Authors: Catherine Madera
Instead of peaceful calm, Taylor’s mind raced under closed eyelids. Jumbling thoughts jockeyed for position. Besides seeing her dad again and dealing with the sadness of Anthony’s funeral commencing the following day
, there was the past that lurked in shadowy corners of the city known for sunshine. Just knowing she’d once again be in the same locale as Ian was somehow distressing. He’d married and moved on. Probably had a kid by now. After a few moments, Taylor opened her eyes, eager to focus on something else. Twinkly brown eyes gazed back at her.
“No sleep?”
She shook her head at grandpa.
The man had an open wallet on his lap, its leather surface as worn and creased as his olive skin.
“I am Salvadore. I do not like this flying.”
He gestured toward the front of the plane, the thick gold links of a man’s bracelet collapsing onto his forearm, then fingered the wallet.
“I look at my familia; it helps.”
Salvadore
began flipping through photos encased in plastic sleeves stuck deep within the interior of the wallet. He stopped at one and handed it to Taylor for her inspection.
A black-haired, olive-skinned girl of about eight smiled back at her. She had warm brown eyes and gaps in her teeth.
“Bella.”
Just saying the child’s name made him emotional. Taylor looked up and saw tears glistening in the old man’s eyes as he put his hand to his heart.
“She is my sweetness. Just like her grandmother, God rest her soul.”
Taylor watched
Salvadore make the Catholic sign of the cross.
They spent the next hour talking about family—mostly
Salvadore’s. Taylor told him only the most basic details of her own life. She left out the upcoming funeral and most everything else about her parents. Instead she listened with genuine interest to his stories of the wife he’d cherished for fifty-seven years—recently deceased, large holiday feasts,
baby baptisms, and the weddings of children, grandchildren, and cousins.
Taylor felt as if she were peering inside a Norman Rockwell painting
of the type of life for which she had no frame of reference. The stories were vividly told with great emotion. Salvadore alternated between belly jiggling mirth and wiping at tears that came without effort as he relived precious memories. Taylor wished she could crawl inside the pictures he painted.
All too soon
Salvadore’s tales of family life ended. He seemed to grow tired and closed his eyes in the last few minutes before landing. Taylor, too, fell silent and watched the aircraft gradually decrease altitude and land before taxing toward San Diego Airport. Even from behind the plane’s thick window panes she could see the change in air quality—clear and dry—and, Taylor remembered, free of annoying wet weather insects.
Palm tree fronds swayed slowly in what she knew was a warm fall breeze. It was a stark contrast to her view just a few hours before: The snow-covered Twin Sisters, their imposing granite sides a vision of icy stoicism that softened only at dusk when they melted briefly into pastels before disappearing altogether into blackness.
Grabbing a duffle bag stuffed with two changes of clothing, Taylor said farewell to
Salvadore and made her way out of the plane and into the terminal. She immediately spied her father leaning against the wall. A desperate feeling surfaced as she watched him walk over to greet her, a thin smile on his tired face.
Their interaction remained what it had always been, a stiff sort of dance where he moved carefully and waited politely for her response. Measured. Today was no different.
“Hello, Daughter.” He slipped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed.
It seemed to Taylor the squeeze was tighter and lasted longer, but
she respected the distance she always felt in his presence and only rested
her cheek on his shoulder for a moment.
“Hello, Father.”
“I’m so glad you came.”
“I’m glad to be here. I’m sorry I didn’t … ”
“No, no. No sorrys,” her father shook his head. “How could you
have known? Anthon
y
wa
s
in the hospital a lot. None of us expected
him to … ” His voice trailed off as if he could not bear to say the words.
“Let’s get out of here, huh? Bet you could use an In-N-Out Burger.”
Taylor followed him to the car in silence. They made small talk—mostly about Seattle geography and real estate—and ate In-N-Out Burgers and strawberry milkshakes. Her father soon fell silent, retreating to some internal sanctuary where, Taylor imagined, children did not die and relationships were simple. The food a soothing weight in her stomach, she felt content to watch traffic snake by them in the lazy waning daylight. Apathetic fog rolled in from the coast, shrouding and softening the edges of the city.
By the time they pulled up to the neat two-story stucco home with the Pepper Tree out front and a sea of Mister Lincoln rose bushes in back, Taylor was yawning. Though only five o’clock, the November light felt as fragile as the atmosphere in the car. It made her tired.
“Good to have you, Taylor.” Her father’s partner, Tom, pulled her into a hug as soon as she walked through the door.
“Glad to be here.” Surprised, Taylor patted his back as if he were a child. Tom did no
t
hu
g
her.
Her father had met Tom when he worked as a nurse. The director of hospital house keeping, Tom was the polar opposite of the quiet reserve and dignity that characterized her father. Gregarious and outgoing, Tom had probably never “come out of the closet.” For anything. Taylor couldn’t imagine him hiding in a closet literall
y
o
r
figuratively.
Still, for all his boldness Tom had given Taylor a wide berth from the beginning. Perhaps it was because he had never fathered children.
Whatever it was, she seemed to represent something sacred and untouchable. At first Taylor had been hurt and confused by Tom’s apparent
lack of interest in her. This mellowed to acceptance, even relief, when she realized he would never attempt to parent her. They were polite with each other, not warm.
“I’m going to bed.” Her father barely acknowledged Tom. Instead he gave Taylor the
whisper of a kiss to the cheek and ducked into the hallway. “I’m exhausted.
Talk more later, Honey?”
“Sure, Dad.”
His “later” equaled her intention to call back “soon.” Good intentions seemed the extent of what they were able to offer each other.
