by Nicole Meier
“Drinking your booze?”
Sara released a nervous laugh. “I hope not!” Pulling her phone from her back pocket, she pressed a button to check the time—three o’clock. “Shit!”
Bo swiveled to face her. “What? Did he call?”
“No,” Sara replied, already running for the path that led to her car. “I got a late start today. I promised I’d be home to get my son. I gotta go!”
“You have a son?” Bo’s rapid scuffle could be heard just behind her. He was jogging to keep up.
Sara reached the driveway and spun around. “Can I come back? You know, to talk some more?” She clutched her key and hoped he’d say yes. There was still so much more to know.
“Sure.”
Sara grinned. “Thanks. Oh, and when exactly is your mom coming back?” Running into Marie wasn’t something she was quite ready to do.
“I think she’s gone for about three or four days. She took the train down to Northern California.”
“The train?”
“Yeah, she doesn’t like to drive. She usually phones me when she’s on her way home.”
Sara calculated her week in her brain. She’d need to return in the next day or so in order to be gone while Sam was in school and Charlie was away.
“I’ll try to be here Friday. Is that okay?”
Bo’s shoulders lifted, his face optimistic. “Fine by me.”
“Okay, then. It’s a plan.”
“A plan.” Something conspiratorial passed between them.
Reversing and then driving away from the house, Sara watched Bo get smaller in her rearview mirror. He just stood there in a cloud of gravel dust with his thumbs hitched through the belt loops of his jeans. For some inexplicable reason, Sara felt a tug of emotion catch in her throat as he faded away. As her car bumped along the rutted dirt road, she tried to identify the source of this feeling.
Before that afternoon, only a tiny piece of Sara had been holding out hope that she’d actually like her half brother. She probably wouldn’t be blamed for holding a grudge. But she didn’t want to hate TR’s son. He might be the only extended family member left with whom she could have a relationship. Whether she and TR patched things up or not, Sara found herself wanting a connection with her sibling. And after spending the afternoon with this young guy, she cautiously realized that she did like him. There was still much to learn; she wasn’t glossing over all the uncertainty. But Sara’s instincts informed her Bo wasn’t the disappointment she’d feared him to be. He was actually quite thoughtful.
The dirt road tapered off, spilling into the wider lanes of the coastal highway. Now successfully clear of the swirling dirt that accompanied TR’s private lane, Sara let her windows descend as she welcomed the damp air. Scrounging around the center console for a hair band, she steered with her knees and secured back her weather-matted locks. She didn’t care that her carefully blown-out hair had transformed into a frizzy mess. It was worth it. Peering out her window, she smiled out at the rugged terrain. The coast felt good. Like a shot of happiness to the soul.
Sara’s mind hovered on the details of the inviting art studio. It was extraordinary to realize how the sole act of walking among stacks of clay blocks, various works in progress, and a collection of familiar tools brought back a powerful rushing of old feelings. And those feelings unbelievably didn’t include bitterness.
She recalled how good the fine pottery dust felt against her fingertips, the deeply satisfying aroma of wet clay, and the beautiful sight of hand-sculpted objects. The entire essence of the place had a dreamy effect on her. A piece of her childhood adoration for her father, her propensity for art, and the possibilities of creating again were in that room.
And Sara suddenly knew she wanted all of this back: her sense of family, her artistic side, and the pleasure of creative fulfillment she somehow gave up along the way.
Two days was suddenly a very long time to wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TR
He supposed Sara’s polite smile was the same that evening, as she greeted him briefly with bits of small talk and hustled Sam farther inside the house, requesting that everyone wash up for dinner. But TR noticed there was a slight alteration in the way his daughter regarded him. A kind of masked avoidance. It was unnerving, really. If TR didn’t know better, he’d say his daughter was privy to something she wasn’t sharing.
