw and some old magazines stacked on a vintage wicker chair. This was exactly why he kept a baseball bat tucked into the shadows under his bed back home. Being a celebrity, you never knew when some crazy would wander onto your property. One had to be prepared.
“Screw it,” TR muttered.
He flung the door open. Pain flared down his side like electric currents, but he moved out anyway. He wanted to size up this mystery husband of his daughter’s who, up until that point, had yet to materialize. The voices continued. His bare feet slapped faster along the hardwood floor.
They must have heard him coming, because all sounds ceased. Arriving out of breath in the kitchen, TR came face-to-face with a weepy-eyed Sara and a man wearing a pilot’s uniform and a grimace.
Both of them met TR
with shocked expressions.
The curly-haired dog wagged its tail and formed nervous figure eights around his ankles.
TR ran his left hand through his matted hair and tried to regain composure. The pain of moving quickly had left him nauseated and panting. Needles of agony crept down his skin. Nevertheless, he gritted his teeth and plastered a phony grin across his face.
“You must be Chuck!” he bellowed. “I was wondering when you’d get home from your trip so we could be properly introduced.”
The pilot’s jaw unhinged.
TR wondered if his burned flesh still smelled of overcooked meat. He took a step back but didn’t break eye contact.
“TR,” Sara hissed. Her eyes bulged like emerald stones.
The husband immediately averted his eyes. “Whoa.”
“What’s wrong?” TR couldn’t make out what was happening. Both Sara and her husband were recoiling, not from one another but him.
Just then a slight breeze trickled in from an open window. The temperature caused TR to feel a little funny. He dumbly followed Sara’s gaze downward.
“Oh, Christ!” His good hand swatted the gaping terry cloth robe shut. They were staring at him. “Left the barn door open! Ha! A little too much to see so early in the morning, eh?” He forced a laugh. In his haste, he’d forgotten the sash to the robe.
“Good grief, don’t you wear pajamas?” Sara made a face.
TR’s memory lighted on the extra pile of clothing Sara had provided. He shook his head. “Nah, never had any use for them.”
“Evidently.”
Hoping to change the subject, he scanned the room for coffee.
“I didn’t make any yet,” Sara snipped. She obviously knew what he was seeking and made her way to the space-age machine resting on the counter.
“This is my husband, Charlie, by the way. Not Chuck.” She jerked her head over her shoulder. Ignoring both of the males in the room, his daughter popped some kind of pod into a container and pressed a button. Within seconds, dark-brown liquid flowed into a cup.
“Nice to meet you.” Charlie stepped forward and attempted to shake TR’s good hand. “Although, I gotta say, we haven’t heard much about you. Like ever.” He laughed uneasily and then looked over at Sara at this last bit.
