Page 14 of Before We Say Goodbye
Though she’d planned on reconnecting with her brother, who was older by two years and had still lived at home when she’d left, it hadn’t happened. Her old life stood behind a door that she hadn’t been ready to open again, until now.
It was only an hour’s drive up Highway 101 to Santa Rosa. On a street littered with garbage, she pointed to a lime-green house with a rusted gutter and a worn-out truck in the driveway. The landscaping left much to be desired.
After a knock, an unkempt man in tattered khakis and a flannel shirt swung open the door. Marshall Bradshaw bore only the faintest resemblance to Rebecca, the shorter stature and the shallow cut of their cheeks. His gray hair was short and sparse and matched the color of the stubble of his beard. Worry lines creased his forehead, and crow’s-feet spread from his eyes.
When it registered that his daughter had come home, Marshall simply stared. Rebecca stared right back. He eventually moved his head, a short, all-knowing nod. The fact that he hadn’t pulled his daughter into a hug yet was heartbreaking.
“I see,” he finally said.
“I’m sorry.”
His face exhibited a sudden overwhelm of sadness, his cheeks and chin quivering. “Goddammit, Rebecca.” He pressed his lids together, and a pair of tears rolled down his cheeks.
She went to him, giving him a hug that he accepted readily.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said, wiping his wet face. “Where have you been?”
“Just ... just gone.” She eventually let go of him. “Where’s Jed?”
“He’s not good,” her dad said, looking as if he’d traveled a long road while embracing his daughter.
“I know.”
“You heard?”
“I was in San Francisco. Saw Hunter Sampson yesterday. He told me.”
Stepping back, her dad looked at her for a while. He was about forty, but looked like he barely had anything left, midlife with a foot in the grave. “He’s at physical therapy with your mom right now. He’s lost, Becca.”
“I’m here now. I’ll help.”
“There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing any of us can do.”
As Otis put his hand on her back to comfort her, she said, “Dad, meet Otis.” Otis was okay with leaving out specifics. The moment wasn’t right for fiancé introductions or wedding discussions.
Otis shook Marshall’s calloused hand.
Inside, the walls were bare and in need of a paint job. The tile floors had lost their shine. In the kitchen, a tower of dirty dishes rose from a stained sink. A line of empty beer bottles ran along the top of the chipped counter.
They spoke about more trivial things while her dad grabbed a ring of Budweiser with one of six missing. He took Rebecca and Otis out to the compact back patio bordered by a tall white privacy fence. It was over seventy out, a good warm day. Several crushed beer cans made up a small stack in the corner near a pile of wood. Up high, a few clouds slid by in an otherwise blue sky.
As they sat in wobbly white plastic chairs, Rebecca asked, “What happened?”
Marshall cracked his beer open and took a sip. “You mean since you ran off on us? We looked everywhere. We had the police out.”
“I left a note.”
“Not telling us where you were going. Then you wait a month to send a letter. Do you know what that was like? No, you don’t.” He offered them beers, but Otis and Rebecca declined.
“You pushed me, Dad. You don’t push me. You don’t ever push me.” This was the first Otis had heard of it.
“We were going through a lot. Your brother—”
“There’s no excuse.”
His head bent down. “I know.”
“Is that your way of saying you’re sorry?”
