Читать книгу The Lighthouse - Mary Schramski - Страница 8

The stars and the rivers

And waves call you back.

—Pindar

I feel invisible right now.

I’m sitting on an airplane next to an older man who reminds me a little of my father. And we are waiting to deplane into the Los Angeles airport. We never spoke a word to each other. At thirty thousand feet, when it got really bumpy, I wanted to say to him, Wow this is scary, but he was reading and I didn’t want to bother him.

Not saying what I feel isn’t unusual for me. Even when I have my feet on the ground, I don’t tell people what I think.

Like three weeks ago when I was watching TV. A Christmas commercial about cameras came on. In the middle, where the smiling, tearful mother says goodbye to her daughter, I started thinking about my mom, how I miss her, and how I wish I’d told her I loved her the last time we spoke.

Suddenly, I was thinking about my dad and how I hadn’t spent many Christmases with him. We’ve never really connected, but as far as family goes, he’s all I have left. That’s when I burst into tears—a forty-two-year-old, successful Realtor, crying her eyes out on her Pottery Barn couch. Twice I stopped, then I’d think about my mother, alone, in her smashed-up silver Camry. I’d start crying again. She called me the night before her accident. I didn’t call her back because I was angry about a million-dollar house I’d missed signing.

That night, after the commercial and tears, I sat on the couch thinking about how this year, if I didn’t go home, I’d be alone. I don’t have a boyfriend. Truth be known, I haven’t had a date in a year because I work too much and I’m picky as hell about the men I date.

Long story short, I bought an airline ticket online. Deep down, I was hoping I might get closer to my father over Christmas.

Then I called him.

He sounded surprised to hear from me, and when I told him I was coming home for Christmas, there was this long pause. He said, That’s not such a good idea. I have to go.

Click.

I stared at the phone, felt confused, then I got mad. My own father telling me not to come home for Christmas! I stomped around the house, threw a pillow across the room. Then when I thought about how my mother always let out a whoop when I told her I could make it home for the holidays, I started crying again.

I finally got control, but it took a while. I was holding my breath, trying to get rid of a mean case of hiccups and telling myself as soon as they went away I was going to call my father back and ask him what in the hell was wrong. That’s when the phone rang.

I said hello, and Dad launched into this explanation about how I woke him up. I looked at my watch, didn’t believe him, yet didn’t say anything. He asked what time he should pick me up at the airport. I got more confused, but I still didn’t say anything. None of this was like him. Instead of asking him what was really wrong, I gave him my itinerary and here I am, waiting to walk into the LAX terminal.

The airplane door must have opened because people are grabbing bags and inching down the aisle.

The man next to me smiles, leans a little closer. “Have a nice holiday,” he says.

I smile back. “You, too.”

He gets up, walks down the aisle in front of me.

When I reach the terminal, I take a deep breath. It’s late and the terminal is almost empty. I go down to the baggage-claim area. I see my father right away. He’s standing by the far wall, arms crossed with that familiar, serious look on his face. His hair’s a little grayer than I remember, and his blue shirt doesn’t match his brown pants, which surprises me because he’s always been a neat dresser.

As I walk over, he sees me, smiles, steps forward.

“Christine,” he says in the same deep, calm voice I’ve heard all my life.

“Hi, Dad.” I hesitate, want to hug him, but I’m still a little miffed about the phone call. I give him a quick hug, then pull back. “It’s good to see you.”

“Same here. Are you ready?” he asks, then looks at my roller bag. “This all you have?”

I nod, take the handle of the suitcase, and we begin walking.

“Flight okay?”

“The landing almost knocked out one of my fillings.”

Dad smiles. We’ve talked this airplane talk for a long time. That’s one of the first memories I have of my father. Him standing over my bed in his smooth, dark blue pilot uniform, and Mom saying, Good night, have a good flight. I probably giggled because of the rhyme.

“How’s work?” he asks as we make our way toward the exit door.

“Busy. Really busy. I’ve got a lot of house sales coming up. One big one.” I’ve always tried to impress him. People have called me a workaholic, and it was a big stretch for me to leave all my listings right now, but after I bought the ticket and called Dad, I didn’t have a choice.

He stops right before we walk out the door. “Can you afford to be away from work from now till New Year’s Day?”

The man behind us trips a little over my suitcase. My father puts his hand on my back, moves me to the side, out of the way.

“Sure. Christmas week is really slow, nothing will happen. I’ve worked hard all year. I deserve a little break. I’m the office’s top seller.”

“As long as you’re not losing money. We’ll play it by ear. If you have to go back early, I’ll understand.”

