That One Day (That One #1.5) (6 page)

“We live next door with my uncle,” Jake states, taking a swig of his beer and relaxing back in the chair. I suppose the threat of a broken nose has vanished for now.

“The guy in the wheel chair?”

“Yeah, he got drunk one night after a fight with his wife, wrapped his car around a tree. He ended up in the wheelchair, the wife left him. We were looking for a place to live together anyway, so it just seemed logical to help him out.” Jake tells the story of his uncle matter-of-factly, as if he’s telling me about the weather and not about him taking care of his uncle who fucked up his own life.

“He’s a good guy. He just made a mistake. Can happen to anyone. He’s been sober for over a year now. So don’t offer him any,” he says, pointing to the whiskey bottle on the table.

“And his wife was a lying, cheating bitch,” Allie adds in a sweet voice, before stealing a potato off Jake’s plate.

I give her a shocked look. “Miss Sunshine-And-Happiness uses bad words? Won’t you get knocked off your spot on the rainbow for it?”

“Hey, you spread enough misery and despair for the whole neighborhood. Life is hard enough. No point in making it harder.”

“You have no idea, Sunshine,” I mutter, annoyed with her happy and positive outlook on life. What the fuck does she know?

She gives me an inquisitive look, but doesn’t pry.

It takes two hours until they finally climb back over the fence and leave me the hell alone, but not before Allie gives me a hug goodnight. That chick’s got issues. She really must give good head for Jake to deal with all that.

Once they leave, I open the bottle of whiskey and lean back in the chair, allowing the amber liquid to numb the anger, pain, as well as the fear and confusion about my father’s illness. For a moment I wonder if I’m on my way to become an alcoholic, but I don’t care enough to really worry about it.

I must’ve made my way into the house and onto the couch at some point last night, much to the dismay of my muscles and bones. I know I need to get my shit together, but fuck, it’s much easier to get drunk and forget about everything.

Maybe things will seem better once I make the place a bit more bearable. I throw all the bed sheets, pillow cases, and throws into the washing machine and dryer in the hopes of getting rid of that musty smell. Then I start sorting through the living room cabinets, making three piles on the floor after moving the table—trash, sell, and keep.

The trash and sell piles grow exponentially fast. I don’t have much use for cross-stitching anything, or weird, cheap porcelain eggs. My grandmother really had bizarre taste.

I know I should call the hospital to ask about seeing my father, but I don’t have the balls to do it just yet. What am I supposed to say?
Hi, I’m your son. How are you, other than crazy?

Instead of dealing with this, I work my way through the room. That is until I suddenly find myself holding a detached cabinet door in my hand. The furniture has seen better days, which is a shame since a lot of it is old stuff that shows a craftsmanship you don’t see much these days anymore. It looks like it’s handmade. I’ve helped Ron restore pieces like this in the bed and breakfast, so I recognize good work when I see it.

I drop the door onto the couch and make my way out to the shed I’ve seen in the back, wondering if I’ll find the tools I’m looking for in here. After one look inside, it’s safe to say that I won’t find shit. It looks like my grandmother threw everything and anything in here.

Letting out a sigh, this time it’s me who climbs over the fence. I walk up to Jake and Allie’s front door, ringing the doorbell. The door opens, but instead of Jake and Allie, it’s Jake’s uncle.

“Hi, I’m Ben from next door. I was wondering if I could borrow some tools. My grandmother’s furniture needs some TLC.”

“Ah, you’re the miserable ass. I heard all about you. I’m Mike. There is lots of stuff in my garage. Knock yourself out. Not like I’m going to be using it anytime soon, and Jake can’t tell a wrench from a screwdriver.” He laughs at his own joke and I snort along, ignoring the comment about being a miserable ass.

“Thanks, Mike.” I make my way to his garage, and to be honest, at the sight of all the equipment I get a chubby. The stuff in here rivals the workshop that Ron had in the big shed behind the bed and breakfast, since he did all the repairs and work himself. Sweet mother of God. I run my fingers over the top-notch belt sander and the detail sander next to it. They are just a miniscule fraction of all the stuff that’s in here.

