Page 3 of My Veteran Biker

"You stop for lunch?"

"Got something at a rest stop."

He nods, cutting his chicken into small pieces. "How's the rental? Is everything working okay?"

"AC's struggling but it's fine. Better than nothing."

"I can call the landlord if you want. Get him to look at it."

"I'll handle it, Dad. It's fine."

Silence settles between us. I can hear the wall clock ticking, the sound of our forks scraping against plates.

He asks about work and I tell him I'm still on leave, that I have another month before I need to decide what comes next. He asks if I'm worried about money and I tell him no, I saved enough.

We're halfway through the meal when he reaches for his water glass. His left hand shakes, trembling visibly as his fingers close around it. He brings his right hand over to steady it, gripping with both hands, but water sloshes over the rim anyway. A few drops hit the table.

He sets the glass down quickly and picks up his napkin, wiping at the water with movements that are too precise, too controlled. His jaw is tight.

I look down at my plate and push green beans around with my fork. The scraping sound seems too loud.

"How were your appointments last week?" I ask, keeping my eyes on my food.

"Fine. The doctor adjusted one of my medications, said it might help with the tremors."

"Is it helping?"

"Some days."

I nod and take another bite of dry chicken.

The silence stretches again and I can feel both of us working to fill it with anything that isn't what we're both thinking.

When we're done, he stands to clear the plates and I help without being asked. We move around the small kitchen in the same dance we've done since I was a teenager, him washing while I dry. His hands shake when he scrubs a plate and soap suds slide down his wrists, but he doesn't stop, doesn't ask for help.

I dry each dish and put them away.

"I should get going," I say when the last dish is put away. "Let you get some rest."

"You don't have to rush off."

"I'm tired from the drive. Long day."

He walks me to the door, and we stand there in the small entryway that smells like the lemon cleaner he's used since I was a kid.

"Sleep well, Frannie," he says.

"You too, Dad."

"I'm glad you're here."

The walk to the rental is short but the air feels heavier now, thick enough to choke on.

Inside my place is warm despite the struggling AC, and I stand in the kitchen drinking water straight from the tap until my stomach feels too full.

I try to sleep but the sheets stick to my skin and my mind won't quiet.

Every time I close my eyes I see Dad's hands shaking, see him trying to hide it, see the way he moved through his own kitchen like he couldn't quite trust his body anymore.