Page 35 of When We Were More
“Daddy, can we get a puppy? Please?”
CHAPTER 15
Tillie
The drive to my dad’s small house is only twenty-five minutes, but I never see him unless I make the effort. He’ll occasionally send me stupid memes—usually offensive—and I typically ignore them. That’s about all our relationship entails—except on Thanksgiving.
Gram always made Thanksgiving dinner, and our small found family—her, me, Lester, Ruthie, and Sally—would have a wonderful time sitting around the table. They would reminisce about their high school days, and I would listen attentively and laugh as they would describe their antics. To think that these four people met when they were still in school and remained close all these years stuns me. Ruthie, Lester, and Gram were in the same grade, and Sally was a few years behind. Since Ruthie and Sally’s parents weren’t around much, Ruthie often had Sally with her. That’s how they all became the best of friends.
I learned things about Gram on those Thanksgivings I never would have expected. Though I’m not sure why some of them surprised me. My grandmother was full of life, adventurous, and it seemed like nothing scared her. I wish I had more of her in me.
Thanksgiving was the only day my dad wanted anything to do with Gram, his mother. But it was always on his terms. I swear it was only because he wanted her to do all the cooking, which was the best. She made this butterscotch cake that was to die for. It was her favorite, and it seems it was my dad’s favorite, too. Thus, every year on Thanksgiving, Gram would cook. Ruthie and Sally always showed up when Gram had the food almost cooked, and they would take over for the last hour or so—setting the table, keeping everything warm—while Gram and I would go to my dad’s.
We were never there for more than twenty minutes—his choice. He always ate the butterscotch cake immediately, never complimenting Gram for it and barely squeezing out a “thank you” for the meal. After his cake was gone, he would typically say something about needing to take a nap, or a shower, or something else to get us out of the house. That’s what my relationship with my dad has been like for several years until the last couple of months.
Now though, his long-term girlfriend—if you could even call her that, since he barely treated her like a friend, let alone a romantic partner—finally got smart and left him. She used to run errands for him. Now if he needs something, he reaches out to me to help. There have been a few occasions he’s texted me to run to the store for him or do some other small tasks. He says he can’t do things like pick up a prescription. I’ve done those things, but he’s capable. He simply doesn’t want to. Those visits tend to last about five to ten minutes before he dismisses me. There’s always some dig at me to top off the visit. Why I keep going, I’m not sure.
Except today, in Gram’s honor, I cooked Thanksgiving dinner in my gorgeous new kitchen and made the butterscotch cake. Mine has never been as good as Gram’s, but I think I did okay. Ruthie and Sally are at my house, exactly like they usedto do for Gram, and they’re getting everything prepped for when I’m back in about an hour. Lester should be there by then, too.
As I pull into Dad’s dirt driveway, I notice the siding on his small house is coming off in a few places. I wonder if he’s aware, but I’m also not sure if I should mention it. I hate that something as simple as letting somebody know their siding is falling off creates this kind of nervousness in me, especially since it’s my parent. This anxiousness is how I’ve felt around my dad my whole life, and I’m guessing it’s not normal to feel like this around your parent.
I get out of the car and walk to his door, knocking a couple of times and waiting for him to come. When he opens the door, I’m immediately hit by the odor of cigarettes. My dad is a two-pack-a-day smoker. That’s the one thing I will not do—buy him cigarettes—and it pisses him off. I pat my pocket to make sure my inhaler is still in there.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s Thanksgiving. I cooked this year, and I think Gram would’ve wanted me to bring you food, like she always did.”
He steps back and waves me into the house, not saying anything else. I stand there awkwardly until he gestures to a seat. I have to clear a bunch of old papers off it before I can sit. When I hand him his food, he says nothing, he takes it and leaves the room to put it in the kitchen without even a thank you.
When he returns, he’s holding a plate with his butterscotch cake on it, at least. Funny—I gave him plenty, but he didn’t think to offer me a slice. Not that I would’ve taken it, but it would’ve been a thoughtful thing to do. He also has a glass of water, but again, offers me nothing.
Suddenly, guilt hits me. Intellectually, I understand I have no reason to feel guilty, but it’s hard to see someone living like this—alone, in a rundown house, so damn grumpy. Because of that,I do something stupid, even though the little voice in the back of my head warns me not to. His life seems gray and sad.
“You could come back to my house for dinner. We’re eating as soon as I get home. You could save your plate for later.”
“Why the fuck would I wanna do that? I’m sure you have all those friends of your grandmother’s there, like she always insisted on doing. Plus, I’ve got another offer for later.”
I take a deep breath—as deep as I can, anyway. My lungs are growing a little tight. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t even glance up when he says, “Yep, your mother invited me this year. Claire is in town, and she and your mom are cooking. If I go anywhere, I’d rather go there. I haven’t seen Claire that much—she only pops in town about once a month.”
I try—unsuccessfully—not to let this revelation hurt me. Not only did Mom and Claire not invite me, or even tell me Claire was in town, but once again, Dad’s choosing her over me. I need to change the subject.
“How’s the cake?” That’s neutral. We can’t argue over that, right?
My dad shrugs without looking up, still digging into his cake, which is almost gone. It was a large piece, too.
“I’d say a four out of ten. It’s a little on the dry side. I’d hate to be at your house for Thanksgiving if this is how you’re cooking compares to your mom or grandmother.”
I’m growing more anxious being here. Because it’s hard on me emotionally, and it’s also hard on my asthma. I only expose myself to this treatment for short periods.
When my dad lights up a cigarette, it’s time to leave. I’ve had enough severe asthma attacks as a child that he knows this isn’t good for me. Yet he smokes in front of me, anyway.
“Well, I’m gonna head home. I’ve got people waiting for me, and I need to finish the cooking.”
I walk toward the door, and when I get there, I turn my head back to him. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
I almost make it out the door, but not quite, when he decideshehasn’t had enough. I reach into my pocket again, needing the reassurance that the inhaler is still there. As soon as I’m in the car and down the road, a bit—out of sight—I’m going to use it.
