The Escape Collection: (The Escape Collection) (46 page)

Dad didn’t look up as I got close. I pulled a chair over so I was sitting next to him, not in front of him. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, focused on a flowering shrub of some kind.
 

“Hi, Dad.”

“Vicki?” He glanced in my direction.

“No, Dad.”
 

It was hardest when he thought I was my mother. I turned so he could see me clearly. “It’s me, Becca.”

“Vicki, I'm so glad you're here. You look beautiful. You always look so beautiful.” He gripped my hand and looked into my eyes with so much adoration, I didn’t have the heart to correct him. I tried to loosen his grip on me, but I didn’t pull away.
 

We sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. “You're not Vicki, are you?” His voice cracked and I couldn’t look at him.
 

His hand slid out of mine and I said, “No, Dad. It's me, Becca.”
 

I stared straight ahead and it was a few moments before I realized his shoulders were shaking slightly. When I looked over I could see the silent tears streaming down his cheeks.

There was nothing I could say, so I let him cry until the tears dried on their own.
 

It didn’t take long. He sniffed and blew his nose into a handkerchief he pulled out of his pocket and said, “I’m sorry, Becca. You just look...you remind me so much... I’m sorry, I get confused.”

“I know you do. It’s okay.”

That was the moment when I should have done what I usually do and start talking about the girls, about our boring life, about anything at all to change the subject so he didn’t have to remember to feel bad. But I couldn’t. I was tired. I tried to think of something to say, but I had nothing. So I let the silence grow. He turned back to the garden and all I could do was take his hand again. We sat that way for a few minutes and after awhile I thought maybe he might have fallen asleep, so I slipped my hand from his to make my exit.
 

He tightened his grip, pulling me back down into the chair. “Where are you going?” he said.

“I’m—”

“Vicki, don't go.”
 

“Dad, it's me, Becca.”

“Please, you don't have to run away. Stay. I can make you happy.”

There didn't seem to be much point in correcting him again. The sadness in his eyes was second only to the deep pleading as he held my gaze.
 

“Vicki, stay.” His voice was thick with emotion and I had the odd sensation that I was an intruder in a private moment.
 

I peeled my hand away from his. The look of hurt deepened.
 

“I have to go,” I said. “I—“

“Please don't say that.” Tears pooled in his eyes.

My skin itched with discomfort.

“You always say that, but you don't have to go. Stay. Stay with me. Please.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.
 

And like ripping off a band aid, I left him sitting, alone with his memories.
 

***

When I went back in the house, Connie was still busy in the kitchen. I could hear Jon whistling as he changed lightbulbs in the bedroom and the girls were still nowhere to be seen. I didn’t think I could face anyone. The living room was the safest place to go.
 

It was a comfortable room, with overstuffed couches, pillows, and the plants Connie loved inside as well as out. On the two bookcases at the back of the room, Connie kept dozens of framed pictures. She said it was to help them remember the good times, but I think secretly she was trying to help Dad remember any time at all. It was hard for me to be mistaken for my dead mother, but for Connie, it must be excruciating.

I usually avoided looking at the photos, but with nothing else to occupy me, I was drawn to them. Moving to the shelves, I picked up a large picture in a jewel-encrusted frame. In it, my father wore a bright smile, and an equally bright purple tie that matched Connie’s flowing dress. Dylan stood next to him in a shirt of the same shade and I held Connie’s hand, dressed in a white eyelet dress with a wide purple sash. Connie had insisted their wedding day would be fun and full of color; no boring white dress for her. I couldn’t help but smile at the memory. I was only ten when they got married, but Connie made sure I felt included in her special day. For me, being a flower girl was as special as it got.
 

In contrast to the bright picture was my own wedding portrait in a heavy silver frame. We’d opted for the more traditional route. Jon wore a tuxedo, and I had a long white dress that camouflaged my expanding belly. I loved that particular picture because I had no idea it had been taken. In the shot, we were gazing into each other’s eyes as the photographer captured what was an intimate moment. I remembered it well. It had been an overwhelming day, with people demanding things from me wherever I turned. Jon rescued me by grabbing my hand and sneaking me into a quiet corner of the botanical gardens that were the backdrop for our photos.
 

