Page 14 of Hula Girl

“Say what?”

“Qualify that it was a long time ago. He was your father. Youlostyour father. That loss isn’t made any easier by the fact that it was a long time ago.”

Her eyes tear up, which wasn’t what I’d intended. I meant to honor the place he would always have in her life, rather than let her think she needed to dismiss the subject altogether.

“Hey,” I say, leaning over the table, “tell me about him. What was he like?”

“Um, you don’t really want to—”

“I do. Tell me one thing, at least.”

She takes a moment to think about my request and then a beautiful smile transforms her face. I can’t help but mirror it in return.

“He was ahugebaseball fan. He made me into one, too.”

“Dodgers?”

“Of course,” she replies with a laugh. Her eyes go distant as she seems to replay memories in her mind. “When I was really little, he’d sit me on his lap and we’d watch games on TV. Or sometimes, we’d just listen to Vin Scully make the call on the radio. But the best times were when he’d take me to the stadium—up in the nosebleed seats.”

I nod. “But it wasn’t about the seats, was it?”

Her eyes come into focus as she looks at me again. “No, it wasn’t.”

“It was about the shared experience.”

“Exactly.” There’s a kind of relief in her voice now, as if me understanding this bond she had with her father gives her some kind of peace. “We always wanted the Dodgers to win, but even if they didn’t, watching the game together was really about having that time that was just ours. Sometimes we talked about other things like school or which boy was picking on me on the playground. And other times, we didn’t talk about anything other than baseball. But I always came away feeling better. Feeling more secure.” She takes a deep breath. “I haven’t been back to a game since he passed away. But I still love the sport. He left me that.”

“Sounds like a really good dad, if you ask me.”

She nods, and a wistful, sweet expression follows. “What about you?”

“Me? I love baseball. I played first base in high school. We were state champions, in fact.”

“That’s awesome. But I meant, do you have a good dad, too?”

I knew that was what she meant but had hoped to slip out of any talk of my father. I know I could find a way to avoid it, but for some reason, I opt to be brutally forthcoming.

“No, I grew up without a father,” I tell her. “He knew about me, but he wasn’t interested in being around. Him not being around was all I knew, so I didn’t dwell on it too much. But, honestly, that didn’t mean it wasn’t hard.”

That hangs in the air for a long second as I realize I’ve just said far too much. I want to change the subject, but she speaks before I have a chance.

“Well, I know one thing,” she says.

“What’s that?”

“You must have been raised by a strong woman.”

I laugh. “I was, for sure. My mother is the best person I know.”

“Mine is that for me. She’s my best friend. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” I don’t elaborate, but I get the sense that she understands that I truly mean this, especially when she tells me more.

“I was thirteen when my dad died,” she says. “It was sudden. We were pretty much financially fucked.”

I grimace, not at the profanity, but because of how much I identify with her financial straits. Everything always comes down to money.

“She was devastated by her grief,” she continues. “I was, too, of course, but she needed me. So, I stepped in to help. Sort of by sheer force of will, I figured out what needed to happen for us to survive. I suppose I’ve been ‘wound tight’ ever since.”

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