Page 26 of Missed Sunrise
Dad
lol
That’s decided, then.
The new hummingbird wind chime Bree and I picked out at the downtown street market sang its sweet song and bid me goodbye as I locked up. I engaged the security system with my phone and then turned toward the driveway, pausing as I realized there was no transportation for me to commandeer. Vinh and Bree were out gallivanting, as they should be, and had taken the RAV4. They’d asked if I’d needed it before they left even though they knew I was in the new habit of taking late afternoon naps to make up for my early rising.
Their care warmed my heart, then and now.
And since Vinh had forbidden me from purchasing a scooter and time was of the essence, I decided the only move was to make a quick stop at the downtown golf cart rental stand.
Forty-five dollars and less than five minutes later, I was on the paved golf cart path that conveniently led to my parents’ rental home.
It was an exceedingly uncomfortable thought to wish someone back into a wheelchair, but that was what I circled back to repeatedly for the duration of the drive. But if my dad—the quietly tender yet unsinkable Monny Lott—took one more tumble, I might have to make peace with that discomfort. That particular state of being wasn’t one I was too intimate with, but as I engaged the golf cart’s parking brake and then followed the sound of my dad’s hushed cursing from the backyard, I resolved to give it a shot.
Because seeing my dad wince in pain and then flush with embarrassment as I helped him out of his prosthetic, into his wheelchair, and back into the house?
That was nearly unbearable, but bear it, we did.
“You look so much like your brother right now,” Dad said tiredly.
I dramatically arched an eyebrow at my dad and frowned, then threw in a half shrug for good measure.
He chortled at my Vinh impression, which I knew was devastatingly perfect, and I broke character to smile at him and his first true sign of life since the incident.
Dad’s prosthetic leg was propped by the front door like an umbrella, and he was lounging on the couch where I’d bossed him into sitting—another time my wildly accurate Vinh impersonation came in handy—while I tended the scrapes on his hands, elbow, and knee. At least he’d fallen on his good leg and not the stump.
“Well, that makes how many now?” he inquired as he settled his large frame back into the cushions with a groan.
I leaned forward and propped my elbows on my thighs before interlacing my fingers and resting them under my chin. “You’ve taken six true tumbles. The rest have been a mix of topples, near topples, and lurches.”
He looked at me in surprise, but I carried on. “Those stats really aren’t so bad, especially after only seven months post-surgery.”
He wrinkled his nose, and his forehead folded in chorus. “Lurch. Don’t much like that word.”
I considered it for a moment, letting him change the subject and indulging him to boot. I silently pushed my tongue against my bottom teeth around theLsound, and then puckered my lips for the consonant. “No,” I agreed. “It’s not great.”
Glancing around the living room, I wasn’t sure if this house would ever supply that magical feeling ofcoming homethat our old house in Eufaula had. I rose and wandered, stopping when I reached the framed painting of that house—a housewarming gift from Aunt Ari in a wooden frame built by Uncle Gil. I closed my eyes and grasped for the memory of that sensation.
It was easy to summon the unique smell that was made of more than mere scent. It was the slight creek of the screen door that was the only barrier for entry—the main door was almost always left wide open, though it was nonetheless somehow still dinged with age—and the TV playing reruns ofGunsmokeand the whir of tower fans. It wasn’t a product of plug-in fragrance dispenser or candle but a combination of time’s passage, layered memories, and whatever experiment Dad was conducting in the kitchen.
While Dad had been in the hospital last summer, I’d unpacked and then hung, mounted, or situated most of our photos, trinkets, and heirlooms in this new house, hoping that coming home to familiar things would help his recovery. It’d also given me something to do besides pace the hospital hallways and fret over every new medical and emotional setback Dad experienced.
I’d meticulously catalogued all the things that needed organizing and saved setting up the larger, heavier pieces, likesome of Aunt Ari’s paintings and Uncle Gil’s metalwork, for when Vinh was in town and needed a break from the hospital too.
I’d really wanted to call Dezi then. At that point, it’d crossed my mind daily. Hourly.
But I hadn’t.
And as I didn’t believe anyone deserved to be lied to—and tried not to lie to myself especially—I knew exactly why I’d held back.
Dad had just lost his leg in an emergency amputation, Vinh was even more reticent than usual, and as I hadn’t found my footing in the Bay Springs community yet, I’d felt quite isolated and lost. I hadn’t wanted to meet Dezi in person for the first time under those stressful circumstances, when my family was teetering toward disaster.
Which was both hypocritical and cowardly.
Two things that I vowed never to be again.
Especially since it was all for naught, and I’d ended up seeing him under less-than-ideal circumstances, regardless. All of it had taught me that the universe wasn’t a liar. If I had followed my first and strongest instinct back then and called him, things might have been much different now.
