Maybe because I’m tired of feeling anything, and that includes any lingering animosity toward her.
When I walked out of Jude’s apartment and drove toward Mom’s, a blessed numbness had encased me. But a couple of days later, that frozen state melted, and since then, I’ve been a chaotic mess of grief, pain, loneliness, and anger. At myself.
“Everything okay, Cypress?” Katherine’s question drags me out of my head. Thank God.
“Sure.” I dredge up a smile, and from the concern in her blue eyes, it’s an epic fail. “Just tired. I’ve been pulling extra shifts,” I lie. But how to tell her I can’t close my eyes without pictures and memories of her son bombarding me? That instead I stay awake and stare at the ceiling? Pretty certain that wouldn’t go over well.
She pats my shoulder. “You’re like my boys. Work too hard. I tell them all the time to slow down, take care of themselves. But do they listen?”
“No?” I guess, arching an eyebrow.
She chuckles. “You’d be correct.” We stop in front of the open door to the den Dan and I spoke in weeks ago. “He’s in there watching the baseball game.” She rolls her eyes, her lips curling in an all-too-familiar smile. I jerk my head away, inhaling through the red pulse of pain emanating from my chest.
“Thanks, Katherine.”
Walking into the room, I spot Dan on the couch, sock-covered feet crossed and propped up on the coffee table, and a beer resting on his stomach. It’s so reminiscent of the times when I walked into our old apartment to find him in the same position, beer in hand, cursing out the Cubs, that I stumble. I’d run in from playing outside with the kids on the floor under us and jump on the couch next to him. He’d sling his arm around my shoulders, dragging me close to smack a kiss on the top of my head. Then we’d settle down and watch the game together, even though I knew nothing—still don’t know anything—about baseball. It hadn’t been about the sport, though; it’d been about spending time with my dad. Being Daddy’s Girl.
I’d convinced myself I didn’t remember those good times. But since staying at Mom’s, I have no choice. I can’t walk out of my old bedroom without being bombarded with memories, and not just because of her framed shrine. It’s like stepping into the past and being able to do nothing but bask in it, analyze it, break it down from a twenty-six-year-old’s perspective instead of a child.
The revelations have been…eye-opening.
“Hi, Dan,” I say, stopping next to the sofa.
He looks away from the television and, spotting me, quickly comes to his feet. Setting the beer can on the table, he crosses over to me, pauses, then pulls me into a short, awkward hug. He releases me before I can embrace him back. Or decide to.
A beat of silence reigns in the room, the only sound the crack of a ball hitting a bat and the commentator’s excited recount of the play.
“So.” He clears his throat and waves toward the couch and chair next to it. “I was surprised you called. What brings you by?”
I opt for the arm chair, and he resettles on the couch. Opening my purse, I withdraw an envelope and pass it to him.
“I wanted to return this to you. The money you’ve paid for Mom’s bills,” I explain as he slips a finger under the flap. “Thanks for paying it.” The proceeds from the condo closing had arrived yesterday morning, and I hadn’t wasted any time depositing it. God, seeing those six-digit numbers had been a huge relief. For the first time in months, the worry of money had lifted off my shoulders, and it’d been freeing.
He opens the envelope but doesn’t peer inside or remove the check. Instead, he frowns. “Cypress, you didn’t have to do this. I didn’t ask you to repay me for that money.”
“I know you didn’t. But like you told me before, taking care of Mom’s bills wasn’t the original purpose of the money you set aside. And Mom is no longer your responsibility either. So this”—I nod toward the check—“makes us even.”
“Here.” He extends it toward me, shaking it for emphasis. “Take it.”
“No,” I say, zipping my purse. “C’mon, Dan. It’s not like the money was a gift. It certainly wasn’t free.” Okay, so maybe some of that resentment and bitterness still lurks inside me. Rising to my feet, I shrug. “Use it or don’t cash it. I’m not taking it back.”
“Cypress,” he says my name in a tone I haven’t heard in alongtime, and my reflex is to halt in my path toward the den door. I turn around, a little shocked. “I talked to your mother.”
“I know,” I reply, arching an eyebrow and struggling to bar the anger from entering my voice. “I was there to clean up the pieces after the phone call.”
He winces, and oddly, I take no pleasure in it. “I’m sorry. I’m…sorry for a lot of things.” He tosses the envelope onto the chair I just vacated and bows his head for a long moment. When he returns his gaze to me, I swallow a gasp. The shadows there are deep and so full of sadness, I’m stunned into silence. “One of my biggest regrets is our relationship. So many times over the years, I wished I could go back and kick the ass of the man I was and tell him not to be so damn selfish, not to be so prideful, not to be afraid to apologize to my little girl. I told myself you were too young to understand my decisions and that they didn’t affect you. I was a fool. I broke our home and expected you to comprehend and accept what even adults have a hard time doing. I knew the state your mother was in and didn’t consider—or didn’t want to consider—the burden that placed on you. And when you refused to come over for visitation any longer, when you pretty much stopped talking to me, I told myself when you were older, you’d get over it, and we’d be close again. But that never happened. And I only have myself to blame.”
“Dan…” I rasp, still paralyzed by the shock gripping me. Never—never—had I believed these words would come from him. A part of me still can’t grasp them. Not completely. But the other half… The other half that secretly longed for this is listening, hanging on every syllable in rapt attention.
He flinches. “Do you know how much it hurts me every time you call me that instead of Daddy, like you used to? And it’s worse knowing that it’s all my fault. I did that. I haven’t been Daddy to you in a long time, Cypress, and it all falls on me. I used to tell myself the phone worked both ways, that you didn’t call or reach out to me either. But I’m the father, and no matter how old you get, you’re my child. And letting you know how much I love you, how much I want to get to know you again and try to build a relationship with you again, is my responsibility.”
“Mine, too,” I breathe past the huge fist of emotion lodged in my throat. Hope is a fragile bird with newly mended wings in my chest. But there’s also the fear—fear that if hope takes off on its fledgling flight, rejection and disappointment will send it crashing back to the ground.
“When you came to Sunday dinner, I thought maybe it was our new beginning. But then, in this room, I realized we were as distant from each other as we’d been when you were on the other side of the country. I got afraid again. Looking at you—looking at all that I’d lost in the face—I was afraid. You accused me of placing Katherine above you, and you were right. My only excuse is because she’s all that I have left, and I was afraid of losing her as I’d already lost you.”
Fear. Loss. Leaving.
This was our legacy.