Before she could make her way to a bedroom, Tom made eye contact and gestured toward the kitchen. “Can we talk for a minute?”
Taylor nodded. She set her duffel bag down and sat at the small breakfast table. Across from her a crude painting of a single red rose
made on computer paper adorned the front of the stainless steel refrigerator.
The letter “A”, drawn in sweeping lines, served as an artist signature. Affixed by four stout magnets at the corners, the picture was the only decoration in the kitchen save a purple African violet above the sink.
“Neal’s pretty bad off, Taylor.” Tom ran trim fingers through a salt and pepper Caesar cut. “He’s lost to some desperate place where nobody can reach him. Not even me. I loved Anthony, too, but we have to go on somehow. We always knew it would end like this … ”
Tom looked down at the table, rubbed his eyes, then rose and walked to the sink. He poured a glass of water and offered it to her. When she shook her head, he poured it down the drain and replaced the glass in the cupboard.
“I’m sorry; you’re probably tired from the trip. Get some sleep. But look for an opportunity to speak to your Dad after the funeral tomorrow. I’m afraid for him, Taylor. He needs you.”
She didn’t know what to say and simply nodded and squeezed Tom’s arm.
~ ~~
There was nothing so tragic to behold as a small coffin. Taylor walked slowly toward it, willing herself to be strong and say a proper
goodbye. An organ whined a tired tune in the stuffy air as if it was trying
too hard. Taylor wished her father had chosen the piano to escort the spirit of her adopted brother into heaven. Pianos would be in heaven, no doubt about that. Along with plenty of macaroni and cheese. As she looked into the casket, Taylor remembered something Anthony had said shortly before she left for Washington.
“God will make macaroni and cheese for me.”
He’d been blissfully partaking of his favorite meal, a special treat during a spell of “doing better.” The thought blossomed out of nowhere during a contemplative moment between cheesy fork-fs.
“Oh yeah?”
She’d only been partially listening, lost in her own world and the dramas that existed there. Anthony had the worst sort of drama, yet appeared immune to its daily horrors. Instead he pictured God in a chef’s apron and imagined the perks of heaven from a place no ten-year-old should be allowed to visit—the waiting room of the dying.
“Yeah, God’s like that. He knows all our favorite things.”
Taylor had feared the moment of seeing him dead, but it didn’t scare her in the ways she had imagined. The frail shell that lay in the coffin dressed for a baseball game—complete with oak bat beside him—looked like something made of wax. It only vaguely resembled the boy that had told her on the occasion of their first meeting, “You’re pretty for a girl.” That boy smiled back from a framed photo that sat near a church podium and a large carved glass vase stuffed with red roses.
Roses—red ones no less—might have struck some as an unusual floral choice for a funeral. They didn’t know her father. “Gladiolas are hideous,” he always said. It was one of a handful of strong opinions he readily shared. The red roses weren’t Mister Lincoln’s, but they’d have to do. Like his precious son, the presidential blossoms in the backyard had withered and died.
Chapter 19
A
fter the funeral, the three-some returned home to a dinner of carnitas,
her father’s favorite.
Taylor sat in the kitchen watching Tom work while her father retired
to a spot on the back deck. As she sipped Corona, Taylor watched Tom’s neat fingers prepare pork, chop a pile of cilantro, onion, and tomato for fresh pico de gallo, and assemble shredded cabbage for a bowl of coleslaw.
“I don’t remember you cooking this when I was here.”
“That’s because I didn’t. Carnitas are your Dad’s specialty,” a tired smile lifted the corners of Tom’s mouth. “I’ve been doing more since Anthony passed. Your dad needs support.”
“He needs you.
”
Taylor thought of Tom’s words from the previous evening.She rose from her chair. “Think I’ll go outside and keep Dad company while you finish.”
The French doors leading to the deck stood ajar. Twilight shadows bathed the backyard in shades of purple and deep cobalt. Her father sat with his back to her, elbows on his knees and head bowed. At the funeral he had spoken for a few minutes about the four short years of life celebrated with a special needs boy. Afterward he wept discreetly and avoided talking to the few friends who had come for the ceremony.
Taylor padded outside on bare feet. She pulled a chair close to her father and sat down. For a long time nobody spoke.
“What will I do without him?”
It felt weird to hear such a vulnerable question from a parent. Taylor
cleared her throat. “You still have me, Dad. You still have a daughter.”
She didn’t expect the swell of emotion that bubbled up. Her voice wavered on the words and she looked away, pretending to search for a suitable spot for her beer. When she sat back she felt her father’s eyes on her. He clasped his hands together, lacing the fingers into a fist.
“I have failed you. I know that.”
He lay his head back on the chaise lounge, sighed, and looked into the inky heavens. Stars winked like crystals scattered across heavy velvet.
“She was destroyed, utterly humiliated, when I asked for the divorce.
You were only a baby ... ”
Taylor made no sound or movement. She wanted nothing to derail the train of thought gaining momentum in the space beside her.
“The only thing she ever wanted was a family. I stole that. Since I couldn’t love her it seemed that the kindest thing I could do was leave her alone. I wrecked her life, but at least she had you. You were alway
s
her
s
, you see.”
It was strange how some things that sound like love don’t feel like love. And visa versa.
Her father continued speaking in a distant voice, the voice of one
seeing something afar off that had never been clear until just that moment
when his soul was raw and exposed.
“I guess I succeeded in not loving you, either.” He touched her knee and Taylor heard the tears in his voice. “Only I do. Can you forgive me? Can you love me, too?”