“The hell you are! You ruin everything you help, so excuse me if I don’t want it.” His eyes were wild with emotion but not dementia.
“You know, you’re a lot nicer when you don’t know who I am.”
“Get off my land before I—”
“Before you what? Shoot me?” I put my hands up. “We’ve already done that once, so try something a little more creative, would you?”
His eyes flickered with something I was too smart to call regret.
“Look, Dad. I’m here because you asked me to be.”
“Bullshit,” he spat. “You’re the last person I’d ask for help.”
I shoved that little insult into the don’t-ever-think-about-it pile and gave him a mocking smile. “Well, you did. And maybe when you’re done being an asshole, I’ll give you the proof.”
“Get. Off. My. Land.”
“Okay,” I agreed and headed back to the Jeep, zipping up my coat as I went.
By the time I opened my tailgate, he’d slammed the front door. “Stubborn ass,” I muttered, grabbing my camping chair.
After setting up next to the Jeep, I settled into the chair with my water bottle and the copy of East of Eden I’d brought from the house. I cracked the well-loved spine and fell into Steinbeck’s description of living between two mountain ranges.
“I told you to get off my land!” Dad shouted from the porch, Dorothy looking on from the doorway.
“I am off your land,” I replied, already back in my book.
“I beg your pardon?”
“According to the property survey, this little stretch of land is part of the easement you sold to Uncle Cal so he could access his house.” My eyes traced the letters on the page before me, but nothing registered with every other sense concentrating on Dad.
“You… He… Go to hell.”
I expected the slam of the door, but it still made me flinch when it happened. An hour later, Dorothy appeared, a steaming cup in her hands.
“To keep you warm. Temps are going to drop soon.”
“Thank you,” I told her, taking the offered coffee.
“He’s…” She rubbed her fingers at the skin between her eyebrows.
“He’s him,” I offered. “Don’t worry. He fathered the only man more stubborn than he is.”
She blew out a long, exasperated breath. “Xander said he’s not paying for the at-home care. Says it’s cheaper and safer to take him down to the home in Buena Vista, where he can get around-the-clock care.”
Fuck me, did I have to fight Xander on every front?
“I’ll talk to him again,” I promised.
She nodded, her lips pressed in a flat line, and gave me a look so full of pity, I almost cringed. “I wish Art didn’t let his heart fill with all this misplaced hatred. I know you’ve never been perfect, Cam, but you don’t deserve this.”
I glanced toward the east end of the property, where Sullivan lay beneath a stone I’d never seen. “I earned it.”
The coffee was hot and bitter, rich with memories of rushed mornings and zipping backpacks.
“Thank you,” I told her, handing back the mug after I’d downed its contents.
“You’re welcome. He’ll come around.” She gave me a little nod, then headed back into the house.
I returned to my book until another hour passed and the sun slipped behind the Collegiates, sending shadows across the pages.
His eyes stayed on me, just as they had been for the majority of the time, as I packed up my chair and put it into the Jeep.
“I’ll be back tomorrow and the day after that and so forth,” I called up to where he watched at the window. “You are the reason I’m here, and I have nothing better to do.”
The curtain closed, and I almost laughed at the insults he was no doubt muttering in the house.
“As long as he doesn’t get the shotgun,” I mumbled.
…
I began my reading session earlier the next day, not even bothering to knock on the door before setting up in the driveway in front of Dad’s house.
The day after, I did the same.
By Wednesday, I thought about bringing a more comfortable chair.
An hour after I opened my book, Dad stood on the front porch, arms folded in front of his chest as he watched me. It was an odd thing, seeing Dad, not knowing who he would really be today.
I put my book in my lap as he came down the steps, his footsteps heavy on the creaking wood.
“You came to help.” Condescension clung to every word.
“I came because you asked me to.”
His eyes narrowed. “What exactly did I ask you to help with?”
He’s probably not even lucid in that message. For the first time, I wondered if Xander was right.
“Death.”
Shock flashed across his features, and I cursed inwardly.
“Dorothy made lunch.” With those words, he walked back to the house.
“Awesome,” I muttered, opening the book again.
“If you’re hungry, get in here. She’s too old to be hauling your food outside,” he called back from the porch.
My eyes shot to his, just to make sure he was actually talking to me.
“I’m not waiting all day,” he said, answering my silent question, holding the door.
I lurched to my feet, abandoning the paperback on the canvas chair, and followed him inside.
“Take off your damned shoes,” he ordered, and I did just that before joining him in the kitchen, where Dorothy sat at the table with lunch, watching us like hawks.
“Rabbit food,” Dad groaned as he sat in front of his salad.
“It’s good for you,” Dorothy argued.
“Thank you,” I told her before digging into the grilled chicken that topped the greens.
“What’s your proof?” Dad asked. “You said you had proof.”
Guess we weren’t beating around the bush.
Still chewing, I put my phone on the table and cued up the voicemail. Then I watched him as it played. As usual, he gave nothing away. Heaven forbid he let anyone know how he was feeling.
The message ended, and I put my phone back in my pocket.
“Where’s the rest?” he asked, his eyes boring into mine.