by Ivy Jordan
“Yes, and you are?” she asked in the same snotty, high-pitched voice she had in high school.
“Taylor Madden,” I replied, clearing my throat before I spoke. She made me nervous, in school, and now, especially now.
“Oh, Tommy’s little sister,” she sneered with a fake smile forced onto her face.
“Yes,” I agreed, even though I was only a grade below her and Tommy, hardly a little sister.
“I didn’t think you lived her anymore,” Kellie smiled.
“I just moved back,” I replied. I said that as if it were a statement signifying I’d moved back for good. Had I?
My eyes locked with the little girls. They were dark, like Elijah’s, and her lips curled into a crooked smile that resembled his. “Nice seeing you,” Kellie said, a lie, I was certain. She pulled on the little girl's hand and directed her into the store. She turned and looked over her shoulder at me as they walked away, a smile smeared on her face. Wow, she really does look like Elijah’s daughter. How could he walk away from her?
I pulled myself from the trance I was in and walked out the front door and across the street. I wanted to grab Madison, tell her about the little girl, about how there’s a chance Elijah might stay, but she was still busy with the crowd of people lined outside her store. I slid the groceries into the backseat and slid in behind the driver’s seat. I pulled myself together, calming my racing heart, and headed towards Milton’s house.
It was a nice surprise to find Milton sitting on his front porch, and not barricaded inside. “You need help?” he called out to me, standing from his rocking chair.
“No. You gave me a short list,” I called back, and then pulled the two bags from the backseat.
Milton opened the door for me and let me walk inside first. The place smelled great, nicely aired out, free of garbage, and no more rotting food in the fridge. I looked around as I made my way to the kitchen. It appeared that he’d been doing a great job keeping the place clean. I’d expected to stay and pick up for him, but it looked like he was managing just fine. “The place looks good,” I praised him, placing the bags on the counter.
“I feel like a new man,” he gushed. He looked like one too.
“Can I help you with laundry or anything?” I asked.
He shook his head proudly. “I’ve got everything done. I even weeded the flower bed out back,” he boasted.
I couldn’t have been prouder of him at that moment. I pulled the items from the bags and started putting them away, taking notice of what he had left, and what he didn’t. His freezer still had a couple of the frozen meals in the door and half a box of ice cream sandwiches. The fridge was pretty empty before I stocked it back with the drinks and the fruit. “You sure there isn’t anything else you’d like to have?” I questioned.
“I’ll have a longer list when I get back. Don’t you worry about me. I just don’t want to leave anything that will spoil when I leave, and I hate waste,” he smiled.
I handed him the receipt from my trip and changed the garbage bag out while he gathered his wallet. He tried to offer me extra for doing the shopping, but I wouldn’t take it. “This isn’t a job or a chore. Trust me, I enjoy doing this, and it helps me as much as it helps you,” I smiled.
His eyes were warm and kind as he smiled in my direction. “Okay,” he yielded.
“I’ll see you Wednesday,” I said, patting him on the shoulder as I made my way back to my car. I was impressed that he’d come so far so quickly, but a part of me felt a sadness that he might no longer need me.
I waved to the old man on the porch as I drove off. I wondered what Elijah was up to, and if he’d mind me just stopping by. It felt strange spending so much time with him, and now being apart. I picked up my phone and dialed his number before I had to decide on going home, or going to his house, his dad’s house. I knew he’d be there working, not at the hotel. He’d missed out on an entire week of work.
“Hey,” I said cheerfully as he answered.
“Hey there,” he replied.
“You busy working on the house?” I questioned, ready to turn towards his street.
“I am,” he admitted. “I’ve got a ton to catch up on,” he added.
“Would you like some help?” I offered. I wasn’t great with my hands, but I knew any help was help.
“Not tonight. I think I’m going to finish up the floors and head back to the hotel, call it an early night,” he said, his tone flat and cold.
I turned my car around, and headed back towards my house, hating that sinking feeling in my chest. “I understand. It was a long week,” I comforted.
“It was a long day,” he sighed.
“Did something happen?” I asked.
“I saw Bailey,” he said softly.