“Am I interrupting something? It seems like you’re getting cozy with each other.”

Mike must’ve followed me and is now relaxing back in his wheelchair, looking at me with an amused glint in his eyes and a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“This stuff is awesome. How come you didn’t sell it? It ought to be worth a lot.”

“Some things mean too much to be sold. They remind me of before.” He points to the wheelchair. There’s nothing more to add, so I just nod.

“You can use it whenever you want—under one condition.” He pauses, causing me to look at him with my eyebrows raised in question. “I’d really like the damn kitchen cupboards to have a different color. My ex-wife had them painted mint green and it looks like someone puked all over them.”

“Deal.” I laugh and go over to shake his hand. Then I turn back and start grabbing the equipment I need before I make my way over to my house.

A few hours later, I haven’t just put the door back in its place, but have sanded the entire cabinet. I take a step back and look at my work. Once I get a primer and some paint this will look really good. I’m happy with the day’s work and realize that throughout it I haven’t been dwelling on my circumstances, just enjoying the work as Black Label Society boomed from the laptop speakers.

I also realize that I have successfully avoided calling St. Michael’s to inquire about my father. As much as I want to meet him, if I’m honest with myself, a big part of me is scared to death. Not just of whom this man is, or how he might react to my showing up, but also about finding out what’s wrong with him. If nothing else, working on the house is the best way to avoid reality.

Finished for the day, I make sure I’ve locked the doors to keep Sunshine and Muscleman out. There’s only so much good mood I can handle. After a shower, I heat up some lasagna and scarf it down, before settling on the couch with a new bottle of whiskey—a brand I haven’t tried yet. Hey, at least I make sure to have some variety on my path to liver destruction.

During the next two months I concentrate on my project—the living room. Nothing stays untouched. I pull up the carpet to find a wooden floor with a lot of potential underneath. I sand it, covering the whole downstairs in sawdust, and then I stain it. Then I rip down the wallpaper and paint the walls. Once that is done, I turn my attention to the furniture—priming and painting it.

I’m working like a man possessed throughout the day, keeping the demons haunting me at bay, and then I get drunk in the evenings, still avoiding anything to do with my father.

Days blur into weeks, as I wallow in self-pity, despair, and whiskey. I rarely see Jake or Allie, unless I go over to the garage to borrow some of Mike’s equipment. Allie has knocked on the door once or twice, but since I’m an asshole, I ignored her.

The few times I left the house to go shopping, I drove past St. Michael’s, stopping at the side of the road to look at the building. It definitely doesn’t look like a hospital, but more like a damn prison with high brick walls and barbwire on top. It makes me wonder what kind of place my father is in. This doesn’t help me build up the courage to go and find out.

I don’t want to think or feel, and I don’t have the balls to go see my father. The only way I know how to deal with all of this is to spend my evenings with a bottle of whiskey—sinking into oblivion.

***

By the time I’m done, the living room looks completely different. The floor is a sandy brown color while the walls are a dark, rich grey. I’ve done some changes to the cabinets and painted them chocolate brown. The room looks warm and inviting, but also modern and classy. Now, I only need to replace the monstrosities that are the couch and arm chair, but until then, they fit in surprisingly well with their light brown color.

I won’t lie—I feel really proud of myself. I’ve done a lot of stuff with Ron, but never on my own and never such a big project. I hate to admit it, but the no-good son of a bitch has taught me well.

To see the results feels like getting a piece of me back. It’s something that isn’t tainted by the current drama of my life. This is what I’m good at. This is what I enjoy doing. This is real.

The pile of possible trash has moved outside into the driveway while the stuff to sell is now cluttering the dining room. I’m just about to load the trash onto my truck to take it to the junk yard when I hear a happy voice behind me. Ugh.

“Hey stranger, I’ve heard you’ve been borrowing Mike’s equipment. It sounded like a whole building crew was working in your house. Care to share the result?” Allie leans against the side of my truck with a smile on her face, while Muffin is sniffing around it.

