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“Well, I want to have a hand in picking that person. Before it’s too late.”
I don’t know if he realizes it, but I do. It’s already too late.
“When you pass, they’re going to take the farm.”
“No one’s going to take the farm.”
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and held it. It was a conversation only one of us saw coming and neither wanted to have. I exhaled, slowly at first, and then all at once. “I know about the lien, Daddy. I know you’re behind. Being sick and all.”
Those words were like a knife in his back. My father has always been a proud man, which makes the ad all the more shocking. I could tell he was surprised I knew about the foreclosure, though he shouldn’t have been. His expression soured, and he shook his head sternly. “That’s not your concern.”
“But it is.”
I tiptoed into the conversation, aware of everything he didn’t want to hear—and everything he didn’t want to say. “Is that why you thought the ad was a good idea? To save the farm?”
“No,” he told me, and I believed him, which was disappointing. It was the only thing that made sense. “I just want to make sure you’re taken care of.”
Hidden beneath his tone was something else—a desperation. “But you also don’t want to see everything you worked for fall into Uncle Sam’s hands.”
“What does it matter? I’ll be dead.”
The air felt heavy, like there was a new storm building in the distance. It felt bigger than the one that had just passed, like the worst was yet to come. I wondered if it was going to snow before nightfall.
He looked toward the window. “You’ll have to be careful getting home. It’s going to snow before sundown. Won’t that be nice?”
“No. You know I hate the cold. And it matters because it matters.”
“I'm tired, Gina. Before you leave for work, can you help me to bed?”
I heard it in his voice, the agony, how much he hated to ask. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “I know this is hard.”
“It is,” he told me, slipping his arm around my shoulder. I hoisted him out of the chair. “But it's harder to see you like this, Gin. You're so unhappy.”
I stood there listening to the house breathe, trying to allow him his dignity. I felt it when each breath rippled through the room like the respirations of a thick-skinned beast. Its breath was deep, long, and powerful. “I am,” I admitted. “But I can't help it. I don't want to get married.”
“I know, sweetheart. But sometimes we have to do things we don't want to.”
He reeked of desperation and frustration and something else that I couldn't quite place. My gut told me it wasn't simply the desperation of a dying man. I felt it in my bones. There was something else. Something he wasn’t telling me.
He took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “Your mama would be so proud of you. You're strong and smart and beautiful. You’re going to go far in life, honey.”
“Why, then, would I want to go and commit myself to one man?”
He smiled at me, a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes. And at that moment, I saw my father again. The man who used to swing me around in the air and tell me bedtime stories. The man who taught me how to drive a tractor and shoot a gun. “Especially,” I said, “knowing he could never be as good as you.”
He laughed, and it was the best sound in the world. “Oh, Gina-Girl. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
And just like that, he confirmed my suspicions.