The day had been strange without anyone else around. There weren’t any loud voices, no little boy playing, nor Sara’s automatic check-ins. Sure, the curly-haired mutt with his wet nose and wagging tail had kept him company, winding up into a tight ball on the rug as TR attempted to recline. And the television had been kept at a high decibel, filling the room in an effort to drown out the insufferable silence. Still, TR found himself alone.
And the loneliness was unbearable.
All of this proved ridiculously ironic, of course, considering how deeply he’d once cherished solitude. He was an artist, for God’s sake. Artists loved to be alone! TR grumbled. What was the matter with him if he couldn’t even spend one measly day by himself?
Perhaps he was just getting old. This thought frightened him even more than the first. Too many things were changing. He was discovering he didn’t like change. Not one bit. And his daughter’s mysterious glances and excessive busyness weren’t helping.
He wondered if Sara had been off somewhere, stewing over their previous conversation about Bo. TR hadn’t necessarily wanted to discuss the intricacies of his other family with her: the fights, the dissatisfaction that masked Bo’s face whenever TR tried to give constructive criticism about his work, the exasperated proclamations from Marie. But Sara had pressed him until he had no other choice but to oblige.
Now that things were out in the open, he fretted that the disclosure may have had a negative effect on his daughter. He’d confessed that not only had he been living in the same state as her, just hours away, but he’d failed to reconnect. He’d also been spending much of his time connecting with another child. He’d chosen to be with his son instead of Sara.
He’d chosen one child over another simply to avoid his own goddamned guilt.
It wasn’t meant to hurt Sara. But TR could see how she might not see things that way. He was beginning to see things from his discarded daughter’s point of view. And he felt downright lousy about what he saw.
“Need any help in there?” he called across the living room and into the kitchen, with an urge to be more helpful than he had been.
Sara was banging cupboards and murmuring instructions to Sam. “Nope, we’re almost all set. Thanks.”
TR heaved himself off the sofa, his arm acting as a brace. Righting himself, he stretched out the lingering stiffness in his limbs before ambling in her direction. Pinpricks of discomfort still flared up along his right side from time to time, but the majority of his pain had thankfully subsided. Even so, he hobbled at an uneven pace.
“How was your day?” Sara glanced up briefly as she prepared dinner.
“Fine. Fine.” TR entered the warm kitchen and bellied up to the counter. The dog trotted past them and out the now-open sliding glass door. Damp air trailed inside, carrying with it a hint of pine. TR scratched away the tickle of his day-old beard. How long had it been since he’d let the animal relieve himself? he wondered. The hours of the day had somehow run together into one extended nap.
“Did you make yourself some lunch?” Sara asked, not breaking her concentration as she stacked plates and unwrapped a plastic clamshell containing a spiced rotisserie chicken. Premade food seemed to be a theme around there, especially roast bird. TR wasn’t complaining. He appreciated a good hot meal as much as the next person. But still, a little variety might be nice from time to time. His stomach grumbled. For a flash he missed Marie’s steaming pots of handmade pasta and buttery Dungeness crab.
He shrugged off the hunger. “I threw together a turkey sandwich earlier today.”
“Hmm, hmm,” Sara answered, distracted.
TR watched as she glopped spoonfuls of creamy microwaved mashed potatoes onto three plates and then shook out portions of prepackaged salad.
He shifted his attention to the boy, who was poking a finger into the side of the potatoes and licking. “How was your day at school, sir? Fill up that big brain of yours?”
Sam giggled. “School was good. You know, the usual.”
“I see.”
It struck TR how remarkable this kid could be at times, taking everything in stride. Must be from being around grown-ups so much. An only kid sort of thing. That’s how Sara had been. The only child who, instead of staying home to play with dolls, was carted from one adult party to the next, staying up late and absorbing conversations on art and politics that floated in the rooms around her. TR was proud of this aspect of his daughter’s upbringing. It made her a well-rounded person, able to adapt to new surroundings. And God only knew what new surroundings Joanne had subjected the girl to as they drifted from one town to the next. He’d heard rumors over the years. But he wasn’t ever really sure. Joanne was all blame and no responsibility.
