Waiting for him to get around to the front of the truck, he turns to me. “Darlin’, you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, whatever this is, it just needs to work itself out.” I think of the little baby who’s taking over my body. A smile takes over my face. With my arms hugging my stomach, I catch Maguire watching me with a broad grin.
He puts the truck into gear. “We’re driving a little farther up the road and calling it a night. I need you to get some good rest.” We’re barely on the highway when it hits me. The doctor thought Maguire was my father.
It’s quiet as the pieces are all fitting together. “Fuck, Maguire.”
I don’t get any other words out of my mouth before he turns. “Darlin’, we’ve been through this—seriously, you’re too pretty for those words.” I’m quiet. “Why do you continue to utter the one word I hate to hear you say?”
“You’re an ass. You know, don’t you? The reason you’re driving less today. Why you’re insisting I get my rest? Smiling at me, all-knowing. You know I’m pregnant.”
He downshifts and takes the next exit onto a lonely road, pulling over to the shoulder. With the truck in park, he turns his body toward me. “Listen, darlin’,” he begins.
I don’t wait to listen, I’m out the door, walking in some field. Not sure where I’m going. I’m not upset with him. But right now the perfect storm of emotions is about to collide.
Running after me, it’s not hard for a man Maguire’s size to catch up with a person my size, especially as sick as I’ve been.
“Holland, I wanted you to tell me when you were ready.” He pulls at me and I stop. My body is facing away from him. “Please don’t be upset with me.”
“I’m not,” I reply and the tears don’t stop.
I turn when it all comes out at one time. Maguire pulls me into his embrace, and I allow it. “Then, darlin’, what’s all of this about? Aren’t you happy?”
I wipe at my tears to avoid them staining his simple gray t-shirt. “No, it’s not that… I’m happy. I’ll have a part of Scott with me still.” Why am I telling him, he must feel the same way? “But it doesn’t make me miss him any less. Maybe more, because he’ll miss out on everything.” The storm, this convergence keeps coming. “And honestly, the idea of doing it alone scares the hell out of me.”
He pulls back. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. So fucking wrong. You won’t be going through it alone, I promise.”
“But you have your whole life. You don’t need to be saddled by your crazy daughter-in-law. And her baby.”
Moving a piece of my hair from my eyes, he pulls it back behind my ear. “See, again, you’re wrong. I couldn’t be there for Scott, but I sure as fuck will be there for my grandbaby.” He tips my head farther so our eyes meet, and he continues, “And the mama of my grandbaby will always be someone who’ll be a part of my life.” His face is so close to mine, his lips are even closer to my lips. For a split second, I think they will touch my own until a big rig drives by and honks at us. And for this split second, I feel like Jezebel in the Bible—a temptress—about to undo all of this in front of me. I break from his embrace, waiting for him in the cab of the truck as he, too, takes a couple minutes for himself.
He opens the door, starts the truck, and drives the next thirty minutes until we reach our destination for the night, neither one of us addressing what could have been—a new beginning or our undoing—on the side of the road.
I’m left to some field in Alabama, speaking to my own demons. Four weeks is what it’s been since I watched my son’s casket lower into the ground. From there, it took almost that long to pack up Holland, taking care of all the small details. It’s been a long month of us being thrust together. And in this time, did we really get this close? More so, was I close to kissing my son’s wife? The woman who’s carrying my one link to my Scott? She had walked away after the trucker beeped at us—like he knew the whole sordid soap opera which is now my life.
I take some deep breaths, watching the trees sway in front of me. They were almost witness to the worst mistake I could make. And yet, I still want it, I still want her.
Retreating to the truck, I look upon Holland, her face scrunched against the passenger window, looking anywhere but at me. Hoisting myself back into the cab, I stay silent, starting it, the hum of the engine is the only thing filling the quietness among us.
My mind is on the regret and remorse of me wanting this girl. And that’s what she is—a girl. It seems like five minutes to the reality of thirty when we pull up to the Embassy Suites for the night. I thought I’d treat her to something other than the Bates’ Motel as she calls it. The gesture makes her smile, but we still have not spoken.