My heart raced. Does that mean he is staying? He isn’t leaving the island after all?
“How did that go?” I questioned carefully.
“I called Kellie, asked to see her, to talk to her. Bailey was with her on the beach,” he explained.
A tinge of jealousy emerged knowing that he was on the beach with Kellie, that he’d called her. “I’ve got a lot to think about. I didn’t give her an answer yet. I told her I would by the end of the week,” he concluded.
“You don’t know what you want to do?” I asked.
“Not a clue. Everything’s so confusing,” he sighed.
I knew it had to be. I felt bad for him and wanted so badly to reach out and hug him. “I’ll leave you alone so you can get your stuff done. Call me if you need to talk,” I hung up, feeling a mixture of emotions flow through my heart.
What if he was considering making things work with Kellie, and that was why he wanted the distance from me? My heart ached at the thought, but I knew it might be the best thing for Bailey. She deserved both her mother and her father in her life. I’d missed having my mother around, and I knew Elijah did as well. Maybe this is a sign that I need to back off, give him some space to make the best decision for not only him, but for Bailey as well.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Elijah
I walked into the old house after the floors had a night to dry. It was beautiful, like new. Suddenly I was saddened by the missing scratches and gauges from the old wood. The time that I accidentally knocked the heavy brass eagle from the top shelf had never happened. The dent it left from the open wing was gone, along with all the others scratches in the floor from my roller blades, skateboards, and toy cars. My dad’s voice yelling down the hall at me to “stop making such a ruckus” was faded, as if it were coming from somewhere far away.
“Hey,” Clinton startled me as he entered the front door.
“Hey,” I responded in my unenthusiastic voice.
“The floors look amazing,” he gushed, whistling as he scanned the house.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “I was just getting ready to pull out the old furnace,” I said, using it as an excuse to shoo Clinton back to his house.
“I’ll help you with that,” he offered, not waiting for me to accept. He walked past me and towards the utility room as he rolled up his sleeves.
I hated to accept his offer, but I knew that old piece of shit was going to kill me trying to move it on my own. “I appreciate that.” I patted him on the back and switched on the light.
Clinton groaned as he lifted his end, leaving me with what I was certain the heavier end. Fuck, this thing was heavy. Good thing he came by, I guess. I would’ve never got past the door with this thing without scratching my newly finished floors. “You got it?” he asked, walking slowly as I backed out of the room.
“Yeah,” I grunted as my fingers barely clung to the hard metal.
“What’s this thing weigh, five-hundred pounds?” Clinton asked as we made it through the living room to the front door. I didn’t want to think about it right then. It felt like a thousand.
I pushed open the front door with my backside, and then carefully made it down the porch steps to the walkway. “Where we taking it?” Cl
inton asked. Damn, he was a gabby fucker.
“To the curb,” I instructed, picking up my pace. I was about to drop the damn thing on my toe, and using energy to answer him wasn’t helping. Finally at the curb, I dropped my end, and Clinton pushed his forward until it was standing upright.
“You have someone picking this up?” he questioned.
“Yeah, the guys delivering the new one said they’d take it if I got it out to the street,” I gasped, leaning against my car to catch my breath. It was hot, unusually hot, and taking a dip in the swimming pool with Taylor floated through my mind.
I hadn’t talked to her all day. I hoped she wasn’t mad at me for not seeing her the night before, but my mind was twisted with all the decisions I needed to make.
I had to figure out what to do next with the house, handle my life in Miami since I was going to be gone longer than expected, figure out if I wanted to, or could be, a father, and then there was her. What is it I am feeling for Taylor?
“Why don’t you come on over for dinner,” Clinton pushed. I thought he wasn’t going to mention that again. My eyebrow rose on my forehead, leaving the other pushed down to my eye. I wasn’t in the mood for this again.
“My wife made a huge pot of stew and a pineapple cake,” Clinton tempted.
“I really need to get washed up and head back to the hotel,” I replied.
“I’m not taking no for an answer this time,” Clinton said sternly.
“I appreciate it, I really do, but I just—”
“Come on,” he urged.
