Page 91 of Second Chance Vacation

“Dad, I—” I sigh, unsure of what to say or even why I’m here, but I knew it was the right move in order to find some clarity. “I—I’m sorry I haven’t been around more.”

He just nods in response. I internally plea for a peek inside his head, something I’ve begged for my entire life. Sitting there in comfortable silence, Dad continues to look down, appearing to count the bricks that build the patio.

Now that I think of it, those are new too. Where once laid weathered brick, bleached by the summer days in Georgia, are new, perfectly symmetrically placed terracotta-colored bricks.

“I like what you did with the patio,” I say, scratching the hair at the nape of my neck.

“Thanks, kid. I did it a couple summers ago. The old brick was starting to break down.”

With this, silence falls again, leaving me unsure of how to proceed.

“Hey—can we talk?”

As I speak, Dad jumps up, walking over to the grill to pull the patties from the heat. Setting a plate in front of me with a patty on a bun, Dad pushes the topping options, including my avocado, toward me on the table. Despite having prepared an array of options, Dad only puts a healthy dollop of mustard on his before stuffing it in his mouth.

My burger is mouth-watering, but the anxiety of talking to my dad keeps pushing through to the surface. After eating about half of it, I push it away from me as I look up at him, now done with his own.

“Can we talk?” I repeat myself, this time catching his ear.

“Yeah—uh, what do you want to talk about?”

“Mom.”

Dad pauses, a chip from his plate hovering in front of his mouth. He sets the chip down, giving me all of his attention. This isn’t a topic he has ever enjoyed discussing, so I can’t imagine it any different now.

“What about Mom?”

“Just—” I pause, unsure of what to say.

I guess the place to start is the beginning. The words start tumbling out as I tell Dad about France, my panic attack, my memories of the day, all of it. I tell him about Jackson and how I can’t seem to be honest about my feelings for him, despite knowing with certainty how I feel.

“—did you tell Mom you loved her?”

Dad scoffs, trying to keep his response to that question at bay. “Of course I did—every day.”

Biting my lip, I look up at him, my reservations evident in my tone.

“Why haven’t you ever told me that, then?”

His eyes pause on the pillar behind my head, a perplexed expression. He’s deep in thought. The wrinkles between his brows are more prominent with this facial expression.

“I tell you I love you…”

I struggle internally not to scream,no, Dad, you don’t!I resist the instinct to react.

“Not really…I mean, I can’t even think of a single time.”

Dad nods, not in agreement, but simply acknowledging that I am speaking. He sits there, silent again, but this time I see the words passing behind his eyes, even if I don’t know what.

“I’m sorry about that—” Clearing his throat, I watch the discomfort in his expression heighten, but surprisingly, he doesn’t push it back down. “When Nora—your mom died…it nearly killed me. I was completely beside myself. I didn’t want to get out of bed for months…but I had to because I had you. I didn’t have your mom anymore, so it was just me. You were so young when it happened, so I’m not sure you remember this point…”

Weirdly enough, I do. I remember that time frame with startling clarity, and it stings to think about how he was during that point in time. The way he describes it is an understatement. I realize that the majority of the time, people remember events differently, but his recollection of it stings. Dad didn’t look at me for months. He was barely around. My Aunt Sarah, Mom’s sister, was there every day, tending to me, making sure I was fed, making sure I was taken care of. Dad, however, was non-existent. His demeanor toward me changed, and it never really bounced back. Despite my disagreement with his recalling of events, I nod.

“…when your mom died…” Dad’s voice cracks as he says it again, “It became really hard to look at you. I know, that’s a cop-out response—” he pauses, scrubbing his hand through his hair, a nervous tick he’s had for as long as I can remember. “—But you look just like her. Your hair, that’s all your mom. It may be the same color as mine, but I’m sure you won’t be balding at my age.”

He laughs, pointing to the thinning patch on the crown of his head. I didn’t notice it before, but now I see yet another example of the incessant passage of time.

“Even as a kid, you looked like her, not just in features but also in facial expressions and mannerisms. When she was around, I loved it, but when we lost her…it was a reminder.”

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