I leave her be, walking inside, securing two rooms—on two different floors—on entirely different sides of one another. When I run outside to give her the keycard, she merely says, “I’m exhausted. Don’t count on me for dinner, I’ll probably throw it up anyway. I still have crackers and Gatorade.” She looks at her room number and disappears for the night.
Leaning against the bed of the truck, I internally moan, watching her disappear behind the door.
Chapter 12
The letter, his last words are in my hands. Nowhere in it does it ask for me to fall for Holland, to kiss her in a field in Alabama. My life has been focused on my career. I’d done the wife and kid thing. Marriage certainly hadn’t worked out. I can’t regret it, though. I would not have had Scottie. And the memories, they assault me from day to day. Some days they are the only thing that gets me by. But, other days, they are salt in an angry wound, unwilling to heal.
On the edge of some cheap bed, I’m left to wonder about the father Scott could have been. Would he have sacrificed for him or her, like I was unwilling to do? Now that I have my business and a very successful one at that, was it worth it? Staying in Cali to continue, or following Christine like I should have?
But do I only regret this because Scott’s no longer here and hindsight is 20/20? My eyes roam the letter, his pleas so vivid I can hear his voice. At the age of fourteen, we’d started work on his truck. He loved the piece of rusty metal more than anything and only he had a vision for it, one I didn’t have. And I knew then, he loved that piece of junk we worked years to restore. Then, when he called me to tell me about this girl—or in his words—the girl, I asked how he knew it was real. His reply is still ingrained in my memory.
“Dad, I love her more than my truck.” I knew it was true love then, to love Holland more than his most prized possession in this world. I see how it’s possible with Holland—she’s so easy to love. Even in her more animated features, which could drive most people insane, I only find them endearing. My eyes don’t leave the letter, the one I try to burn into memory, as I attempt to honor my son’s last wish. I leave her be for the night—taking her at her word that she needs to sleep.
The text alert goes off on the nightstand of my hotel room. A towel is around my waist when I leave the bathroom and make my way to the jeans and t-shirt I have waiting for me on the bed. It’s my standard attire. On the rare occasion Kat and I go out, I may put on a button-down top. But combat boots, it’s all this carpenter knows. Waiting to check my phone until I’m fully dressed, the beeps continue. I stop what I’m doing, in case it’s Holland—something with the baby.
In the ten seconds it takes to cross the room to my phone, my mind is in overdrive about how cruel fate would be to give us this glimmer of hope only to have it taken away in a miscarriage. I say a silent prayer to the man upstairs. I know I for one couldn’t take it. Holland, she’d crumble. Hell, there’s no one tougher than her—but a person, even one as strong as my daughter-in-law, can only take so much. Maybe if I call her this more often, these odd feelings I have toward her might dissipate.
By the time I get to my phone, the worst-case scenarios are rumbling through my mind. Picking it up, I read the first text.
Darlin’: Come on, Old Man, at this rate
we may make it to California by Christmas.
I scroll down, the next text is just as snarky.
Darlin’: Oh, no, you either died of old age or you can’t get to your cane.
I’m wondering in her smart-ass-ness if she’s feeling any better.
Me: Yeah, yeah, don’t be a brat. Keep it up and I’ll leave you on the side of the road.
Darlin’: Well, you wanted to get an early start. It’s seven a. m. Let’s get going or I’m heading back to bed.
Me: Listen, brat, I’m getting dressed. See you in five.
I toss my phone down, wondering if Holland is having images of me dressing. It had not been my intention—not in the least, but now I’m thinking of her half-dressed.
I stare at his last text. He’s getting dressed. What’s wrong with me? I’m in mourning. My stomach is upset and my chest tight. This has nothing to do with morning sickness. I miss Scott so much. Last night, I cried myself to sleep for the baby of ours he’ll never hold. The guilt had continued when I could still feel Maguire’s breath on my skin.