But the finger, he knew, should remain firmly pointed in his direction. He’d played the biggest role in his daughter’s unhappiness. After the fire hit, he’d had time to lie in the hospital bed and look back on the offenses he’d caused in his lifetime. He didn’t like what he saw. Realizing he’d been given a second chance, that he wasn’t dying, he was injected with a driving desire to right his deepest wrongs. While he wasn’t able to make amends with Joanne, he could certainly try with Sara. He very much wanted to make up for the pain he’d caused.
“So,” he ventured. “Get all your errands done today, Sara?”
“Oh, um, not all of them.” She set plates down as chairs were drawn away from the farm table. “I think I’ll have to go back out and get some more things done on Friday. So you’ll be on your own again.”
“Oh yeah?”
She busied herself with adding food to a plate. “Yeah, I’ll be around tomorrow—Sam’s got school and then soccer. But Friday I’ll kind of be out of pocket again. You don’t mind, do you?” It came out more like a statement.
TR shooed the air with a hand. “Don’t worry about me. Acer and I can hold down the fort.” He searched around for the dog, who was now nowhere to be found.
He fumbled around with his fork and knife for a moment, clenching the flat stainless handles and willing away the discomfort before digging into his meal. He was determined to enjoy the night with his daughter and grandson, but something told him Sara was pulling away again. Who knew how much time he had left in her house? Better to take it all in while he could.
The following morning the absentee husband returned ahead of schedule.
Charlie came pushing through the door, bag in hand and pinched strain on his face. TR could tell right off the bat that this guy wasn’t happy. His appearance was pretty much the worse for wear, with obvious displeasure stamped across his face as he noticed his father-in-law sitting on his sofa. Their eyes met and locked. The two men greeted one another with curt nods.
Brushing hastily past TR, Charlie gripped his travel case and retreated to the master bedroom. He heard Sara’s voice next, mumbling something unintelligible from the other side of the wall. She’d been busy all morning, dropping Sam at school and leaving TR alone with his thoughts while she showered. He’d sought to continue their discussion about Bo and Marie, but she seemed to be giving him the brush off. And now that Charlie was back, he suspected plans might be thwarted once again.
Something was amiss. The air had an eerie stillness to it, like the atmosphere right before an earthquake hits.
He overheard Sara’s clipped voice, followed by harsh whispers. Two seconds in the door, and those two were already fighting.
What a shame.
He wondered what the argument was about this time. He snatched one of the coffee table magazines he’d read a hundred times and pretended to be occupied while he eavesdropped. What exactly was going on back there?
After a moment, a deep barking cough rumbled down the hallway. Sara said something that ended with “medicine” and then stalked out from her room. She went to the kitchen and searched around for something. A box was retrieved from the high cupboard. She filled a water glass and then retreated again. The door shut and muted out more coughing.
TR reclined and waited. He’d liked it better when the colorful neighbor gal came over instead. That was more fun. The husband only tended to bring everything down. A real wet rag.
A short while later, Sara emerged into the living room.
“Well,” she announced. “Charlie’s apparently home sick. I think he might have the flu.”
“You don’t say?”
“Yeah, looks like it. His cough is pretty bad, and he says his throat’s on fire. He called in another pilot to take over the rest of his shift. I think he just needs to rest. Quietly.” There was an emphasis on that last part. TR got the hint loud and clear.
“Roger.” He kicked his stocking feet onto the coffee table and crossed them at the ankles.
“So”—she looked around the room, picking at her cuticles—“Charlie’s the type of person who, well, when he gets sick, he gets, um, agitated easily. Doesn’t act like himself, you know?”
“Okay . . .” Where was this going? TR already understood he was to be quiet, as she had so bluntly put it.
“I think Charlie was hoping to come home and have the place to himself.”
“Ah.”
She glanced at his socks. TR thought he caught her nose wrinkle.
“So, maybe you should . . .”
“You mean get out and make myself scarce.”
