Page 2 of My Veteran Biker

"You're taking your meds, right?" I ask.

"Most days."

"Dad!"

"I take them, Frannie." His jaw sets in that way I remember from every argument we've ever had. "Don't start."

I want to push but my teeth click together instead, biting down on the words that want to come out.

I've been back in his house for three minutes and I'm already managing him like he's a child instead of the man who raised me.

"The rental's next door," he says, moving past the moment like it didn't happen. "I told the landlord you were coming. He left the key under the mat. It's small but it's clean."

"Next door?"

"Old Evans place. They converted it into a duplex five years ago. You're on the right side."

I didn't know the house next door was a rental. I'd assumed I'd stay with Dad, but he'd insisted I get my own place, said he didn't want me hovering, said I needed space to settle in.

Now I'm wondering if he just didn't want me to see how badly his hand shakes when he reaches for his water glass, the way he has to steady it with his right before lifting it to his mouth.

"I'll go drop my stuff," I say. "Then I'll come back and we can have dinner."

"No rush. I'm fine."

The tremor in his hand when he sets the glass down says otherwise, but arguing with him only makes him dig in harder.

I just nod and head back out into the heat.

I grab my suitcase from the trunk and walk the twenty feet to the house next door. Smaller than Dad's, pale yellow siding, narrow porch, two steps up to the front door.

The key's under the mat like he said.

Inside it smells like fresh paint and dust.

The living room is small, the kitchen smaller. There's a couch that's seen better days and a table with two chairs and a window that looks out onto the driveway.

The driveway I share with whoever lives on the left side of the duplex.

I unpack my suitcase, hanging my clothes in the narrow closet, putting my toiletries in the bathroom that has a decent shower and a mirror that needs cleaning.

I take my time.

When I'm done it's almost six and the light outside is starting to soften but the heat hasn't broken.

When I walk back to Dad's house the smell of roasted chicken hits me before I open the door. Inside, he's setting plates on the kitchen table, his hands slightly steadier than they were earlier.

"Smells good," I say.

"It's just chicken. Nothing fancy."

But he's using the good plates, the ones Mom picked out years ago that usually stay in the cabinet. There's rice in a bowl, green beans from a can in another. He's made an effort.

We sit across from each other and fill our plates. The chicken is dry, but I don't mention it. The rice sticks together in clumps. The green beans taste like the metal can they came from.

"How was the drive?" he asks.

"Long. But traffic wasn't bad once I got out of Pennsylvania."