Page 89 of Follow the Rhythm
All of this was stewing in my brain on the third day of our visit. Ellis and I hadn’t talked about when we would leave. It felt like we’d found some weird bubble outside the normal world, and neither of us wanted to face reality. I was sitting on the back deck in a rare moment of solitude, enjoying the warm afternoon sun and listening to Tame Impala on the speaker system, when my father dropped into the chair next to me.
“Avoiding me, huh?” he asked. I still wasn’t used to the slow cadence of his voice; I kept waiting for him to say more.
“Of course not,” I said automatically, pausing the music. He didn’t listen to anything released past 1989, and certainly nothing that featured that much synth.
“You can leave it on,” he said gruffly. “It’s not horrible.”
“It’s fine. I know you hate it,” I said with a small laugh. The sounds of nature suddenly seemed much louder in the music's absence. A bird called from the woods.
“I told your friend to give us a minute. I need to talk to you.”
I felt a familiar mixture of dread and annoyance. “Sure. What’s up?”
“First. The money.” He tightened his grip on the top of his cane. “Are you done being so damn stubborn?”
“I don’t need it. That’s your money, not mine.”
This was an old fight, and one reason we hadn’t spoken in months. My father seemed to think a trust fund payment was an acceptable substitute for a normal parent-child relationship. I didn’t understand why he was so adamant about me taking the money, and he didn’t understand why I didn’t want it.
His scowl deepened. “It’s not about ‘need.’ I want to take care of you.”
“I don’t want it either,” I said, my voice sharp. What I wanted was a dad who had been around longer than a couple of weeks at a time, or, when he was home, wanted to spend longer than five minutes with me.
I envied my half-sister, Diana. Even though Kristopher had always treated me as his son, there’d been a bond between the two of them I wanted with my father.
“Fine. You can have it when I die, then.”
“I won’t want it then, either.”
“Too fucking bad.” The familiar anger rose in his voice. But even as I braced myself for my father’s famous temper, he took a deep breath and relaxed his grip on his cane. “I’m not trying to fight with you, kiddo.”
“That would be a first,” I mumbled, then bit my lips together before another snide comment could sneak out.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t, just stared out over the view in front of us.
“Okay,” I said, unsure.
“I know I wasn’t a wonderful dad. Now that I’m old and broken and can’t do anything to fix it, I regret that. Among other things.” Emotion cracked his voice. “And I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said reflexively.
“No, it’s not. And I’m sorry for how I acted after… this.” He lifted his ruined left hand and stared at it like it wasn’t a part of him at all. “I hated being weak. I took it out on you.”
The conversation seemed to take a physical toll on him. His words were slower, the slur more pronounced. A slight tremor started in his hands.
“It’s really okay, Dad,” I said, trying to placate him.
“No, it’s not,” he growled, suddenly angry again. “It’s not ‘okay.’ I made all the wrong choices, took all of you for granted. I don’t want you to tell me it’s ‘okay.’”
I paused. “You’re right. That sucked.” He sucked in another deep breath.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I hope you can learn from me. I got lucky in having a second chance with your mother. Don’t fuck up your life like I did,” he said, struggling through the words. He met my eyes. For the first time I could remember, my dad looked like he was on the verge of tears.
“I won’t,” I said.
“Promise?”
