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“It’s good to see you too, sir, ma’am.”
I address them formally because I’ve never called them anything else. Certainly not ma or pa because they never deserved that title. Respect for your elders includes your parents and the kids in Heaven speak to everyone as if they are strangers. I suppose they are really, and family is stranger than most and so the devil in me dances around the room with glee as I lean back and regard them through narrowed eyes.
My father sighs and says over his shoulder, “Ida, fix me some refreshment.”
She scurries past him and as her hand reaches for the kettle, I note the shake of her hand as she fills it with water.
My father sits opposite me and says sternly, “State your business.”
“I’m on vacation, sir, and thought I’d check on you.”
“And your real business.”
His response makes me laugh softly because I never could get anything past this man.
“Faith.”
A loud noise distracts our attention as mom drops the kettle in the sink and my father says roughly, “Shape up, Ida, don’t be so clumsy.”
“Don’t speak to her like that.” I growl and I’m not sure who is more shocked, my father or my mother who catches my eye and I’m surprised to witness the tears in her eyes before she looks away and refills the kettle.
“You dare to challenge me in my own home?”
My father’s voice is deep and emotionless, and I sigh heavily, resisting the urge to place my booted feet on their table in an act of defiance that even I can’t bring myself to perform.
“She’s a woman, sir. They deserve our respect.”
“Since when?”
My father shakes his head. “They deserve nothing. They earn respect by cleaning the home and caring for the men. That is how it works in Heaven, or have you forgotten that already?”
He doesn’t wait for my answer and says shortly, “Faith is not your concern. She is not here, so leave.”
I stare at him with a cold calculating look and the air is so icy I’m glad I have my trusted leather on my back.
“Interesting.” I lean forward and stare at him with an expression of no shit.
“She is no concern of mine, you say.”
“You heard me, boy.”
The fact I tower over him, and my muscles make me double his size, renders his statement almost laughable.
“Then why not just tell me she isn’t here?”
For the first time in my entire life, my father shows nerves. The fact I have been trained so well these past few years tells me that. I have learned to read facial expressions and realize when someone is lying to me, and he definitely is. I stare at him hard, and he withers under its ferocity as a bead of sweat forms on his brow and he licks his lips with a nervous reaction.
The moment is gone when mom slams a plate on the table with three dry biscuits and says nervously, “Coffee is ready.”
He nods and breaks eye contact and as mom sits down nervously beside him, I don’t miss the pain in her eyes as she tries hard not to look at me.
It hurts me so deep because mom has always appeared a broken piece of china with jagged edges. Once a thing of great beauty that has been uncared for. Her beautiful pattern faded over the years and the cracks glued together with yellowing adhesive. I wonder what God would think if he walked the streets of Heaven. Not a lot, I’m guessing, and it makes me madder than I thought it would.
An uneasy silence sits between us while we try to figure one another out and as I sip the bitter coffee, I am only glad for its caffeine shot.
I’m surprised when my father breaks the silence and says with a sneer, “It appears you fell even harder. Congratulations on reaching rock bottom.”
I’m guessing he is referencing my appearance and I smile, proud of who I became.
