Page 11 of Good Days Bad Days
“Eh, screw you,” she says and then looks at me. “Not you, Greg, just Mark.” She winks, places her pencil back behind her ear, and walks away muttering. Mark watches her the whole way back to her spot behind the counter like he always does.
I reach for a spoon, fill it with soup, and take a sip of the now cold liquid.
Mark finally returns his attention to me.
“‘Destiny.’ What a weird thing to say.” He shakes his head.
“Well, you said ‘fate,’ so ...” I remind him.
“Eh, I got caught up in the whole thing.” He dismisses it and takes another bite of his dinner, grumbling when he realizes his second beer is already empty. “Hey, I’m sorry I forgot to tell you about her getting a job. I found out today.”
“No big deal,” I say, hoping he’ll add more information without me asking.
“She’s a beautiful woman, but I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you. No way she’s single, not with a car like that, you know?”
“Nah, of course not.” I shrug and take several spoonsful of soup in a row, Mark’s warning sinking in.
Mark goes back to talking about Nixon, and we finish our meal. He heads to his car, and I walk a few blocks to my apartment, intentionally avoiding where her car was parked half an hour ago, ashamed of my earlier burst of excitement.
Rushing home, I settle onto my creaking piano bench and lift the key lid, desperate for a break from my buzzing thoughts. And as my fingers move freely, the music releases tension in my joints and thoughts, bringing my mind to a comfortable blank.
Chapter 5
Charlie
Present Day
“Welcome home,” my dad says as I get out of the car in front of the oversized detached two-car garage. The driveway is unshoveled other than two long tire paths where my father just parked his car.
“I’ll get this side for you, hon. Give me a minute.” He reaches for a large gardening shovel and starts digging out a spot for me on the other side of the driveway.
“No. Let me do it.” I take the shovel out of his hands as he tries to protest but acquiesces quickly. My dad doesn’t have much fight in him, never really has. It’s something I appreciated as a child when I needed a soft side to curl into or someone to play games in the lake with me, but it also failed me a lot. The older I got, the more I wished he knew how to be both my friend and a protective father.
“Well, thank you, hon. I’ll head in, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, tugging my hood around my ears as my dad stomps through shin-deep snow to the front door. I finish one side of the drive quickly, pull my car in, and then move to the front path. It’s not easy with the gardening shovel, but there’s a nostalgia to it that brings back positive memories.
Clearing the driveway was always my chore when I lived here, and there are still odd cracks in the cement I swear I recognize even after thirty years. Something about the cold air in my lungs and the echoey solitude of the repetitive chore is satisfying. I only wish I’d worn snow boots rather than my heeled Coach boots because by the time I get to the front door, my socks are soaked and I don’t think the suede will ever be the same.
I carefully place the shovel on a pile of snow next to the house and make a note to find a real one before it snows again. The steps are pure ice. I can’t believe my eighty-one-year-old father made it up them without slipping. Salt. We will also need salt.
The storm door is opened a crack and the screen on the front has several holes from wear and tear. There should be glass there, but my parents stopped switching it out years before I left the house. Behind it is the door to my childhood home, green peeling paint with what looks like oak peeking out from underneath. In my line of work, people would pay good money for an artistically done version of this kind of decorative weathering, but this finish isn’t intentional.
I touch the paint. It flakes off, showing more wood underneath. Definitely oak. I crossed this threshold a million times in my childhood. When I’d leave to meet my friends at the beach, walk into town to see Dad, catch the bus, jump in my boyfriend’s car, or when I left forever. I reach for the doorknob instinctively but pull back like the metal gave me a shock. What am I doing? This isn’t my house anymore.
I knock.
I can hear my dad moving around inside. The door finally opens, and he stands in the two-foot gap, his coat off and his blue-and-gray flannel shirt neatly tucked over his slight belly bulge.
“Hey, you don’t have to knock. Come in. Come in.” He backs up so I can enter. When I go to push the door open further, it doesn’t move, so I turn my body sideways and slip into the house. My father reaches over my head to close the door behind me.
It’s nearly pitch dark inside, and I hold back a gasp.
We stand on a small piece of parquet flooring that used to act as the home’s entryway. To my right and left are literal walls of boxes, papers, and bags. There’s a strong, musty mildew smell that makes it difficult to breathe, and a wave of claustrophobia overwhelms me.
I reach for my phone and turn on the flashlight function.
My dad looks at the floor. “Things may have gotten a bit hard to manage the past few years.”