It is obvious he isn’t going to let up on this, so I might as well get it over with. The sooner I have this dinner, listen to whatever it is he has to say about my father, the sooner he’ll leave me the hell alone. “Okay,” I grumbled, showing my reluctance with a scowl.
“I’ll be over in a minute. I just want to lock everything up,” I explained, moving back into the house.
I watched Clinton loitering on the sidewalk for a moment before he walked towards his own house. I knew he was leery of leaving me alone, fearful I’d just drive off. I thought about it. I wanted to. But, I couldn’t do that. He was a nice guy. I just really didn’t want to talk about my dad.
After washing up, I walked next door. The walkway to Clinton’s porch was perfectly landscaped with wild flowers, ones that were obviously cared for, unlike the ones that grew randomly between the weeds near my front porch.
A woman answered the door, tall, slender, and with striking features. Her deep blue eyes instantly welcomed me, and her warm smile made me feel at home, even though I’d not even been introduced yet. “I’m Kia; you must be Elijah,” she pushed open the door to invite me inside.
Her arms wrapped around me in a generous embrace before I made it two steps into the house. It smelled amazing, was spotlessly cleaned, and the woman embracing me smelled of vanilla cookies, reminding me of Taylor. “Thank you for inviting me,” I said softly as I pulled from her tight hug.
“Now I know Clinton has pestered you for weeks,” she chuckled. Her eyes danced on mine, and I couldn’t help but laugh. She was right. He had pestered me, and the only reason I was here was to get him off my back.
“He can be pushy when he finds something important,” she smiled.
“You came,” Clinton sounded surprised as he entered the room. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. I knew he thought I’d take off.
“I did,” I grinned.
Kia slid her arm between mine and my waist, guiding me into the next room. A large table was set with beautiful china dishes and long-stem glasses. “Sit,” she insisted, pulling out one of the chairs near the head of the table.
I wondered who they entertained at such a large table: kids, friends, or just random strangers Clinton forced to come to dinner.
Kia disappeared into the kitchen while Clinton took the seat near me at the head of the table. “I’m really glad you decided to come,” he said. Had I decided, or was I guilted into it?
“I figured you wouldn’t leave me alone if I didn’t,” I laughed.
Clinton let out a boisterous laugh, one that echoed in the large room. “You’re right,” he reached out, patting me on the shoulder.
Kia returned with a large pot in her hands, causing Clinton to stand from his seat to help it from her hands to the table. She exited and returned three more times, each time bringing with her a new delicious creation that made my mouth water from the aroma flowing from the dishes.
Clinton hadn’t lied: his wife was a great cook, and the dinner was more than I’d expected. They talked about how they met, how they moved from their busy lives in Boston to the quiet island of Molokai a few years ago. It was nice hearing their story. It reminded me of mine and Taylor’s stories, although mine wasn’t finished just yet. I still wasn’t sure what my end would be, living here on the island, or going back to my life in Miami.
After dinner, Clinton invited me into his study, a warm room with pictures of family all over the walls. “I wanted to talk to you about your father,” he said calmly, taking a seat in a high back chair. He motioned for me to sit next to him in a chair almost identical to his. I dreaded the conversation that was erupting, but I knew it was part of the deal. I couldn’t stop it.
“I wasn’t really close with my father,” I informed the man who obviously had misread my situation. I didn’t want to have a heart to heart about dear old dad. There was nothing to discuss, nothing to heal. He was gone, I was glad. End of story.
“I know how abusive he was to you as a child, and even as an adult,” Clinton said, catching me by surprise. How did he know that? I hadn’t talked about my dad’s abuse to anyone, other than Xander, Tommy, and Taylor.
I grew uncomfortable in my chair, shifting against the hard cushion and scanning the room for my escape. “He told me how horrible he was as a father,” Clinton added with the same eerie calmness.
I found it hard to believe that my dad admitted to anything. He wasn’t the type to admit his wrongs. He blamed everything wrong in his world on others. It was never his fault.
“It’s not a topic I really care to discuss,” I said politely, even though I wanted to say, it’s not a topic I care to discuss with you, a total stranger who’s butted into my life uninvited.
