Page 59 of Ring Me

“I'm fine. You're the one in tears,” he reminded me. His voice was hard but his eyes were warm. “Come on, up. Let's go inside before you attract a bunch of coyotes who think there's an animal dying in my front yard.”

That made me laugh a little. I got to my feet, but was shocked by how my knees were less stable than jelly. With our bodies shoulder to shoulder, we supported each other up the porch and inside the house.

****

TO MY RELIEF, HE DIDN't pry into my breakdown. We both knew it was about more than the oak tree. Seeing something that had always been socertain,so consistent in my life, gone without any fanfare, left me grief-stricken. It hammered home how fragile time was.

Every moment I'd spent with Conner... it might as well not exist; destroyed like the tree being burned for firewood. At least the wood would keep someone warm. His memories only brought me icy regret.

Eager for something to do, I jumped into action when Pappy suggested he could use help organizing boxes upstairs. As tough as he tried to be, he wasn't supposed to climb steps, especially not alone. A fall would be disastrous.

There was a fine layer of dust on the boxes stacked haphazardly in the guest room. Had my aunt really been cleaning this house? It didn't look like it. But maybe she hadn't made it to this room yet. Maybe going through old boxes of memories was too much for her. It was giving me a whole gnarled ball of feelings, for sure.

Lifting a box that wasn't stable sent two more toppling to the floor. “Shit!” I scrambled to make sure nothing inside was broken. Flipping open the top of one of the boxes, I found a photo of my mother looking back at me. She was cradling a baby in her arms. I knew this picture because I had a copy of it framed on my bookshelf at home.

Sitting on the floor, I pulled out the picture. Underneath it was one of my mom showing off her swollen belly. Smiling helplessly, I shuffled photo after photo into a stack. It was a snapshot back into the past. Toddler aged me chasing a fluffy orange cat, infant me with my wobbly cheeks. Here, my aunt standing next to me in a scarecrow costume. My barely-crawling-self was wearing an over-sized pumpkin, the hat heavy with a curly green vine.

My face hurt from my constant smiling. I'd have to make copies of these pictures. The next one I flipped over was one I'd never seen. There was a big white and blue cake on a picnic table. I was sitting behind it, tasseled birthday hat strapped into place because I was only a year old, and probably kept trying to yank it off and chew it.

My mom was standing behind me.

So was a man with a thick mustache and rich brown eyes.

I didn't need to be told who it was. The picture was like every other quintessential birthday photo that family's took. I didn't know this man's face, I didn't have to. There was only one person it could be.

“Dad,” I whispered.

Cold fingers walked down my spine. Next came a rush of heat that tingled my scalp. What was I feeling? Anger, disgust, betrayal, regret... every emotion came together in a messy bang.

Mom had told me my dad left when she was pregnant. But here he was, at my first birthday party, beaming proudly for the camera. Why had she lied to me?

I tried to calm myself with a deep breath but I just sucked in stale dust, coughing painfully into my elbow. Papers went fluttering all over. Scowling at how sloppy I was being, I collected everything one by one until I had an organized pile.

Once again, I stared down at my father's face. I could ask Pappy about him. But was that a mistake? Opening that door might bring more pain. It had been easier to imagine my dad as never being around. It left a new scar to know he'd stood beside me as I blew out my first candle, and still, after meeting me, knowingme,he'd abandoned us.

For now, I'd settle for packing the boxes.

I bent down to return the pictures to where I'd found them. At the bottom of the box was a tiny binder. Iknewthat binder. It had been an ever present decoration on the kitchen counter while I hovered on a stool, watching my grandmother cook.

Amazed by my find, I pulled out the recipe book like it was a hidden treasure. In a way, it was. Wiping off more dust, I cradled it to my chest, jogging down the stairs. “Pappy?”

“Done already?” he asked, turning towards me from his seat on the twill green and yellow couch. “Or just looking to take a break?”

I held up the book in front of me wordlessly.

His eyes widened, the lines in his face smoothing, making him look younger. “Your grandmother's recipe book,” he marveled. “I knew it was packed away somewhere in this house.”

“I found it at the bottom of a box.” I almost said what else I'd found, then bit my tongue. Thumbing the pages, I browsed over the writing with my heart swelling in delight. “It's been years since I had one of her caramels.”

Pappy pushed himself from the couch with a grunt. Using his cane he hobbled towards me. I gave him the book; he ran his thumb over the paper, tracing the faded ink. The letters my grandmother... his wife... had written so cleanly. My handwriting was almost as nice as hers. It gave me some pride, knowing that. “How would you like to taste them again?” he asked softly.

“I'd love it.”

****

WE SAT ON THE PORCHin peaceful silence. My hands were sticky, though I'd washed them three times. The recipe had worked and Pappy and I congratulated ourselves on doing a decent job replicating my grandmother's caramels.

“Not perfect,” he'd said honestly.

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