“Nobody buys a house around Christmas.” This isn’t exactly true—a listing can sell anytime. I lean closer, give him a quick hug. “I’ll handle everything when I get home. I’m a master at real estate sales.” I doubt if my father cares about this fact. He wanted me to go to college and become a doctor or lawyer, but I didn’t want to. We had a lot of fights over this. And it didn’t make it any better that I wasn’t settled until six years ago, when I finally found something I’m good at.

We walk outside.

“I had to park far away.”

“Parking at the Tucson airport is terrible, too.” I fill my lungs with moist air. The scent of the ocean brings a memory of my mother sitting on the back porch step, her head held back, lips parted. She takes a deep breath and smiles at me.

My heart begins to ache.

“Those bastards. President has to do more.”

“What?” I look at him. We’re walking past the corded-off, empty parking spaces.

“President needs to do more about security,” Dad says, gesturing toward the spaces. The irritation I hear in his voice surprises me and I feel achy and tired.

Dad settles my carry-on in the trunk of his Volvo and opens the passenger door. His car is immaculate, as usual. I glance down. A list stands at attention in the cup holder: bread, milk, gas, 8:15 Christine. I laugh.

“Something funny?” Dad asks as he climbs in.

“Your list.”

“Yeah?”

“You put me on the list. Would you have forgotten me if you hadn’t?” I’m kidding, but then remember the other night when he told me he didn’t want me to come home. Yet he’s always been a list-maker, a dependable man.

“Of course not. Just a habit.”

He starts the car, maneuvers out of the parking lot, and soon we’re on the 405. Air rushes in through his open window. I open mine, breathe in, feel as if I’m washing the last bit of arid desert out of my lungs.

Dad sighs.

A memory of my mother sneaks in. I close my eyes, relax. Warm afternoon sunlight streaming onto the back porch, my mother acting silly, telling me I can drink air. Me, a giggly girl. I hold my head back, sip the cool breeze. Dad asks what we’re doing, and in my little-girl voice I tell him drinkin’ air. He sighs, shakes his head and explains to my mother she shouldn’t fill my head with nonsense.

I look over at him. He’s driving like he always has, right hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on his left thigh. Some things about him I know well.

“So everything’s okay? You don’t mind having company this week?”

He glances over, then back to the road. “Of course not. Why should I mind? Everything okay with you?”

“I was just wondering. You know, well, you hung up on me.” I feel the anger I felt in my living room, but I push it back so I don’t have to feel it right now.

“I was tired.” He stares straight ahead.

For some reason, I don’t believe him and I want him to explain more, say something else, yet I know he won’t. “But you’re okay?”

“Fine. How’s work?” he asks again.

“Great. I’ll probably win top sales for the office this year. I’m the top seller.” I repeat what I just told him. I work fourteen-hour days, but to produce the way I do, I have to. Most of the time, I’m exhausted. “What have you been up to?”

“Managing to keep busy.”

“Doing what?”

He flips on his turn signal and eases into the right lane to pick up the 110. “I’ve got lots of things to do, taking care of the house, for one thing. It’s getting older by the day. So your flight was okay?”

“Fine. A little crowded, but since it’s two days before Christmas I expected that.” I drink in more air, wishing I felt as if I could open up, tell him he pissed me off when I called to tell him about my trip, but I can’t.

“Yeah, it’s crazy flying at this time,” Dad says.

“People want to be home for the holidays.”

Dad looks at me, then back to the road. “I’m glad you’re home. That you could take the time off from work.”

“Thanks. I didn’t want you to be alone.” My shoulders relax a little and I lean back. Before I became a Realtor, I used to jump from job to job—waitress, secretary, Pottery Barn sales clerk. With those jobs, I could come home every year if Mom sent me airfare. My father used to just shake his head when I’d tell him I’d changed jobs again. Then one day, a friend said I should try selling houses because I had a knack for making people happy. I didn’t know what the heck she meant by that since my life was pretty much a train wreck. I was in debt, not happy with any job and never found a relationship that worked.

When I asked her what she meant, she said I was nice. I laughed, told her I wished I wasn’t so nice. That was seven years ago, and three top sales awards later.

“Still like your job?” Dad asks.

“The job’s great. The other day, a client told me I helped her find her dream home. That really reminded me of Mom.”

An eye blink later, he turns the steering wheel sharply to change lanes and brakes squeal. I’m thrown forward toward the dashboard.

“Good God!”

A horn screeches and I glance back, thinking he’s caused a ten-car pile up on the 110, but everything’s okay.

“Dad, you cut that guy off.”

“He had plenty of room. People should learn how to drive!”

A weird feeling spirals through me. This isn’t like him at all, but neither is him hanging up on me. I look over at him. Basically, he’s the same, maybe a little thinner, grayer. I turn my attention to the window, watch as we drive through the oil fields, come all the way up Pacific Avenue and turn right on Thirty-eighth Street.