“I get that. My dad was a drunken bastard too, beating us kids whenever we got in his way, and we always got in his way,” Clinton said, his eyes narrowing and shifting downward to the floor as he spoke. “He died at fifty, and he never apologized, explained, or even so much as hinted that he may have loved us kids. It’s never gotten easier to swallow, no matter how old I become,” he added.
I was swallowing just fine. Dad was a drunken prick, he didn’t love me, and I was fine with that. I’d accepted it.
“I want to show you something,” Clinton reached into the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out a large folder wrapped with a rubber band and handed it to me.
I held the heavy folder in my hand, unsure what it was, or what I was supposed to do with it. Clinton’s eyes motioned towards it, urging me to open it, so I did. Inside, there were clippings, the same clippings I’d found in my dad’s office. They were carefully cut out from the newspapers where I or my team was mentioned for our bravery, our service, or our sacrifices. “Yeah, he had something like this in his office too,” I stated without much interest.
“He was proud of you, even though he had no way of showing it,” Clinton spoke like he actually knew what the fuck he was talking about. As far as I was concerned, he didn’t.
“This doesn’t really say all that to me,” I half-chuckled as I slid the folder onto the table in front of me.
“We talked a lot once he got sick. He told me about you, about how he treated you, and how miserable of a father he’d been. At first, I wasn’t interested in getting to know the man, mainly because he reminded me of my father. But, then Kia reminded me of hard it had been on me to not get that apology, and thought it was therapeutic to listen to the old man,” he chuck
led lovingly.
“I’m glad he could bring you some closure,” I said quickly, ready to make my escape.
“He did. But, what I think it most important, is it could bring you closure as well,” his eyes locked onto mine with an uncomfortable stare. I felt a lump in my throat forming, one that I couldn’t swallow. Goddamn, this was what I’d been trying to avoid. I didn’t want to feel anything for my father. I didn’t want to feel anything at all.
“I made him record a message for you, so he could tell you his story, his apology, in his own words. I know it doesn’t change who he was, but it could change who he is in your heart from here on out.” Clinton pushed a micro-cassette into my hand. “I have a recorder here, if you’d like to listen,” he added, pulling out an outdated tape recorder that reminded me of my childhood.
After cleaning the floors in the house, and my father’s voice, even though only yelling and slurring obscenities, had faded, there was sadness. The thought of hearing his voice again lit up an interest in me, one I didn’t fully understand. Why would I want to hear him? Why wouldn’t the thought of drowning out his screams, his insults be a good thing?
“Sure,” I agreed.
Clinton’s eyes lit up as he slid the tape into the recorder and hit play. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and listened without watching my reactions, which I was thankful for.
My dad’s voice sounded weak, not like the strong one in my head. Tears nearly fell from my eyes as he called me son, speaking to me directly from beyond the grave. I struggled to hold back any emotion as I listened to him apologize, telling me he loved me, that he was proud. Anger storied in me at his words. How dare he get to absolve his past with one fuckin’ recording.
My breathing became rapid, matching my heartbeat as he continued to speak in-between coughs and loud hacking. For the first time, I heard the story of my mother, of how she’d loved me with her entire soul. He told a story of a young girl, one not of age, and under her father’s control. They’d snuck off together when she’d become pregnant, fearful of what the father would do if they found them. Tears started to roll down my cheeks as I listened to him choke up when he mentioned her name, Maliah, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. They made it to the small island and got to experience the joy of my birth, but it wasn’t long until the father found them, demanding that his daughter return home. He took her, leaving my father and myself alone in a small house outside of town. He worked two jobs to support us, and always hoped one day, Maliah would return, but she didn’t. He spent years trying to find her, but the father took the family and left without a trace. When I was three, he got word of her death, a suicide shortly after she was taken. It made him angry, and his heart never healed. He apologized for how he treated me, for taking his misery out on me. It didn’t change the fact that he’d been such a prick as I grew up, but it did at least give me some insight as to why. It wasn’t in my genes, buried in my DNA, or any indication of what I would be as a father; it was circumstance, and that’s all. The tape ended with Clinton’s voice soothing my father as he began to hack uncontrollably. I wiped my face, clearing any signs of emotion, and swallowed the lump in my throat with some ease.
