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“How are you feeling, Dad?” I asked, noting the pill sorter sitting on his bedside table. They allowed their residents lots of independence until more assistance became necessary.
“You worry too much,” he replied flippantly. “You always have. I’m fine.”
“How about your last doctor’s appointment? Did he increase your blood pressu—”
“How’s school, Grant?” he asked, anything to avoid the conversation about his health. I’d just have to ask the nurses on the way out. Or email. I swear, this man and his pride.
Grant sat down near him and went on about his classes and friends and video games. My father lectured him about getting outside more, much like he did with me when he realized I wasn’t very interested in sports. When I joined shop class in high school, where I thrived with the circuitry lessons instead of the woodworking ones, he seemed more satisfied, possibly because he’d been a machinist in a tool factory his whole life. Mom once shared that his own father, who’d died when Dad was twelve, had been toxic and ruthless, so maybe Dad was still living in the past or something.
I must’ve zoned out for a minute because the next thing I heard was Grant talking about our kitchen. “And his friend Marc is gonna help since that was what Mom wanted.”
Dad looked at me then. “Who is this Marc person?”
I made big eyes at Grant before replying, “He’s a friend from my grief group.”
“Grief group? Such mumbo-jumbo. When your mother died, I didn’t need anyone to help me grieve,” he said mockingly, pushing all my usual buttons, and I felt a spike of anger in my gut.
“Yeah? Well, maybe if you did, you wouldn’t have been such a—” Jackass my whole life. I cut myself off, not wanting the visit to go to hell. Besides, it wasn’t worth it. We’d had that argument before, and nothing had changed. He never apologized for how he made me feel as a kid, and he never would. Same shit, different day, and I certainly didn’t want Grant to witness me losing my cool with my father. Life was not like the movies, where everything was wrapped up perfectly at the end. Some things just remained as they were, and you developed a thicker skin and found other people to help quench your soul. Maybe in our next lives, we’d be friends. “Anyway, Marc owns a salvage business and has an affinity for older homes, so why not?”
“I suppose,” Dad said. “Might’ve been too much work for you anyway.”
I shrugged, ignoring the thinly veiled insult because he was right. I had no idea how this was going to go down with Marcus and our kitchen, but he looked so earnest about it, so maybe it was worth a shot? If it ended up being too much work, we could always bag the idea.
Grant asked about activities at the center, and Dad told him about bingo night and the one evening a month when they brought animals in to visit the residents. Grant seemed satisfied that his papa was active enough, and before I knew it, we were back in the car, another visit behind us.
Grant must’ve known the visit had taken a lot out of me—maybe out of him too—because he was quiet on the way home, and I was grateful for it. It’d always been hard to be around my dad, and I certainly missed my mother’s laugh and easy smile.
I likely took after my dad more than my mom, and that sat heavy in my stomach. Except I would never want to make Grant feel ashamed of himself. And yet…wasn’t that what I was doing by questioning his every move? Where was the line drawn between concern and interference? I needed to find it soon, before my relationship with my son went to shit. Before he went off to college and communication became strained. Before I moved into assisted living and my son reluctantly visited me out of a sense of obligation.
I was going down that dark road again, and I needed to cut it out.
“Wanna stop for some burgers?” I asked to get myself out of this funk.
His eyes lit up. “Five Guys?”
“Is there any place else?”
I headed toward Cedar Road, where the popular hamburger chain was located. Their burgers were good, and I was plenty hungry. And no, I wasn’t trying to bribe my child. I was trying to build a connection. It was a start, at least.
Once we parked in the busy lot, I turned off the ignition. Grant hesitated a moment as he reached for his hat, which he’d placed on the dashboard. Was he waiting for my usual suggestion of leaving it in the car? I hated that he second-guessed himself around me. I reached for the hat and plopped it on his head. “What year were these invented anyway?”
