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I’m glad his first appointment was so positive. Because of him, and what happened last night, I’m going to spend the day facing my own demons.
My family.
Bo gives me the keys to his pickup at breakfast. “Be careful of the snow on the hill,” he warns. “It builds up around the corners.”
“I grew up around here, don’t forget.”
“I know, but it’s been a while.”
“I haven’t forgotten anything about your truck. You never worried about me back then.”
“I always worried about you back then, but I was just better at hiding it.”
I drop Abigail at her parent’s place, refusing her offer to go in to say hi, because if I don’t go now, I’m not sure I will.
The house looks the same when I pull up. About ten minutes outside of town, on a dead-end road that gives my father lots of room to leave his derelict boats strewn around the house.
The drive has been carefully cleared, which means someone is home.
Walking up to the door, I debate whether I should knock. Technically, this is the family home, but it’s been a long time since I considered myself part of the family.
After talking to Reggie last night, I don’t think that was a good thing.
I knock as a warning and then open the door—which is left unlocked. My father would always laugh when someone asked why it was never locked. “I’d like to see somebody try to break into the Crow house,” he’d chuckle.
The sounds of television greet me, along with the tangle of boots by the front door. “Hello?” I call. The smell is the same—hints of salt and fish and the stale tang of beer. Over it all is a rich, gravy-like scent. The only thing my father ever cooked was stew. He’d add whatever meat he could find, any vegetables in the house, along with a can of beer.
I ate it so often growing up that I’ve never once madeit myself.
Footsteps and then my younger brother Earl peers around the living room. “Hettie. Hey.”
“Hi.” Do I hug him? What do I say?
But Earl doesn’t give me the chance. “Dad’s in the kitchen,” he says as he returns to the couch.
We used to have a dog when I was younger, but my mother took it with her. It was one thing for our mother to leave her family, but to take your dog? Earl loved that dog. I think he was more upset with the loss of Bear than Mom.
I haven’t thought of her in years, and one step in this house, so much comes flooding back.
Making cookies, the string of curses when we burnt them. Her brushing my hair, explaining how my red hair came from her. Packing my own lunch for school, because she was still asleep.
Having Tema was the best thing I’ve ever done, but it also made me realize that some women should never be a mother.
Including my own.
My father is at the stove with his back to the door and doesn’t hear me pad down the hall. I take him in before I say anything—broad shoulders hunched as he stirs a pot on the stove, wearing a wool sweater, threadbare and with more than a few holes.
The kitchen looks the same—a collection of dishes on the counter, both clean and dirty. It looks tired. Used. I try and drum up happy memories but all I can think about is how it was always my job to wash the dishes.
I clear my throat. “Dad?”
He glances over his shoulder, without the least bit of surprise on his face. “I heard you were in town.”
“I—yeah.” I don’t know what to say to him. It’s been eight years. I would send emails after I left, telling him where I was, how I was doing, and he never responded. It’s not surprising that I fell in love with a man who had trouble communicating, because that’s all I knew from the men in my life.
He gives the pot another stir before he turns to face me. I don’t know if it’s the years or the time spent on the boat, but my father looks old. His face is lined and worn, his hair full grey. The dark eyes are still the same, surveying me without a smile. “Are you coming in or just planning on hovering?”
“I guess. I thought I’d stop by.”