Page 59 of Always Meant for You
I watch him. “Are you unable to drive?”
He reaches for his old Muldowney Farm cap and settles it on his head. “I can drive.”
It’s not a denial, but not an answer either.
“Then why do you need me?”
He raises both hands slightly. “They get stiff when the weather shifts.”
Guilt lands hard in my chest. There was a time when nothing slowed him down. He could lift a broken fencepost out of frozen ground with a shovel and sheer will. Seeing his strength thin at the edges feels disorienting.
“Okay, I’ll drive you. When do we leave?”
“Now.”
“Now?” I blink. “I haven’t even changed or washed off the smell of stale bus.”
He looks me over and sniffs. “You don’t smell that bad. Goats are worse.”
“I smell like livestock?”
“You can shower when we get back,” he says, brushing past me on his way to the door.
I think he might’ve smiled.
No, my dad doesn’t smile.
I loop my purse over my shoulder and take my hat from the hook. The keys sit in a ceramic bowl on the counter. I scoop them up, then head down the hall toward the front door, my heels clicking on the worn hardwoods.
The last time I walked this hallway, the housewives were gossiping about me.
Just like in the kitchen, everything here is the same but different.
In the living room, I take in the same sagging couch and nicked bookshelf. The picture is still there. The one of Mom with her arms around me as a baby and Jamie balanced on Dad’s knee beside us. I touch the frame and brush away a layer of dust.
I wish I remembered her. Most of what I know comes from stories from the old Young sisters about how she lit up every room, that she square-danced with my father back when Elverna wasn’t a sleepy farm town. I can’t picture that. I’ve never seen him dance.
The horn blares outside.
“I’m coming,” I say under my breath, adjusting my purse and tugging my hat into place.
I cross the gravel and climb into the truck.
I get in and turn to my father. “I had to grab my hat.”
He glances my way and grunts.
I start up the old, faded blue Chevy. The engine rumbles to life. I ease the gearshift into place, and the truck lurches forward.
“I haven’t driven stick in a while,” I mumble.
He doesn’t answer, but I feel the scrutiny.
I grind it into second, metal on metal, the old beast fighting me every inch.
“You should get this truck looked at,” I say, steadying the wheel.
My father folds his hands in his lap. “Cal changed the oil and gave her a tune-up last week.”
