Looking for Cassandra Jane (The Second Chances Novels) (41 page)

I looked at my watch. It was just before noon. “Maybe by early evening,” I said. “Would you like that?”

His smile was weak, but I could see a faint light glowing in his eyes. “Yes, if it’s not too much trouble. I’d like that.”

I reached over and gently squeezed his hand. “No, it’ll be just fine. You take care now, Daddy.”

On our way back to Brookdale, Joey and I talked about our parents and Joey mentioned how he’d been growing more concerned about his mother’s bad health lately, and how he wanted to spend some time with her this summer, to make sure she was getting all the proper medical attention.

“My dad seems almost oblivious to the whole thing,” he continued. “It’s like if he pretends it’s not there, it’ll just go away. Kind of like when I was a kid—with the polio, you know.”

“Maybe that’s just his way of protecting himself, Joey. Maybe it’s like a shield so he doesn’t get too close, so he doesn’t get hurt.”

Joey nodded. “Yeah, despite his tough-guy exterior, I’m pretty sure there’s a soft heart underneath it all.”

“And you know how his generation is—big boys don’t cry and all that macho stuff.”

“Yeah. But it’d do him some good to cry. I looked at your dad lying there in the hospital bed and I got worried that my dad might be next. He still smokes like a chimney and my mom says his blood pressure is sky-high.”

“Isn’t it strange how our parents are getting old?”

“Yeah, and it’s kind of ironic too.”

“What do you mean?” I asked sleepily as I leaned back into the seat, fighting to keep my eyes open after our long sleepless night.

“Well, here we are both concerned about our parents right now, we’re trying to help them and—”

I sat up straight. “And you wonder where were they when we needed them?”

He laughed. “Well, sort of.”

“Yeah, part of me is still struggling with this whole thing, Joey. I mean, I truly believe I’ve forgiven my daddy. Really, I can feel a change in my heart. But I guess I’m wondering why I need to do more. I mean, should I really get involved in his life again? Part of me wants to know why can’t I just say
adios
and wish him well, and then move on. What would be wrong with that?”

“Hanging around might be more for your benefit than his, Cass.”

I nodded, closing my eyes again. As usual, I figured Joey was probably right.

Thirty-one

I
quickly packed a few things
as I phoned Ashley Romero (my best high-school art student) and invited her to oversee my “Art in the Park” project for the rest of the week. Ashley agreed and even refused to let me pay her, saying she wouldn’t be doing anything anyway since she hadn’t gotten a job for the summer yet and didn’t know if she even would.

Ashley reminded me a lot of myself back when I was her age, not her home life so much because she had two parents (albeit two fairly absent parents) but more because she was sort of an outsider with her peers. But she was an artsy girl, with her own ideas about things, and someone I would also describe as a survivor. I smiled as I hung up the phone, thinking I wouldn’t mind having a daughter like that someday.

As I drove back to Radner, late that afternoon, I wondered what in the world I’d gotten myself into. Playing the devoted daughter to a man I hardly knew felt like such a foreign and even phony role to me. And yet how could I not?

I felt uneasy at the idea of staying in my father’s apartment by myself and almost opted to get a motel instead. But he seemed so hopeful that I’d take him up on his hospitality that I took his key and then drove by the little complex where he lived (not far from where he’d been working at the Volvo dealership downtown).

Although nothing fancy, I found the exterior of the apartment building in fairly good repair and decided it might be worth a look even if I decided not to stay. When I opened the door to his apartment, I felt mildly surprised. I’m not entirely sure what I’d expected to find—probably something reminiscent of the shabby dives we used to inhabit during my childhood—but this little place was nothing like that. The rooms were neat and clean and orderly, yet almost painfully frugal, without the least sign of extravagance.

Now, this seemed highly curious to me, especially because I remembered how my daddy had always had this habit of spending his earnings wastefully on things like fancy clothes or expensive gimmicks in addition to alcohol. As a result, it never failed that we’d run short on the common necessities. We’d be all out of things like food or laundry soap or toilet paper, but my daddy would walk into the house wearing a fine new pair of leather shoes or a sharp new hat. It seemed that somewhere over the last ten years (probably when he gave up drinking) my daddy figured these things out.

As promised, I stayed in my daddy’s little apartment for the next couple days, spending most of my time at the hospital, visiting with him or his friends from work or AA or church (he seemed to have a fair number of good friends). I’d converse with his caregivers and get the latest details of his prognosis, and it seemed his health was improving steadily.

On the third day, he was moved from ICU to a room he shared with a cantankerous old railroad man who smoked about two packs a day (those were the days when they still let patients smoke in the hospital). But since my daddy had given up smoking a few years back I knew he found the smell offensive (although I could tell he didn’t like to make a fuss). So I went ahead and asked the head nurse if there was any hope of changing his room, but she said not for a day or two. Then I asked how soon he could be released to go home, and she said she’d check with his physician. Later she told me he could be released by Saturday morning if he had someone to stay with him.

I knew it would be a tight squeeze with both of us sharing his little one-bedroom apartment, but I offered to stay there and sleep on the couch if he wanted to come home from the hospital, that is, unless he had someone else he’d prefer to stay with him. But he said he didn’t think any of his friends would be able to help out that much, and desperately wanting out of the hospital, he seemed to sincerely appreciate my offer. Although I’m sure it made him nervous. And I could understand that because I felt uneasy myself.

So far we hadn’t talked too much about the past. He’d told me about his job selling new, not used, Volvos at the dealership, and how he’d been there long enough, and performed well enough, that he’d made it up into a managerial position (and I could see he was proud of this accomplishment). He also told me about the little church he attended that was only four blocks away, but how he felt he’d never really gotten to know the people there too well and admitted to being slightly surprised when a couple of them paid him a visit.