“It’s such a crazy day,” I’d said blinking back tears of exhaustion.

“It’s only going to get crazier.”
 

“It is, isn’t it?”

Jon laughed and kissed me.

When I pulled away, I smiled at him, more relaxed, “I still can’t believe we’re doing this.”

Jon took my face in his hands and stared into my eyes; the laughter was gone from his voice as he said, “I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

We didn’t know we were being watched; the photographer had snapped the picture using his zoom lens. It was one of my most cherished memories from that day.

I ran my finger down the side of the frame, remembering. It seemed like a lifetime ago. But then again, it was. We’d been married almost fourteen years. Most of my adult life. I put the frame back on the shelf, this time placing it at the front.

Jon’s whistling came closer and I turned toward the hallway as he walked past. He stopped and gave me a quick smile. Even though things had been tense with us, he was still on my side. He knew seeing my father wasn’t easy.
 

When he left, I returned my attention to the bookshelf. There were quite a few pictures of Dad and Connie together over the years, most of them taken on their many travels together. A few more family shots from when we were kids, taken before Dylan had graduated and moved away. He rarely came to visit, but we lived vicariously through the postcards that he sent on his journeys as a travel writer.
 

There were various shots of Dad posed with Jordan and Kayla. It was easy to see what a doting grandfather he was, at least before he’d started forgetting so much. One special photo of Jordan sitting next to him in his garden was taken the summer before. For reasons I couldn’t explain, Jordan enjoyed sitting with him, and even though he often had no idea who she was, he seemed to tolerate her presence and would tell her stories from when he was a child. It was magical that he could still recall events from long ago, but not what he’d had for breakfast. And that my angst-filled teenager loved it.

A picture pushed towards the back caught my eye and I picked it up to get a closer look. It was a posed portrait that was meant to be a three generation shot. It was taken when Kayla was still a baby.
 

I’d never liked it.
 

“Are you feeling okay, Becca?” Dad had asked as we were getting into position. He’d taken the baby from my arms. “You seem tired. Are you getting enough sleep?”

“She's fine, Rick. Just the usual new mom tiredness,” Connie had chastised him. “Leave her be.”
 

I’d grabbed Kayla from him again. “Stop it, Dad.”

“Stop what? I’m just concerned is all.”

Tears had sprung to my eyes the way they always did after Kayla was born. “Stop judging me. Stop looking at me that way. You’re always watching me.” I couldn’t look at him, so I’d turned my attention to the baby’s dress, which was bulging awkwardly over her diaper, and blinked hard against the burn in my eyes.

“Becca,” Jon had said. His voice was calm. “Honey, nobody is judging you.” He’d helped straighten Kayla’s dress and positioned Jordan next to me.

“I think she smells,” Jordan had said and wrinkled her nose.

“Can we just take the picture please?”
 

Connie did take the picture then. Kayla squirmed at the last minute, causing her dress to hitch up again; Jordan was looking down at her shoes; my eyes were red-rimmed with black smudges under them; and instead of looking at the camera, Dad was watching me with a strange, unreadable expression on his face.

I put the picture down and pushed it where it belonged—at the back.
 

There was a snapshot with me and my father taken at my high school graduation. In this one, Dad’s eyes held the adoration and pride I’d always remembered and this picture was the perfect reminder of how things used to be. I put it right up front.
 

“Becca?” Connie interrupted my memories. “It’s time for dinner.” She crossed the room to me and rubbed my arms. “Are you okay? I know it’s not easy sometimes with your dad.”

“No.” I shook my head. “No, it’s not. But it’s nice to look at these pictures and remember.” I tried to smile. “Connie, I don’t know how you do it.”
 

“You have to remember, it’s not like that for me. I see him every day. I guess it’s one of those situations where the monotony of daily life can pay off.” She laughed and I felt better. I had no reason to dwell on the past and what couldn’t be changed, especially if Connie could find the light side. “You know what?” Connie said. “I have a box of old pictures and some of your dad’s papers and things from years ago. I think you should have them.”

