Page 14 of Monk
One wall is made of red brick, and there’s a large, stainless steel stove with a matching backsplash and oversized hood. The same knickknacks my mother had filled the shelves with are all still in place. To my eye, it doesn’t look like they’ve moved an inch. It’s almost as if my dad is keeping the kitchen—probably the entire house—as a shrine to her.
“You ever think about updating this place?” I ask.
He looks up at me. “Why would I?”
I shrug, struggling to find the right way to say what I mean. “Maybe make it something more… your own?”
He chuckles softly to himself, but it fades away, leaving an expression that’s caught somewhere between wistful and mournful on his face. The brew finishes, and he puts the mug of coffee and a bowl of sweetener packets down in front of me, then walks to the refrigerator and grabs a bottle of creamer.
He still doesn’t answer me as he sets the creamer on the island, then brews himself a mug of coffee. When his mug is ready, he sits down across from me and quietly fixes his coffee. His silences are unbearable. Always have been. They used to scare me when I was younger, because it was like waiting for the volcano to blow. As I’ve gotten older, they have simply become annoying.
Clearly, just like the neighborhood and this kitchen, nothing around here ever really changes. He takes a drink of his coffee and gently sets the mug down, his expression darkening. He finally raises his eyes to me, a frown pulling the corners of his mouth downward.
“You don’t set foot in this house for what, five years now, and the first thing you ask is why I haven’t torn down your mother’s kitchen?” he finally grumbles.
“That’s not what I meant, Dad,” I say, working hard to keep the frustration out of my voice. “All I meant was… never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“Matters enough that you said something.”
I look down into my mug and I can feel my dad’s eyes on me. Suddenly, I remember why it’s been years since I’ve been here, and why I’ve only ever spoken to him a couple of times a year—the required times, like birthdays and Christmases.
“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” I say and get to my feet.
“Kasey…”
I look up and meet his eyes and I see the pain and grief within him. He looks down for a moment and I can tell he’s struggling with the words. My dad has never been somebody who expresses his emotions well, unless that emotion is anger. That’s not to say he’s ever been abusive or anything like that. He’s always been a good father. We are just two very different people.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve missed you, Kasey. I’ve missed you a lot. Please… sit down.”
I collapse back into the tall bar chair out of shock more than anything. In all my twenty-seven years, I’ve never once heard him say he’s sorry. Not to me. Nor has he ever said he misses me. Not in all the years I’ve stayed away from Blue Rock Bay.
He looks at me and his expression is pained. It’s like saying those things is taking a heavy toll on him or something.
“I keep the house and the kitchen how they always were because they remind me of your mom,” he suddenly blurts out. “It brings me comfort.”
A small frown creases my lips. “I just hate thinking of you living all alone in this… shrine. Alone with all these old ghosts…”
His green eyes light up. “You’re right, it is a shrine. But it’s a shrine to all the good memories I’ve had in this life. Your mom’s here. You’re here,” he says. “Everything that’s ever made me happy, and this life we all built together is here within these walls. Why would I ever want to get rid of all that?”
I sit back and look at him silently for a long moment. I guess it has never occurred to me to see it from that perspective before. I’ve really only ever seen it shot through the prism of my grief and all of the frustrations I’ve had in this house. I suppose it’s my failing that I’ve never stopped to really think about all of the good things, the happy times, and cherished memories that are stored here as well.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “But can I ask why?”
I feel a hitch in my chest and have to fight off the waves of emotions that are battering me inside. My dad reaches across the table and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. His smile is soft and warm and makes the dam inside me break. I wipe away the tears that spill from the corners of my eye and draw in a deep breath, taking a moment to gather myself.
“I left Spencer,” I tell him. “I just… I can’t do it anymore.”
He sits back, not saying anything for a long moment. I know my father’s views on marriage. He’s traditional. Conservative. He believes that marriage is a lifelong commitment, and not something that should be taken lightly… or given up on easily.
“What happened, honey?”
I take a drink of my coffee, staring deep into the dark brew, trying to put my thoughts into some semblance of order. Instinctively, I file away all mention of Spencer’s illicit business and the cartel itself. I also bury any thought of the bag of cash sitting in the back of my car. I’m still not ready to delve into those things just yet. And if I don’t know what to think about it yet, my dad sure as hell won’t either.
“I just… we grew apart, Dad. Our priorities are just so different now,” I explain. “He’s not the same man I met at Stanford. He’s… changed.”
“We all change, honey,” he says. “It’s just part of growing up.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not that. It’s not part of the maturing process. It’s… like I said, he’s not the same man I met at school.”