I’m in the truck, waiting for him and what’s more, I want to see him. I miss how his eyes, the hazel green of them, penetrate through me.
I don’t have much time to think when the door opens, and he slings himself into the truck. The man must own a V-neck in every color. And his combat boots, it’s all he wears. I guess it makes sense, building stuff all day long.
“Morning, Holland.” My heart falls a little. I miss the term darlin’, it’s the panty melting tone along with the one word that puts me on notice this man is more to me than a father-in-law.
“Good morning, Sarge.” My own tone is a little more clipped than I mean for it to be. Holy hell, what in the world? Am I really upset he didn’t call me darlin’?
His hand changes the radio station. This old beat up pickup truck has serious radio along with kick-ass bass. Scott insisted on the best. He changes what I have been listening to, he must have the same rule Scott had. Whoever is driving, picks the music. In the maybe twelve hours we’ve been on the road, I’ve been too out of it to really care. It starts just enough to hear one of my favorite bands, The Front Bottoms with “Flashlight.”
“Hey,” I whine.
“I drive, I decide.” He’s not smiling, he’s dead serious. Yes, I’m right. Yet, another freaking similarity. All of a sudden, some sort of bad metal hits me, and I shake my head—the same flipping music.
“Anyway, darlin’, I don’t listen to EMU music.”
As he’s turning out of our hotel—I’m breaking into hysterics.
“What. What’s so fucking funny?” But he’s laughing at me as I’m laughing at him.
“Um, Emu, that’s a bird. It’s EMO.”
He shrugs at me. “Yeah, what can I say, I’m old. I’m not up to date on all that shit and stuff. I just know what I like.” He starts singing along with “Enter Sandman.” It makes me smile.
“So what’s got you grinning over there? Is it Metallica?” he asks.
I push a piece of hair from my eyes, listening to the same lyrics Scott would sing while tinkering on this truck. “Um, did you know this was Scott’s go-to music?”
His head turns quickly to me, then back at the road. “No shit, really?”
“Yeah. This was Scott’s truck work song. Sometimes he’d put it on repeat and after ten times, Mark would wander out of his house, giving Scott hell. Telling him he was a millennial and to start acting like one. Scott would tell him to eff off and they’d sit with a beer, listening to the song on repeat just so Scott could goad Mark and every other person on our cul-de-sac.”
I don’t know I’m crying until drops land on my arms as fast as raindrops. “Fuck, I miss him so much.” It comes out so naturally and I wait for Maguire to challenge me.
“I’ll let that one slide, darlin’,” he replies. When I twist my head to him, he, too, has uncontrolled tears. I remain quiet as both of us reminisce together in our silence.
When my tears stop after thirty minutes, I don’t realize I’m singing along to “Blaze of Glory,” when Maguire starts to sing with me.
“Are you feeling better today?” he asks in the middle of the chorus.
“Yeah, a little.” Rummaging through my purse, I grab a pack of Lemonheads, popping a couple into my mouth. “I can stomach these and saltines and ginger ale.”
He glances at the sugary treat and shakes his head. “My grandchild needs more nutrients than those three things.”
I toss a couple more Lemonheads in my mouth. “What? I’m getting all my vitamin C,” I tease. “No, seriously, the doctor told me to make sure I drink and eat when I can. Believe me, this baby is my first priority.”
His eyes stay on the road while he finishes up the song. He turns off the radio, clearing his throat. “Um, Holland, mind me asking you a little bit of a personal question?”
This causes me to almost choke on my candy. “Well,” I begin, still coughing a bit. “Sure, I guess, but I reserve the right to plead the fifth, just in case,” I say, trying to offset my nervousness.
“Fair enough.” I watch his profile and his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “Scott—was he a good husband to you? I wasn’t able to show him how to be a good husband. And it’s one of the many things I regret.”
I don’t think when my hand reaches for his arm. “Maguire, Scott was the best husband I could have ever asked for. He saw you—the good man you are and followed in your footsteps. You may not have been a husband, but you were the man he needed. Believe me, you did very well.”