Then he talked a bit about his AA friends, and his face lit up. He explained how they had been instrumental in overcoming his “addiction.” That’s what he called his drinking problem—he either referred to it as his “addiction” or his “illness,” and it didn’t seem to bother him to call it such.

I’d heard these terms before in school, but they sounded strange coming from my daddy’s lips. Still, I appreciated that he didn’t try to bury his past problems or pretend like these things had never happened. His approach seemed truly humble and fairly straightforward, and he was always the first one to admit that it was alcoholism that had, for the most part, ruined his life. And mine. Although I tried to make it clear to him that I had survived and was doing just fine.

Anyway it was decided that on Saturday, I would drive my daddy home to his little apartment (which thankfully was on the first floor so there were no steps for him to climb). So in the meantime, I changed sheets on the bed, did laundry, got a few groceries, and generally freshened things up. But as I was straightening the counter in the kitchen, I noticed a small stack of recent mail, and found it interesting that my daddy had a bank account in the very same bank that I used, the same bank I’d been using since going to community college in California.

And suddenly I knew, I’m not even sure how, but I just knew. My daddy had to have been my secret benefactor. I wondered if I should mention it to him, or might that make him uncomfortable since for whatever reason he’d asked Joey to keep this information private? So for the time being I decided to just hide it away in my heart. But I have to admit I was starting to see my daddy in a whole new light.

I helped my daddy into my little car and then drove carefully across town, making small talk about the weather and the traffic. As I helped him from the car and up the walk to his apartment, I suddenly felt worried and apprehensive. What had I gotten myself into? But as one slow step followed the next, I tried to give these anxieties to God, and when we finally made it inside I felt better. I helped him to take off his slippers and get settled into his own bed, and I could tell the familiarity of his own things brought him some comfort as he leaned back into the pillows.

“I’m sure you must be all worn out now, Daddy,” I said as I stood up and pushed a strand of hair from my face. “I think you should get some rest.”

“Do you know how much I hate being a burden to you, Cassandra?” he said sadly as I pulled the thin blue blanket up over him.

“Daddy,” I said with real conviction, “you’re not a burden to me. You’re my own flesh and blood. And as Grandma used to say, blood
is
thicker than water!”

He smiled. “Yeah, but I never did get that one. Who cares about thick blood anyway?”

“Well, I think it just means that family comes first,” I said as I closed the curtains. “Now, I want you to get some rest and then maybe you’ll be able to get up in time for a light dinner.”

Fighting off feelings of strangeness, I went into the little kitchen and began making preparations for dinner. It seemed like a hundred years since I’d cooked dinner for my daddy, and I hoped he’d think my skills had improved some since then. I hadn’t told him about my stay on the Funny Farm yet and didn’t even know if I could. But for some reason I wanted to. For some reason I felt he needed to know. Although for the life of me I wondered how someone of his generation could possibly understand such craziness.

I’d already told him of going to college (not realizing at the time how he probably had a lot to do with that). And then I’d told him about my teaching job back in Brookdale, trying to paint a cheerful, happy picture. I almost convinced myself that my life was perfectly wonderful—and maybe it wasn’t that bad, all things considered. Besides, hadn’t this whole episode with my daddy really jerked me out of my rut, at least for the time being?

That night, we sat down together at his little table and ate dinner. Following doctor’s orders, I’d prepared a plain, low-salt meal of white fish and rice and a green salad with light dressing, but I’d taken care to arrange everything just so and had even placed a couple of pink geraniums (snipped from a planter by the parking lot) into a water glass for decoration.

“This is just lovely, Cassandra.” My daddy looked approvingly at everything, then bowed his head and said a short blessing.

We ate quietly, making small talk about whether Carter would win again, the general deplorable state of our country, and the world at large. And then I served us each a small bowl of orange sherbet along with some of the instant Yuban coffee I’d found in his cupboard.

“Cassandra, when I got that heart attack last week, I was so worried that I’d never get a chance to talk to you—to tell you things…” His voice trailed off slightly.

“Tell me things?” Suddenly I wondered if he was about to tell me about the trust fund, and part of me longed for him to keep this a secret. Just the same I waited for him to continue.

He took a sip of coffee. “Yes, I had put some things together to give to you. Some time back, I’d asked Joey to act as my attorney if anything were to happen to me.” He set down his cup. “You see, I’d had these twinges of chest pains a few times, off and on, during the past year, and well, I just had this feeling…”

I nodded. “You knew you were going to have a heart attack?”

“Not exactly. But I felt uneasy, somehow. Anyway I had some things for you—things that belonged to your mother.”

“My mama?”

“Yes. Long ago, I’d put some things in a storage place at Masterson Motors. It had been ages, and I’d almost forgotten about them. But then Mr. Masterson got ahold of me and I drove on over and picked them up. A lot of it was just junk. But there were a few things I thought that you should have. And—” He stopped himself.

“And?”

He sighed heavily. “Oh, I don’t know how to rightly say this, Cassandra, but I suppose there’s some things you should know about. I’m just not sure you’re ready to hear them yet, or if I’m even ready to say them. And seeing as how you’ve only just barely forgiven me, well, I just hate to put too much on you all at once.”

I picked up the empty dishes and took them into the kitchen. “Oh, Daddy,” I said, hoping to sound light. “You’d probably be surprised to find out that I’ve been through some rather hard things during my lifetime. And I don’t break very easily. In fact, I think I’m made of some pretty tough stuff.”

His brow grew concerned. “I know you’ve been through a lot, Cassandra. I must’ve put you through some horrible nightmares—”

“Oh, you can’t take all the credit; I’ve put myself through some nightmares too.”