Why Girls Are Weird (9 page)

Every time I visit Hartford I feel like I'm in the past. I rarely leave the house once I get there, so it's like I'm stuck in a time loop. It's just me, four rooms, and tall trees outside. I make sure to always bring three books with me and I usually read two of them. We don't normally all get together for my mother's birthday, but Mom had called all three of her daughters to request our attendance, so Shannon and I flew in together.

Just after dinner, as we all gathered around the dining room table, Mom had her hands to her chest in anticipation. Shannon carefully carried the cake in from the kitchen, kicking off the birthday song with a shaky “Haaa-ppy Birrrrthday,” holding out the notes until we all joined in. She wore a Radiohead T-shirt with a thermal sweater underneath. Her jeans were frayed around the cuffs. Her shoes had holes in the toes that she'd wrapped with duct tape.

Meredith was by the light switch, wearing a green cardigan and a long denim skirt that came down to her feet. Her hair was pulled back in a braid.

Mom and Dad were at either side of the table and I was sitting between them.

As we sang, I watched my family. Shannon's hair was getting so long, curling around the ends, flowing over her shoulders and down her arms. Meredith had lost weight and was looking too thin. I wondered if she was still working two jobs. My mom looked so happy having her entire family wrapped around her.

I looked over at my Dad. He was crying. His hand rested under his chin, and he was looking at my mom's happy face. He lowered his head and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Looking back up, he caught my gaze and gave a weepy smile. It was the first time I'd ever seen my father cry. My body felt a shock, like a steel cold rod slammed through my spine. Something was wrong. My stomach twisted; the taste of the garlic and chicken we had for dinner felt sharp inside my mouth.

I was smoking on the swing set in the backyard an hour later when I heard my father's voice behind me.

“Can I have one?”

Instinctively I put my cigarette out under my shoe. Dad knew I smoked, but I still felt strange doing it in front of him. It seemed like a deliberate action, bragging that I was a grown-up and he couldn't stop me.

As I watched him approach me cautiously, I realized Dad hadn't stepped foot in the backyard of any house we'd had. “Are you lost?” I asked him as I handed him a smoke. He took it from me, laughing nervously. I could see the veins in his thin hands. His skin had brown spots I'd never seen before. His face was grayer and his eyebrows had silver hairs. He looked tired.

He sat down on the swing next to me. “Just wanted to talk. How are you?”

This, too, had never happened before. It felt like a trick. “I'm fine, Dad.”

He nodded his head and bit his lower lip. He hadn't shaved since yesterday and a full salt-and-pepper beard was threatening to sprout on his face. He wiped his nose with his palm and exhaled.

“How are
you,
Dad?” I said into the silence.

“I'm not so good, Annie.”

I swallowed. I knew this was coming, but I still wasn't ready. I didn't want this to be real. I wanted it to stop before it happened. Staring straight ahead, it felt like I was floating outside of us, staring down at the backyard, at the two of us sitting on a swing set, staring away from each other as we concentrated on our cigarettes. Why was he telling me this here? Why now? I wondered briefly if he was going to reach out and touch me or hold me. He never did anything like that before, but the entire afternoon had become a series of new events, changes, and discoveries. Maybe getting sick made you want affection. Were we going to change our relationship right now? Did he need me to become something more?

“What do you mean?” I heard a tiny version of me say.

“My heart's not doing so well.”

I wanted to take the cigarette back from him, but I couldn't say anything. I didn't know any of the words I was supposed to say. Was I supposed to even say anything? It wasn't really a conversation. It was just Dad talking to me. Talking near me, really, since we weren't looking at each other. Dad stared at his cigarette as he continued.

“So I thought I'd ask how you were doing, because your mother says I don't ask you enough. Just making sure you're okay. And I guess you might want to think about coming home for Thanksgiving
and
Christmas this year instead of just one.”

And with that he stood and walked back into the house.

I sat still, my hands dangling inside of my jacket pockets. I had that same feeling after I found out there wasn't an Easter Bunny. Like I learned something I should have known all along, something that always made sense but I didn't let myself worry about before. My father had just said more to me than he had in years and I just sat there mute. I had a chance to talk to him and I didn't. Worse than that, I did nothing. I said nothing. I had the chance to let him in. He gave me the opportunity. I could have told him I loved him and how I always wondered what it'd be like if we really knew each other. I could have found out what it sounded like to have him tell me that he loved me. The moment passed, and it was never coming back, just like the moment before he told me he was dying. That would never come back, either. Now he was officially dying and I had officially not said a word about it.

I looked toward the house and saw him through the back window. He sat back in his recliner and turned on the television. All I had to do was walk into the house, put my head in his lap, and ask to start our relationship over again. I could place my hands on his and ask, “If we don't have much time, can we try to make this work now?”

Could I turn my father into my daddy just because the clock was ticking? Would that make it harder to deal with him dying?
Dying?
That word had lost all meaning over the years. It didn't feel possible. Although it was quite probable, with the way he'd been getting sick, it just felt like something that was never going to actually happen. We'd had so many false alarms over the years—frantic trips to see him only to have him recover at the bleakest hour. Too many times I had rushed home thinking it was time to say good-bye and it wasn't. He'd always bounced back before. Maybe he'd do it again this time. Maybe this was another false alarm. I couldn't imagine what it'd be like without him around. I knew he was weaker every time I saw him, but he'd been frail for so long I was used to having a fragile father. He always recovered on his own, opting not to talk about it or ask us for help. He didn't even like us in the hospital room with him when he was being treated. He'd send us away on errands and keep us busy until he was released. He'd never needed me then. Why would he need me now? And why was he the one telling me he was sick this time instead of Mom? What was he doing talking to me? What did he want from me?

I held on to the swing chains, leaned back, and kicked my feet up hard. I held the chains until my palms were aching. I pumped my feet back and forth, pushing the swing into gear, jerking and rocking, higher and higher, feeling the wind in my ears melt the sounds of the house out of my head. I could hear the birds in the trees above me. I felt myself rise out of the chair, my stomach getting lighter, my head getting cloudy, my vision numbing into pure blue. I could feel the weight of gravity on my shins as my body crashed back down onto the swing. Tears streaked my face as the wind strained them.

What was I supposed to do? Give up my life and move to Hartford until he died? Did he expect me to move in with Meredith? Did he want me to move back home? Did he think I could just quit my job and move to the other side of the country? Who did he think I was?

More important, who was he?

17 SEPTEMBER