She left the door open until that could be accomplished.So, Dad hadn't cleaned up, hadn't showered, probably hadn't taken the trash out or emptied the refrigerator of expired food since she'd visited last.Jesus, she knew he was sad, but would it kill him to at least do a little bit?
She set the bagels and coffee on the little oak table in the foyer and sank in front of it, burying her head in her hands and bursting into tears.The odor rolled over her, less powerful now that the fresh evening air was drawing it out but still there, a reminder that the man who had once carried her, her sister, and their cousin out of a burning apartment at the same time couldn’t be bothered to clean up after himself anymore.
“God, Dad,” she said, wiping her eyes.“You need to take care of yourself!You’re all I have left!Ashley lives in Wisconsin now, and she’s focused on her kids and her fuckinghusband, and mom’s dead, and you’re falling apart, and it’s not fair!”
The unfairness of her own behavior only intensified her feelings of helplessness.Ashley’s husband, Zach, was a good guy too.He was kind to Laura and kind to Dad, and he made Ashley happy.It just wasn’t fair that she was gone, and Laura was here, left alone to watch their father shrivel in on himself.
She wept for several minutes, knowing the door was open and not caring.Each pulse of the rotten-sweet smell wafting from her father’s house squeezed fresh tears from her eyes.
A breeze blew through the house.The gentler scent of grass, elm, and gasoline caressed her.She breathed deeply, and the familiarity of suburban Chicago pushed the smell of decay back enough that she was able to get to her feet.She wiped the last of her tears from her eyes, took one more deep breath, and then carried the bagels and coffee into the living room.
“Dad?Dad, it’s okay.It’s just been a rough week.Let’s eat some food and drink some coffee, and I’ll help you clean up.”
The smell struck her again when she entered the living room.Her nostrils flared, and she pressed the tip of her tongue to the roof of her mouth to stave off nausea.“Jesus, Dad.”
She could hear her mother scolding her, warning her not to take the name of God in vain.If her mother could see the mess in her home, she’d probably feel different.
Trash lay scattered in between the cloth-upholstered couch and the ancient Magnavox television set that her father had kept working for thirty years.A pile of it stood on the coffee table: takeout boxes, beer cans, paper towels, candy bar wrappers.Dirty clothing was scattered liberally across the rest of the floor.Laura’s throat trembled when she saw the stains on his boxers.
Tears threatened again, but she pushed them back and called, “Dad?Are you in the kitchen?”
Her dad didn’t answer.
The first hint of fear broke through the grief and stress.Nothing answered.Not her father, not the radio—equally ancient—that he sometimes listened to in his bedroom rather than coming down to switch on the TV, not the fan perched in the bathroom window that he kept on at all times.The house was silent.
The smell wormed its way through her nostrils again, settling behind her eyes.It was coming from the dining room.
She leaned toward the dining room, but her feet didn’t move.Her prefrontal cortex didn’t want to acknowledge what her brainstem already knew, so she tried to move again, but once more the part of her ruled by instinct rooted her feet to the spot.
“Dad?”
The word was intended as another call but came out as a hoarse whisper.
He's probably asleep.His sleep schedule's been all messed up, too.It's not what you think it is.
A louder, firmer voice.Yes, it is.Stop wasting time.
“No.”Another whisper.
It’s over, Laura.Do what you have to do.Or call the police to do it if you can’t.
“No.”
Finally, her feet moved, shuffling, stumbling toward the dining room.The smell grew stronger but seemed to hold back as well, luring her in, gleefully awaiting the moment it could strike.The yellow glaze of the incandescent bulbs in the fan light above the table cast a long shadow on the floor, an amorphous blob that could really be anything.It didn't have to be Dad.
But it was.Of course it was.And when Laura stepped through the entryway into the small enclave where her parents had taken their meals for all forty-seven years of their marriage, her first reaction wasn’t of shock or grief but of petulant, childlike anger.No!That’s not fair!I don’twantto!
Her father was slumped over the table, forehead pressed to the polished ash as though in prayer.His shoulders were all the way forward, giving him a hunched appearance.He was wearing his striped bathrobe, a gift from Diane on their fortieth wedding anniversary.His bald spot gleamed a sickly pale goldenrod under the light.
The upper half of the shadow on the floor was an actual shadow, cast by the back of his chair and his rounded shoulders.The lower half was blood.
The smell assaulted her again, knocking her backward off her feet.The bagel box opened, spilling the bread, cream cheese, and smoked salmon onto the dusty pine flooring.The coffee cups burst, and a few ounces of the liquid scalded her leg.
Her mouth dropped open, but for a moment, she couldn’t breathe.It wasn’t until her father’s hand slid from his lap and hung limply at his side that she sucked in breath and released it in an animal shriek that echoed through the house like the arrival of eternity.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“It’s over, James,” Kate said.“All you’re doing right now is making things worse for yourself.”