Maguire pulls over on the side of the freeway. I remove my arm as his face drops to the steering wheel. Throughout the funeral, I barely saw more than a tear from his eyes. Though there were times he would excuse himself. I’d hoped in his time of solitude, he was using it as an outlet, getting it out.
Unbuckling my seat belt, I scoot over to him, grateful for the bench seat of this truck. I rub his back in a circular motion as he lets it all out. I can’t help but feel honored, he’s allowing me to see him in this state. Yet, it’s heartbreaking—this strong man coming undone at the seams.
I sit here, my hand on his back, being a comfort for him because he’s been that for me more times than I can count.
Chapter 13
After Maguire’s breakdown, we drive for two hours in silence until we stop for gas. Maguire insists this truck gets pretty good gas mileage, but I think he’s full of shit, with how often we are breaking for fuel.
He never shied away from me, though he’d been quiet, but in the solitude of the cab, I only think of what my baby will look like. Will he have the same eyes as his or her daddy’s? Will she be tall like Scott or short like me? More importantly, will our child have the tender heart of his or her father. Looking over at the grandpa of my child, Scott had the same loving nature of his own father. I hope the odds are in my favor.
When we refuel, he brings me more Lemonheads. We barely get started up the road when he asks, “Tell me to mind my own business if I cross the line, but had you two always wanted children? I mean, I missed so much of Scott. I’m trying to figure him out as a man.”
I get it, after his breakdown, I think it’s more of what he didn’t get to see in him. “Unless you ask about our sex life, Maguire, I’ll share anything you want to know.” It comes out so casually. I don’t blush like I think I should. I mean, obviously, Scott and I were together for five years and we had crazy fun sex.
“Yeah, you can rest assured, darlin’, I won’t touch that subject with a ten-foot pole.” We both laugh and I turn to him, to answer his original question.
“We wanted at least three. With both of us being only children, we wanted more for our kids.” I look at my stomach. This will probably be my only child and it makes me hurt for him or her. “But yeah, it was something I wanted sooner than him. He wanted to get through the Army, move to California, and put me through school. He told me five years. And I was okay waiting
, but—it’s been a little more than a day and my life has changed overnight. And now, it’s all I can think about.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I look over to him and he’s smiling. “What about you, Gramps?”
His concentration is on the road, but he begins, “Nothing can ever replace Scott, but shit, there will be a part of my son running around for me to see. I meant it, Holland, I didn’t get to be a dad—not the kind I wanted. But I’ll be that grandpa. You better get used to an overbearing father-in-law, because this baby will get everything it needs from me.”
This makes me happy. My baby certainly won’t get any attention from my parents. Then I think of the crazy overbearing grandma Christine will be. I can’t, not in this minute, consider her. And I reply to Maguire, “I’ll take all the help I can get, but you’ll have to run interference with Christine.”
He outwardly groans.
“Hey, since you two were planning for children, does it mean you have names picked out?”
The grief hits in waves and I can’t explain why this one little question hurts so much. I smile, I don’t want to cry. I’ve made it a couple hours.
“Well, yeah, we did, but I’d like to keep this part to myself, just a little bit longer.”
I’ve been around him enough; I understand sincerity when it’s plastered on his face. Patting my hand, he smiles, “I get it. I understand. Just know—you need anything, I’ll make it happen.”
He says this as if I hung the moon. But for him, in his grief, this is the shooting star that may get us both through the worst time in our lives.
We’re finally in Arkansas. It’s only taken us five days and yet, we’re still twenty-one hundred miles from Coral Creek, California. And because he only wants to drive six hours a day, we find ourselves in Clarksville, Arkansas, around three p.m. We’ve barely stopped, only to get a couple snacks along the way. Somehow, we’re being upgraded from Norman Bates to first class, this time Maguire checks us in at a Hilton Suites for the night. It’s still unholy hot outside and the first thing I notice is the swimming pool.
Like Father Like Son Page 7
