Page 20 of Kiss the Girl
I let go of his hands to throw my arms around him in a hug. “Oh, Dad. I’m so happy to hear that.” I held him tight and listened to the steady thump of his heart even though the counter was digging into the bottom of my ribcage.
He patted my back and let me go. “You know what that means, don’t you, honey?”
“That you don’t have to do any more chemo?”
“Yes, actually. We’re skipping my last infusion. But it also means you get your life back. I can take over the store soon.”
“I wasn’t even thinking about that. I’m just so glad you’re getting better.” I had refused to consider what it might mean if he didn’t, mainly because the weight of those what-ifs would have crushed me.
“I think about it all the time, though. I’m still not a hundred percent back, but I feel better each day. It won’t be too long until I’m in here running things. But until then, I figured I ought to at least go over the holiday ordering with you so it’s ready.”
“Sure, Dad.” We usually did this at home, and I’d log in from my laptop to do all the ordering at his direction, but he looked giddy as a pup in a park full of hydrants to be back in the store, so I didn’t object. Instead, I followed him up and down the aisles and made notes as he told me what to stock up on for Christmas.
“The decorating season starts early,” he said. “You’ll want to have Gary put up the artificial trees the day after Labor Day. He’ll know where to find them in the storeroom. You only need to order two of each to sell. People around here mostly like to go out and cut their own. And order a bunch of big yard stuff. Inflatables. Big plastic light up displays. But only one of each because people get mad at me if someone else buys the same thing. And don’t choose anything you see offered on the websites for the big box stores. Our customers will pay more to have something unique.”
I watched him for signs that he was tiring, but if anything, he seemed energized as his mind raced to catalog everything we’d need for the holiday. He wasn’t cruising the aisles as fast as he used to, but he kept up a steady pace to match his instructions. “Where you want to stock up is lights,” he said, walking down the seed aisles. “This’ll be the best place to put them. We’ll go over which brands and kinds of bulbs to buy.”
“Am I doing our house too?” My dad had always gone to Clark Griswold lengths when decorating for Christmas. He said we had to be an advertisement for the Christmas goodies in the store, but he not-so-secretly loved the holiday, hauling down our decorations well before Thanksgiving. Last year he’d been too sick to care, and I’d only had time and energy to put up a single strand of colored lights around the first-floor eaves.
“I’ll do it,” he said, stopping at a shelf displaying weedkiller. “Might have to start earlier this year so I can pace myself. You worry about the store.”
“Sounds good, Dad.” I didn’t comment on how tightly he gripped the shelf for support, or how he went off on a tangent about snow shovels to give himself more time to recover.
The front bell chimed again, and I was glad for the excuse to give him time alone where he didn’t have to act healthier than he felt. “I’d better go take care of that, see if they need something.”
A few minutes later, my dad came up to the register, no longer sagging. “I better head home and let you get back to running things, honey.” He was quiet for a second, seeming to be looking for words. “I sure appreciate you. I know you gave up a lot to come do this.”
A lump formed in my throat. “You gave up plenty over the years so we could get our schooling in. It’s the least I can do.” That was the argument Tabitha had made to convince me to come out here, but while I had resented her for it then, I meant every word of it to my dad now.
“Still, it’s time you start thinking about real life again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Start looking for a job building rockets.”
I smiled. “It was satellites.”
“Satellites, then.”
“There’s no rush.”
He gripped the edge of the counter and leaned forward, like he wanted me to understand how serious he was. “You didn’t see Dr. Pearson’s face, honey. I’ve got this beat. I know I do. I’m starting to think about getting back to normal life. And for you, that’s out there.” He waved in the direction of the door.
“Main Street?” I said, teasing him.
“Charleston. Seattle. The moon. Whatever you want, Gracie.”
“We’ll see.”
“No, start now. It’s almost September. My scan is November. If it’s clean, and I keep feeling better, there’ll be no reason for you to stay. It takes time to get a job like this, doesn’t it? Applications, interviews, security checks. All of that. So hop to it.”
“Okay, Dad.” I wouldn’t be posting a profile on any of the job sites until I was sure we were looking at remission, but I’d at least start looking to see what jobs were out there.
He cleared his throat. “Don’t stay too late. It’s Friday. That means—”
“Meatloaf, I know.” I would never understand his obsession with my mom’s meatloaf.
“See you at home.”
