The door swings open before I get a chance to knock and my father’s smiling face appears in the darkness.
“Hey, bud, I thought I heard you pull up. How’d everything go this morning?” His voice is light, almost cheery, and I don’t understand it. Not that I want him to be depressed but today was pure hell for us two years ago.
I nod. “Everything went great. You ready to go?” I ask, gesturing over to my car.
“Almost. But you got here a little faster than I thought. I just put my coffee on. Come inside, I’ll finish my cup and then we can go,”
“It’s okay.” Taking a step back, I head down the stairs. “I can wait out here. I have a few calls to make anyway,” I lie.
“No point in sitting out here, plus I could use your help moving the hutch in the kitchen. I dropped my damn glasses behind it.” His expression is even as he looks into my eyes. I know what he’s doing. He knows what he’s doing. After throwing his back out early this year, I’ve had to stay on him to take it easy with the lifting, so he knows this will get my attention.
“Fine,” I say, walking into the house. I can feel him looking at me as I storm past and head directly to the kitchen. I need water. I need to get out of this house. My father texted me last night reminding me of our plans to work on the lake house, and he insisted we do it today. I thought we would meet there but he suddenly had car trouble and asked me to come over instead.
I knew he'd pull something like this. I am willing to bet his car is fine; I just don't want to be here. It’s not that I don’t want to see my father. We have a great relationship but since my mother died I can count on one hand how many times I’ve come into this house. The sounds of her oxygen tank, her coughing, gasping for air, the helpless look on my father’s face when he realized there was nothing we could do to help her. She was leaving us. It all just hurts too damn much.
“Are you hungry?” he asks as he pushes through the kitchen door. It swings behind him a few times until it closes.
“No, I had breakfast before class.” He hasn’t changed a thing in here. Tiny porcelain sheep dressed in chef hats line the shelf that still holds my mother’s aprons. Her recipe books lay neatly on the edge of the counter. I’m in a trance staring at her coffee mug when he starts to speak.
“Well, what about lunch? We’ve got a lot of work to do on the house today. Paint the drywall, tack down carpet. You’ll need to have something in your stomach.”
“I’m fine, Dad,” I say, placing a cup under the icemaker chute on the refrigerator door. The motor starts and ice falls from the hidden opening, clinking against the glass as it drops inside.
“Jordan,” he huffs. I keep my back to him as I add water to my cup. I’m being an ass. But I know what he’s trying to do and it’s pissing me off.
“Come on, son, let’s just go eat together.”
“No, no thank you. Now, let’s move this hutch so we can leave.”
Releasing a deep breath, he brings his hands to his hips and squints. “Son, it’s been two years.”
“I know.” tension rolls through my body and I bring a hand up to massage my neck.
“Two years, today.”
“I know,” I say a little louder. I slam the cup down. Drops of water splash over the rim, landing on the counter. I don't want to talk about this.
With a straight posture, he stares at me. A burning sensation starts behind my eyes as a sinking feeling grows in my chest. I need to go.
“I’m not ready, all right?” My fingers grip the counter. “So just stop. Stop trying to make me do this celebrating remembrance thing today. Let’s go fix up the damn house and get this day over with.”
“She wouldn’t want you to stay in so much pain, Jordan. You’re hurting, you have to face this.”
“I’m facing it just fine. She’s gone. I know it. I’ll process this in the way I need to. Stop pushing me!” I yell. It’s been a long time since I’ve cried but at this moment I think I could fall apart. He’s still looking at me when I walk past him, back toward the front door. I see everything this time. Her knick-knacks on the mantle. Her sweater hanging on the coat rack, her shoes by the door. By the time I make it outside I feel like I’m suffocating. The sun warms my face as I raise my head, pulling as much air into my lungs as I can. I miss her, so goddamned much, and being in that house makes me feel every bit of it. I’ll never see her face again, feel her arms wrap around me, or hear her laugh. The pain is unbearable and it’s like my father wants me to feel it. I can’t do it. He says things about finding closure and being happy but I can’t think through the loss. How can anyone find closure when the pain that comes from even thinking about it is crippling? I run my hands over my face, wiping away the cold sweat forming on my brow. Then I walk to my car and slide in. A few minutes go by and I keep checking my rearview mirror to see if my father is coming from the house but the door is just as still as I left it.
Sighing, I rest my head back on the seat. He knows I’m not coming back. I have a mind to leave, but I know that he needs me today, even if he has an annoying way of showing it. I’m peering into my rearview mirror when movement in front of me catches my eye.
It looks like Della is on the side of her house digging in the ground. At first glance, it seems like she may be gardening but she almost seems frantic. I squint, leaning forward to see if I can make her out a little better but it’s hard to tell. I wonder if I should go check on her.
The car door opens unexpectedly, causing me to jump as my father slides into the passenger seat. I look from him back to Della, who’s now reentering the house.
“Listen,” he says, buckling his seat belt. “I’m sorry, all right? I just worry about you. Just know that when you are ready to talk, you’ve got an ear.”
“Thank you,” I say, meeting his eyes. “Thanks for worrying about me. But I’ll be fine. We both will. He squeezes my hand and smiles. Then I start the car and pull out of the driveway. I consider heading across the street to Della’s, but I am beginning to wonder if I’m overreacting. Maybe she was just ripping up weeds?
“You okay?” my father asks, pulling my attention back to him.
“Um… yeah, I’m good.” I shake the crazy thoughts way and drive down the street. “Have you talked to Della or Ben recently?”
“I’ve sent Dell a few texts, but she hasn’t responded, and Ben has been staying at a hotel. I feel for them.”
“Yeah,” I say.
For the next ten minutes, our conversation is minimal. I'm trying to calm myself and push away the thoughts of my mother, which feels impossible right now. The lake house was her favorite of her investment properties. I say her and not their because flipping houses was her thing not his. My father hates doing repair work and always hires contractors but I think he wants to do all the work on this one himself because she loved the property so much. In a way, I think he feels closer to her when he does.
"What do you think of the color yellow?"
"For what? Like in general?"
"No. For the walls?"
"I don't know."
"Well it's your choice. You'll be living there next year."