“What if I say no?”

She grins at me. “You know you want to.”

Sadly, she’s right. There is no one to share in the glory of all my hard work. I want to show someone. I know it’s petty, but fuck, it is what it is.

“Come on, Sunshine.” She follows me inside, Muffin scrambling to keep up with her. As soon as she enters the house, she stops dead in her tracks.

“Holy crap. I mean, wow. I mean…you did this?” She looks at the living room, her eyes wide and her mouth agape.

“Yep.”

She turns around and runs out of the house, and I’m left wondering if her screws came completely loose. Left standing in my living room, I watch Muffin sniff around the corners.

“Yappy, if you pee in here, I’ll make a carpet out of you,” I mutter to the dog, but she stays oblivious to my threats.

A few seconds later, I hear a commotion from outside.

“You guys have to see this. It’s awesome. I want a living room like that. Jake, why don’t you make our living room look like that? I’ll give you all the blow jobs you want.”

Allie’s babbling is followed by Mike’s groan. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Allie.” I shake my head when the three of them enter the house.

“Fuck me sideways,” Jake mutters, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“No, thanks, man. Don’t swing that way,” I reply, which only makes him scoff at me.

“You’d be lucky to tap this ass.”

Mike is the only one who’s silent and just looks around before he wheels over to me.

“I think I might have a few more jobs for you than just my kitchen cabinets. This is fucking impressive.”

I can’t stop the smug grin from appearing on my face. My life might be a mess, but at least I have one hell of a living room.

We spend the rest of the night kicking it back at my place, drinking pop and water, and listening to music. Mike and I talk shop, discussing all the work that has gone into making the living room what it is now, while Allie gives Jake a hard time for being all thumbs.

Although I enjoy their company and not spending the evening alone, it doesn’t stop me from feeling fucking empty inside.

The only people that know anything about me are over three thousand miles away and probably want to tar and feather me.

After Allie, Jake, and Mike leave, I turn on my laptop and look through my photos. I look at the picture of Frankie from her graduation party.

Frankie, Dave, and I went down to the park at the river with a bunch of her friends and a few of ours. She’d been excited to leave for Northampton to follow her best friend Dean and to get out from under her parents’ thumb. She was unusually happy that day—less sarcastic and cynical.

I hated that she was leaving even if I wouldn’t admit it to anyone. I hated even more when that fucker Drake showed up on his fucking Harley. When he stuck his tongue down her throat, I wanted to rip it out. The worst thing was that he wasn’t a bad guy; actually he was easy to get along with. Still, it didn’t change the fact that he was on my shit list.

It was me who took the picture of her. The look she gave me—I couldn’t identify it back then. Her green eyes soft, and she was biting her lower lip, seemingly lost in thought. The look was intense, and I remember wondering if she tried to tell me something. Now I know what it might have been, and I realize she might never look at me this way again.

I slam the laptop shut, running my fingers through my hair. This is not what I’m here for. I need to focus. With that thought, I crash onto the guest bed and fall into a restless sleep with green eyes haunting my dreams.

***

The next morning I finally decide to bite the bullet and call St. Michael’s.

“St. Michael’s Hospital, how can I help you?” The voice is so cheerful it makes me wonder if the staff gets medicated as well.

“Hi, my name is Ben Gibson. I’ve learned my father, Noah Andrews, is a patient in your hospital, and I’d like to visit him. When is that possible?”

“Hold on a minute, please.” I hear her typing before she addresses me again.

“Mr. Gibson, according to our records, you aren’t on the approved visitation list. You’ll need to have a background check and provide two forms of identification. We have to verify that you are Mr. Andrews’ son. Once the background check is completed, you’ll be put on the visitation list. This procedure can take up to a month.”

Great, thanks to my cowardice, I already wasted two months, and will potentially waste another.

“What type of identification do you require?” I have a sinking feeling in my stomach and it’s confirmed when she answers. “A birth certificate and driver’s license would do the job.”

“I don’t have my birth certificate.” I sigh, running my free hand down my face in agitation.

