Page 31 of Take Me Home

Ash groaned around another bite of meatloaf before rummaging through his duffel bag for the pound of fresh coffee he’d brought from the café. His father was content with Folgers, but his mother appreciated the good stuff. When she reached for it, he held it up over her head and, with his other hand, pulled out the filter basket on the coffeemaker.

“I finished Maggie’s house,” he said, nodding over his shoulder at the model on the counter. A shameless diversion from the previous line of questioning, it had the added benefit of keeping her from waiting on him.

“Oh,” she gasped. “It’s beautiful. The kids are going to love it.”

Then, as if she’d summoned them, young, joyful laughter rang out from the front walk. Boots thudded up the porch steps. His mother lifted the flaps on the box, but they wouldn’t cover the top of the model, so she hoisted it off the counter, arms barely reaching all the way around, and motioned for him to intercept his sisters and nieces at the door. “I’m not done talking to you,” she said before she ducked backward into the laundry room.

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Ash tried. He really tried, for his mother’s sake, to leave things alone.

But after several rounds of flinging his nieces up in the air until his shoulders ached, and after Maggie and his mother took them for a bath because they were cold and muddy, and after his twin sisters left to meet up with friends, Ash found himself alone and unable to ignore everything that was wrong: the huge water spot on the hall ceiling, the weather stripping coming off the back door, the carpet peeling up from the floor outside the bathroom, which he nearly tripped over, and about twenty other ways the house was falling apart.

He chopped enough wood to start a fire, then went in search of tools. When he came in from the garage, his father was hunched over a walker, about to ease himself into a seat at the kitchen table. He stopped, turned the walker as though he meant to cross to Ash instead of sitting. “Hey, son. Where you been?”

“Dad. Hey. Wait,” Ash said, distracted by the tapered gray sweatpants his father was wearing in lieu of his usual khakis. His polo shirt was tucked in—an attempt, if Ash knew his dad, to not completely let his image go. Still, the sweats and the walkerthrew Ash. He set down the toolbox, heart pushing up into his throat. “Let me—”

Before he took a step, his dad plopped roughly into the padded chair. “Something wrong with that old car of yours?”

Swallowing, Ash glanced at the toolbox. “I noticed the front door isn’t latching right.”

“The cold makes it do that.”

“I know. I was just gonna…” His eyes fell once more to the walker. A cloth bag hung over the top bar. A pair of glasses stuck out at the top. “You finally get your eyes checked?”

“When you fall off a ladder, people think it’s because you can’t see or something.”

“Looks like people were right.” Deteriorating eyesight was a sign. Ash and his father both knew this. But all the questions Ash wanted to ask came saddled with too much baggage. Aside from the walker and sweats, his dad looked like his dad—clean-shaven, a recent haircut, good color in his cheeks.

“Come over here, wiseass. Leave my tools. Come give me a hug.”

Ash did, and when he half-assed it, his father pulled him in tightly, like he had something to prove. “You’re skinny. You eating?”

“Been running is all. And you’re one to talk.”

His father laughed and palmed Ash’s head, giving it a playful shake. Ash darted out of his reach and dropped into the nearest seat. The melon baller feeling was back, hollowing out his stomach, but his father’s old playfulness eased it some.

Down the hall, the bathroom door opened. Tiny feet pattered to the back of the house, high-pitched squeals followed by Maggie’s stern voice calling, “Walk.” Another pair of footsteps came toward them—his mother’s. That these sounds, these footfalls,these nearly intangible familiarities of home, hadn’t changed in his absence brought Ash another whisper of relief.

His father leaned across the table conspiratorially but didn’t lower his voice. “Your mother’s taking advantage of the situation.” He patted his hip. “She put all the good snacks up high. Got me on this diet against my will since I can’t take myself to a drive-through every once in a while.”

His mom emerged then, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, drying her hands with a towel. She dropped a kiss on top of his father’s head. “A girl could feel unappreciated hearing that kind of talk, you know.”

Ash’s father turned to catch her mouth in a kiss that went on a touch too long for Ash’s comfort. He cleared his throat.

“How was the drive?” his dad asked once they pulled apart.

“Not bad.” Ash rubbed his neck. “Actually, a friend was heading this way, so we came together.”

“What friend?” his mother asked, her voice rising with interest.

His chest filled with breath, like he planned to deliver an important proclamation or a monologue instead of merely the name,Hazel Elliot.Clenching back an involuntary smile, he peered out the kitchen window and caught the bright white glow of the neighbor’s Christmas lights, the bare eaves overhanging their own house. “You haven’t put up your lights yet.”

His mother did a poor job of pretending not to have noticed then offered a weak explanation. “I thought we’d go more minimal this year.”

Ash wasn’t sure if this new stance of hers was about not wanting to hurt his father’s pride, or if it had to do with being stretched thin herself. She still worked, still volunteered, still cooked and cleaned, still mothered her kids and delighted in being a grandmother, and even before his father fell, she wasinvolved in his appointments, the lifestyle measures that kept him well. It took time. Regardless of the reason, here she was, covering for him, claiming it was her own idea not to hang the lights when everyone at this table knew her personal philosophy regarding Christmas: the more, the merrier.

Cosette raced into the living room in underwear and a shirt with a pair of pajama pants on her head. She was laughing in her infectious, breathless way, running from Maggie, whose face was tight with frustration, though she fought for a patient smile. Ash liked his brother-in-law but noticed the dark circles under Maggie’s eyes, how quickly her playful tone turned to exasperated with her kids, and wondered what toll Nick’s frequent absences took on her.

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