Page 14 of I’m Not Yours

“The one in the wall is from Larry Dave. He said, ‘Donkey’s butt, you’re going to rehab because if you don’t, I’m going to burn your house down so you’ll move.

We can’t have hammered drunks driving here—there’s kids on bikes who could get hurt, and you have tried our patience to the limit.

’ Your dad gave some more push-back, his face all bruised and busted, bandages everywhere, and Larry Dave shot the gun again.

That was about it. Your dad almost pissed himself.

“We shoved him in Bryan B’s truck—he’s got his guns on a rack there.

You know Bryan B yet? He owns a high-tech business.

Anyhow, he and William took him in. William’s an ears, nose, and throat specialist and his brother is a doctor in one of the rehab places, so we were able to smooth things along. ”

“How long was he there?”

“Six months—can you believe it? He was a bad case. He didn’t have any of the animals then, so we checked on the house, made sure the pipes didn’t freeze and bust.”

Six months in rehab would have cost a fortune. I thought of my ball-breaking Grandpa Tad. He’d owned a chain of liquor stores and had made a bundle, although he lived like a pauper. That was where the rest of my dad’s inheritance went. Rehab and the house and orchard.

“They cleaned him up and started him thinking like a normal man, they did,” Pearl said.

I tried to squish down my roaring anger with my dad. Finally, finally , at the end of his life he gets sober? What about me ? What about my mother ? Why couldn’t he have gotten sober for us? His lack of sobriety cost my mother her life.

“How was he after rehab?”

“New man, sweetie. New man. Humbled down to nothing. Went to AA every day. Kind, gentle, started talking a lot about you and your mom.” Pearl’s eyes got watery.

“He knew he’d blown it. It was one of the reasons he’d kept drinking.

Said he’d been a terrible husband. He blamed himself for your mom’s death.

Said if he hadn’t been a jerk, she wouldn’t have left, wouldn’t have been killed in the avalanche.

Hadn’t talked to you in years and said he missed you like the dickens, but said he didn’t do a good job. ”

“He didn’t do a good job? He did a horrendous job.

I moved out when I was sixteen because I couldn’t stand him.

Couldn’t take being called useless, dumb, weird eyes like a cat, sneaky, loose .

. .” I could hardly say the words, and I had no idea why I was sharing them with her.

Maybe it was Pearl’s kind eyes; maybe it was because she had known my dad but had a clear view of his vile personality.

I deliberately tamped down my rising temper. Why did I let the memory of him still yank my emotions around? Why did I let him have that control over me? “Were you friends with him then?”

“We were more than friends, sugar. After about a year of him being sober, we became a couple. He had a lot of edges that I had to smooth down with a sandblaster and a pickax. I let him have it a number of times, and sometimes I wouldn’t even speak to him and he wasn’t allowed to cross my doorway.

See, I think the alcohol stunted his emotional growth and maturity, and I had to play catch-up with him, beat him into human form and release the caveman within. ”

“How’d he do?”

“By the end he was a good man, Allie. He even adopted the animals, all of them strays or rescues, to keep him company, and he spoiled all of them. He trained as a carpenter and actually did good work. See all my shelving? He did that for me.”

I choked down a sob and put my hands to my face.

“I’m sorry, honey. I know that’s gotta hurt to the core.

He was good for me but not good for you and your momma, who deserved it.

I get it. Man, that chicken-crap man! It makes me burn to think about it.

You and your poor mother. That scarecrow creep.

I’m telling you, I told him to call you and he said he did, but you didn’t call back, and I said to him, ‘What did you expect?’ He knew—he knew, Allie—that he didn’t deserve you. He cried over it.”

“You must be joking.”

“Not at all. Bawled like a baby. Many times. He had your photos in his wallet, along with your momma’s, and I saw him staring at them time and time again.”

The tears welled out of my eyes. I was touched by what she said about my dad, but I was red-hot mad. He found love for us at the end of his life ?

“This painting—” I changed the subject. I’d had enough. I was going to explode. “I’d like to buy it.”

“Let me wrap it up for you, honey.”

“You’re a talented artist, Pearl.”

“Thank you.” She paused. “Perhaps . . . perhaps we could have lunch one day? You could come over here. I’ll kill one of the chickens and we’ll have avocado pesto chicken sandwiches and lemonade.”

I blinked, surprised. I had lived in the city a long time. I wasn’t used to such outward friendliness or having someone offer to twist a chicken’s neck for me. “Yes, yes, I would like that. Thank you.” Looking into her kind eyes, I realized that I would.

“We can talk about your dad if you want. Or we can leave the ole saddle-buster out of the whole thing.”

“I . . . I don’t know what I want. I don’t know if I want to hear about it . . . I think I do, maybe not . . .”

She put her hands on my shoulders. “Don’t make a decision now, sweetie. We’ll start as girlfriends.”

“Thank you.” I gave her my debit card to pay for the apple-tree painting with the amazing details.

“I refuse,” Pearl said. “It’s my gift to you, Allie. I know that your dad would want you to have it, too. I’m sorry about your daddy, sweetheart.” She gave me a hug. “He was sorry, too.” She gave me another hug. “You know there’s a barn dance coming up, right, sugar?”

I found a hammer and nails in the garage and I hung up Pearl’s painting over the fireplace. It added life, color, fantasy, and imagination.

I sat down on the couch with my mother’s red-and-white flowered quilt, took a peek at my dad holding open the bedroom door in his urn, and wrapped my arms tight around myself.

He had become a good man too late.

Way too late.

I read Jane Austen that night, lying under my yellow bedspread, then a crime thriller, and back to Jane.

My strawberry scented candle flickered on the nightstand.

I couldn’t sleep and ended up pacing through the orchard, Bob and Margaret running around me in circles.

I studied the constellations. I found no peace in them.