“Thank you,” I said, and meant it. It might help to remember Dad the way he was, instead of what he was becoming. “That would be nice.”
 

“Good,” Connie said. “I’ll have Jon take it out to the car. Now, come on.” She put her arm around me. “Let’s go celebrate your birthday.”

Chapter 6

Dinner wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, which was probably a bad way to look at your birthday dinner, but with Dad the way he was, Jordan itching to leave, things rough between Jon and I, and well, Kayla being Kayla, it wasn’t a stretch to think things might not go well. Everyone must have been on their best behavior for my birthday, because Kayla hadn’t blown a fit all day and Jordan even presented me with a card. I know Jon bought it for her to sign, but still, she managed to hand it to me without any attitude. That was gift enough for me.

Connie and Dad gave me a gift certificate for my favorite bookstore, which couldn’t be more perfect because I knew I was going to need a new book soon. Maybe something to improve things with Jon. I’d never checked out the sexual relationships section before. Somebody, somewhere, must have written a book that could help me figure things out. I let my mind drift to the store with its rows and rows of bound pages, ready to offer me advice.

 
I wasn’t paying attention, but I shouldn’t have been surprised when Connie came out of the kitchen carrying a beautiful cake. It was Connie. She wouldn’t let a birthday go by without a homemade cake. It looked delicious, but by the time she’d lit the candles, the birthday magic had worn off. Dad had returned to the deck and his garden, and the girls were more interested in the icing than singing. They sang a half-hearted rendition of “Happy Birthday” and I was ready to go. So was Jordan.

“Mother, if we don’t leave soon, I’ll be late,” she said as Connie started to cut slices.

“Jordan,” Jon said, “I think we have time to enjoy your mother’s birthday cake.”

“Dad, we don’t. I’m going to miss the previews.”

“I want cake,” Kayla whined and grabbed the plate Connie handed her.

“Eat,” Connie and I said at the same time.
 

“Mother, it’s not fair.” Jordan pushed away from the table and ran out of the dining room.
 

“That’s great,” I said to Jon. “We should just go.”
 

We did go. Mostly because I was tired. Tired of listening to Jordan’s whining, tired of pretending I was happy about turning thirty-five, and well, just tired.
 

Kayla left without a fight, mostly because Connie gave her another piece of cake to take home with her and I had to promise she could take it to school for a snack. I was pretty sure I’d get a note home from the teacher about healthy snacks and the importance of including all the food groups every day, but I didn’t care.
 

We dropped Jordan off at the movie theater on the way home. I knew her friend, Liz, well. They’d been friends since kindergarten. I didn’t see her waiting outside, but Jordan assured me Liz would be waiting inside, saving seats for them since she was so late. I gave her final instructions to meet me out front after the movie and she was gone, sprinting from the car and into the theater.

“Do you think she’s too young?” I asked Jon.

“For a movie? We’ve let her go before,” he said and turned the car out of the parking lot and towards home.

“I know, it’s just…” I couldn’t explain it. Maybe I was being silly but she seemed to be growing up too fast. I was probably just feeling old since it was my birthday. “I don’t know, it’s nothing I guess.”

Jon gave me a sidelong look. He was always trying to tell me that Jordan needed more freedom and if I smothered her she’d only rebel. I didn’t think I smothered her, I was just trying my best to be a good mother, something Jordan reminded me every day that I was failing at miserably.
 

I glanced behind me. Kayla had fallen asleep, cuddled up to her stuffed dog, Pup-Pup, who managed to come everywhere with us. She looked so sweet when she was sleeping. Like an angel. An angel that was reenergizing her powers, ready to attack when she was rested.
 

It was an awful way to think, but even when she was in peaceful slumber, I was on guard for her next tantrum. Spirited Children, the book our doctor recommended to me, suggested taking a picture of your child when they were at peace so you could look at it during moments when things were getting out of control. I tried it a few times, but I think the only thing it did was desensitize me, so it didn’t matter. When I looked at Kayla, all I could see was the cherubic face that could easily twist into a demonic mask with the least little prompting. I’m sure just thinking that way put me on some kind of bad mother list, but I couldn’t help it.