“Why am I not surprised you’re calling me?” I answer as I walk back into the house and straight to the den. I yank off the white linen cloth that covers the desk as more dust flies around.
“Did you find them, Brommando?” Avery asks, using the silly nickname she called me when we played war on the beach, our backyard. A time we made sand forts with Kyle.
Avery and I would be on one side and Kyle would be on the other side, throwing sand grenades. It was all fun and games until sand got in someone’s eye. Most of the time it was Avery who cried first.
“Don’t be a hissy-sissy.” I stare at the cherry wood desk and the oversized ivory chair. “I just walked in.”
She asked me to pick up Dad’s journals since he’s been asking for them. Then drop them off at the facility where he lives, and his Alzheimer’s is being cared for. This is one visit I am not looking forward to, seeing the man who may not even remember me. His own son. He’s my hero and to see him like that, in a wheelchair, breaks me.
“Dad is expecting you,” she nags, her voice just like Mom’s.
“He’s expecting me. You sure about that, Ave? He doesn’t even know who I am anymore.” Mockery slips out that she doesn’t deserve.
“Wow. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed, or what?”
“Did you call to badger me?”
“Yes, that’s my job . . . I thought you would be there early this morning,” she says as I hear an announcement in the background about a flight number and boarding time.
“I had to run an errand this morning.” The corner of my mouth turns up as I imagine Dee’s face and hope she’s okay with me changing her battery. I heard her when she said she knows a thing or two about cars and fuck if that’s not the sexiest thing. I visualize Dee with a smudge of oil on her face, twisting and jiggling the cables and spark plugs.
“Hellooo, Brodyyy. You there?” Avery’s voice echoes.
“Maybe I should have just let you take care of it,” I snap back, annoyed that she interrupted my quick fantasy of Dee that I shouldn’t be having while my sister is nagging in my ear.
“Brody. You know I’d do it”—another announcement blares—“if they didn’t push the photoshoot up a week.”
“Oh, come on, Ave! You wouldn’t come to this house even if I gave you my inheritance.”
“Whatever,” she bites back.
“Being in this house is a bit eerie. I can still smell her perfume.”
She lets out a breath. “I think the house needs a facelift, a makeover. A restoration.”
“Great idea. You should start on that,” I say, knowing all too well she’s dodging the conversation about Mom. I open the drawers and start fumbling through them searching for Dad’s journals.
Avery laughs. “Are you kidding me? I have no time for that.”
“At least you have time to pay the electric bill. It was nice to walk in and see that they still worked.” I open another drawer. “Are you sure Dad’s journals are in the desk?”
“The desk? I never said they were in the desk.” She lets out a sigh. “They’re packed up in some boxes in the closet.”
My eyes veer to the closet door and I imagine the boxes that occupy the deep space of the alcove, the best hiding place in the house. I remember the times I would hide in there as if it were my very own bunker.
“Brody.” Her voice is soft. “When I saw Dad a couple of weeks ago, he remembered me, and he asked about you. Then asked about Mom.”
“What did you tell him?” I open a drawer and I subconsciously take inventory. Calligraphy pen, cream paper with brown edges, paper clips. My finger glides over an old notepad with Mom’s faded scribble.
I make my way to the closet and open a few boxes as Avery continues talking about her visit with Dad. When I open the second box, I find leather journals tucked neatly along with other tchotchkes.
I know I shouldn’t, but I unwind the straps of the top journal. I’m greeted with Dad’s handwriting as I open to the middle of it. I’m about to tell Avery I found the journal, but then I read the first line.
I miss her. But I have no choice but to let her go . . .
I immediately close it, not wanting to read anymore. I’m tempted, but those are Dad’s private words. I shake my head and push the thought aside as I grab the other journals.
“. . . then Dad just blanked out on me. One minute he was there and the next, he wasn’t,” Avery continues without missing a beat. “He thought I was the nurse. All the while asking where Mom was.”
“And you say that Dad’s expecting me to deliver these journals?”
“Like I said, he’s been asking for them. He thinks someone stole them.”
“Did Dad have one of his tantrums again?” I ask, wondering if I’m adding more fuel to this conversation.
“He’s not doing well, Brody,” she says softly.
“Is that what Doctor Williams told you?”
“Yes, among other things.”
“Like what?” I ask.
A woman’s voice announcing a flight number echoes. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll be back in a couple of days. Don’t forget we’re meeting for dinner on Friday.”
“Ah, fuck! I forgot. I, uh . . .”
“No, Brody. You are not shafting me again. I haven’t seen you since you got home.”
“I’m meeting someone,” I say as I close the flaps to the box.
She grunts. “Fine. Then at least come with me to see Dad next Sunday.”
“We’ll see.”
Chapter Nine
Delilah
A stroke of my pencil on my sketchpad. A circle here. An oblong outline there. A tag line here. Then blend green and blue with the markers I pull out of a plastic bin. A dab of orange, and a splash of purple on the new account I am assigned to and I am grateful for.
I thought I would shadow one of the tenured staff until I got the hang of things here. But, when I brought in my mock-up designs this past week, I must have impressed Mr. Grisham because he immediately assigned me an account to work solo.
Not only do I need to come up with the final designs, I have to give a presentation for Evergreen Escapes. A campground east of San Francisco where camping is not the typical sleeping in a tent like how I grew up. Glamping is the new camping and very posh.
My fly-away strands tickle my cheeks as the breeze blows from the ocean. The smell of spring is in the air, the sun warming my face now that the storm has passed through and is heading out to sea.
I tap the pencil on my chin, brainstorming what else this design needs. More color? Another logo? More texture? A different slogan?
“Another refill?” I look up at the cheery voice. A waitress with a bright smile, holding a pitcher of pink lemonade in one hand and water in the other stands in front of me.
“Yes. Please.” I pop the plastic lid off and hold up my paper cup of ice cubes and hand it to her. “And can I get some water for her bowl?” I motion down at Serena lying peacefully by my feet.
“Sure thing,” she says and fills the disposable bowl. “What’s her name?”