“You can request a certified copy with the Vital Records Office.”

“No, I can’t. Listen lady, I just found out that Mr. Andrews is my father. I don’t have anything to prove it.” I’ve seen my birth certificate before and Ron is named as my father on it, so getting my original one might be a bit hard.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gibson. But without those documents, visits aren’t possible.”

“Thanks.” I slam the phone down, kicking the kitchen counter, leaving a scuff in the varnish.

I pace the kitchen for a while thinking about my options. I can’t call my mom and ask for proof. She’d be here within a few hours, and that’s not something I can handle. After some research online, I also realize if Ron adopted me, my original birth certificate has been closed and is inaccessible. Fuck.

It takes me a moment before I realize that there might be something in my grandmother’s house.

For the next few hours, I take everything apart. No drawer or cabinet stays untouched. I start out with the kitchen, but other than bills and coupons, I don’t find much.

My father’s room is next, but there aren’t any papers anywhere. I then turn my attention to my grandmother’s room. I find more pictures of me as a baby and of my father as a kid. We looked exactly the same—it’s remarkable. I find pictures of other people, newspaper clippings of wedding announcements or obituaries, and for a moment I wonder if there was something my grandmother didn’t collect. But just as I want to roll my eyes in frustration at the old woman, I come across a birth announcement—my birth announcement. Holy shit. I stare at it for a moment, finally having something that proves I lived as someone else’s son at some point. I go through the box and it turns out my grandmother’s hoarding habits might be worth something after all. Feeling triumphant, I hold up the copy of my birth certificate—the original one. “Yes.”

I don’t care why she had it but I’m fucking glad she did. I don’t know if this is going to suffice for the hospital, but I hope together with the letter from the lawyer and my license, I might be successful.

With the papers in my jeans pocket, I head toward the outskirts of town where St. Michael’s is situated.

I wonder briefly if the location is for the convenience of the patients, in order to not be stressed by city life or more for the convenience of the people outside so they aren’t confronted with the crazy. Somehow, I think it’s the latter.

I pull into the parking lot and run my hands through my hair, trying to make it look less disheveled, and then I make my way to the small brick building outside the walls.

Once inside, I step up to the desk where an older woman is sitting and shuffling through some papers.

After a quick greeting, I explain who I am, and why I’m here.

“We’ll need an ID and some proof of your relationship with the patient,” she rattles without even looking up.

I put my license and the papers on her desk, hoping she will just skim them over. But, as my luck would have it, she doesn’t. She looks at the birth certificate before scrunching up her nose and looking up at me.

“This is only a regular copy.”

“Yeah, I don’t have a certified one. I was adopted by my stepfather at a young age.”

She raises her eyebrows, a doubtful look on her face.

Sighing, I point to the papers. “Listen, I know you have laws and regulations. But this is all I have. I…” I hesitate, not wanting to spill my life story to a perfect stranger, but at this rate it might be the only way she’s going to accept the sad collection of papers on her desk.

“I recently received a letter from a lawyer about inheriting a house from my grandmother. A woman I didn’t know existed. Then my mother told me the man I grew up with, called Dad all my life, in fact isn’t. My father is here, and I need to meet him. I need to know where the hell I come from. You have the copy of my old birth certificate, my license, and the letter from the lawyer identifying me as Mrs. Andrews’ grandson. Please.”

She purses her lips and sits still for a moment. My shoulders slump forward, anticipating her refusal to help. To my surprise, her lips stretch into a tight but sympathetic smile, and she pats my hand that’s resting on the desk.

“I’ll make some copies of those, and then we’ll run a background check. This can take up to thirty days, but we’ll contact you as soon as it’s done.”

I let out a breath and smile at her, reading her name on the name tag.

“Thank you, Patricia.”

“You’re welcome.”

I write down my current address and phone number for her. Thanking her once more, I leave—relief coursing through my system. That wasn’t so bad after all.

As I make my way back to my house, I turn up the music, letting “Just Killing Time” by Black Label Society fill the truck. That is exactly what I will be doing now—killing time.