When Dad turns into the driveway of our house, my heart jumps a little. It’s the one I grew up in, the one my mother loved, decorated, the one she didn’t come back to eight months ago.

We walk on the sidewalk that cuts from the garage to our house through the night-wet grass. I’m in front pulling my suitcase, and Dad is right behind me. The night is so quiet I can hear his shoes tapping against the concrete.

I scuff my feet against the familiar flowery welcome mat on the back porch. Dad unlocks the door, flips on the light, motions me to go in, and I step into my mother’s kitchen.

“I’ll put your suitcase in your room.” Dad disappears through the swinging door that leads from the kitchen to the rest of the house.

My head is aching, I guess from the flight, the drive home, anticipation. I glance around. The same familiar yellow walls—like sunshine—was how my mother described the color years ago. My dad told her that was silly.

I was so looking forward to seeing familiar things, but now I’m not so sure. When I’m in Tucson, I can keep my grief tucked away. Nothing there reminds me of home, and I’m so busy most of the time, I don’t have time to think about anything but work.

Yet, right now, it feels like just yesterday that I sat at the oak table in the kitchen in shocked disbelief that my mother was gone. Dad has changed nothing. The white-and-yellow tile and the turquoise art deco canisters sitting by the stove are still the same. And the white curtains edge the window over the sink. Except now the room is a mess with unwashed dishes, a greasy frying pan on the stove.

The old refrigerator, squat as an old woman, hums. I place my purse on the table in the middle of the room, dig around, find the little foil packet of Aleves in my makeup bag. The door to the dining room swings wide, Dad walks in, and the refrigerator sighs.

“Need anything?” he asks.

“No.” A half lie. I’m not sure what I need. I feel numb—a little disoriented, but I don’t know how to tell him this. And he probably wouldn’t understand, anyway. I glance toward the dining room and, for a split second, I expect my mom to push through the swinging door, hug me, then sit at the table and pat the space beside her.

My headache deepens.

“I saw Sandra this morning. She’s looking forward to seeing you,” Dad says.

Sandra is three years older than I am, and she grew up in the house next door. We played together when we were young and, when she went to high school, I followed her like a puppy, entranced by the boys, makeup and dates that swirled around her. Three years ago, she moved back into her childhood home to take care of her mother. We’ve kept in touch, but over the last few years I’ve been so busy, we haven’t talked much.

“I’ll go over tomorrow. It’s too late now.”

Dad looks at the clock. “Better turn on the news.”

“Still on at nine?”

We both look toward the yellow sunflower clock over the fridge, and I laugh despite what I’m feeling. Eight-fifty-five.

“Yep, still on at nine. Are you coming?” he throws over his shoulder as he walks out of the kitchen.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

A moment later the TV blares. I walk to the refrigerator, open the door. Almost empty. This surprises me until I remind myself my mother isn’t here to fill it. At the new stainless-steel sink that Mom had installed two months before she died, I find a clean glass, fill it with water, pop the pair of puffy blue Aleves in my mouth and wash them down.

The tiny crystal bear Mom hung in the window sways a little. I wonder how many times she stood in this spot, looked at the little bear and heard these same noises—the fridge humming, the TV voices, her own breathing? I try to look out the window, but all I can see is a lot of my mother in my reflection—long dark hair, narrow face.

Familiar grief pushes in and I shove it back.

After my mother passed away, my grief came in waves, like the ocean four blocks away, crashing against the cliffs. Sadness rolled over me, at times the weight of it knocking me down, filling up my throat and chest. Then just as suddenly, it would be gone, washing back to who knows where? I wouldn’t know when the grief was going to splash over me again—a song, feeling the early morning breeze against my skin, anything might bring back the hurt.

I turn around, lean against the counter’s edge. I grew up knowing my mother loved this kitchen. We talked a lot here. She told me once that she wanted to soak up the history of this house, and family history always began in kitchens.

She told me so many things. Once at the park, when I was around six, she held a dandelion to my lips, said, “Make a wish, Christine, and believe!”

I close my eyes, wish my mother were here.

“Christine,” Dad calls from the living room.

“Yeah?” Where did she go? Crazy, I know, but it’s so strange that one moment a person is breathing, laughing, then poof, gone!

“News is on.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I look around the kitchen, wonder how much my father misses my mother. They were married for forty-three years. Does he plunge into memories and swim to where she is, tangle in her long, dark hair?

I drain the glass. I have to get control. I push my thoughts back and walk into the other room.

Blinking red lights grab my attention.

“What in the heck is that?” I ask.