Sara shifted. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
TR dropped his feet. Yanking at the drawstring waist of his seat pants, he rose. He knew a hint when it was dropped in his lap. He wasn’t a moron.
“Your husband isn’t thrilled that I’m still hanging around, is that it?” He understood perfectly, but he wanted to hear Sara say it out loud.
She exhaled. “Yes.”
TR gathered himself up. “Okay, I get it. A man’s house is his castle, and Chuck wants a little peace and quiet. Okay, then. We’ll give it to him.”
Sara seemed reluctant. “So we’ll arrange for you to get back home, maybe as soon as we pack your . . .”
TR jerked his arm into the air. She’d taken him out of context. “Hold on! I didn’t say anything about going back home. I’m not ready for that yet. My house isn’t even fixed! What I meant was I’ll go run around doing your errands with you.” Why was she doing this now? He didn’t want to go. Not yet, not just as they were getting closer. He’d thought she felt the same way.
Sara sighed heavily. “Oh. Well, I just figured it was time. You have that guesthouse on your property.”
“The guesthouse is too small!” He realized he was shouting and quickly lowered his voice. He didn’t want old Chuck to come running. This situation was complicated enough without the sick husband inserting himself.
“Fine,” Sara hissed. “Have it your way. But this can’t go on forever, TR. Sooner or later you need to go home.”
He mumbled something about needing to get dressed before they went out and shuffled to his room. This was disastrous. How was he going to make it so he could stay? If he left now, she might not let him back into her life so easily, and then where would they be? He was still intent on mending their fractured relationship. Being under the same roof allowed for an intimacy with his daughter that he couldn’t obtain if he were elsewhere. Plus, there was the sticky situation with Marie and Bo. He wasn’t ready to face them yet. One crisis at a time.
Tugging a long-sleeve denim button-down from a hanger, he hoped his daughter recognized the extra efforts he was making on her behalf. Dragging wet fingers through his pile of unruly hair, he told himself to play along. He couldn’t afford to ruffle any more feathers. He still needed to stay; he needed time with Sara.
But as he
tied his sneakers and made his way to Sara’s waiting car, two more concerns nagged him. The first was, how long was he required to tiptoe around this Charlie fellow? And second, even more troubling, were Sara and her husband constantly arguing because of TR, or was his daughter the victim of an increasingly bad marriage? He didn’t know the answer to either dilemma, and it bothered him.
The rational response to these household tensions would be for TR to move out of Sara’s place altogether. To return to his oceanfront home and get his life back on track. His burn wounds had healed sufficiently too. Help was no longer vital.
But packing up and moving back home was far from simple. He didn’t know where he stood with Marie, for one thing. He also didn’t know if he wanted to go back to the same old situation with Bo—their discontent with one another had only escalated over the past year. Every day was some new irritation, TR suggesting how Bo could improve his art, Bo pushing back with attitude, and Marie shaking her head in the background. Frankly, the whole parenting thing confounded TR.
Just as everything between the three of them couldn’t have gotten any worse, TR’s life on the coast had literally gone up in flames. And though he hated to admit it, his pride was also at stake. It was foolish and pigheaded; he didn’t need anyone to point that out. He hadn’t forgotten that before the fire it was Marie who’d threatened to leave, accusing him of treating their son unfavorably and not living up to the supportive boyfriend and father she had in mind. TR hadn’t taken the announcement well and, as a result, had gone off to sulk. Anger and alcohol had been his only companions. So, like an idiot, he’d exacerbated the disaster. Tenfold.
“Ready to go?” Sara asked, yanking TR from his brooding.
“Sure. Sure.” Gingerly sliding into the passenger seat of her humming car, he kept his eyes ahead. Sara had enough troubles on her mind. No sense in burdening her with his.
The car shifted into drive. The two remained quiet as they slowly exited the tree-lined street of bunched-together houses. Stealing a sideways glance, TR noticed his daughter was lost in somber contemplation. His heart hurt a little.
