Falling Out Of Bed

“I think I’d do better if I knew you were home.”

What can I say to that? My father asking me to leave. Maybe he just doesn’t want me here.

“I’d feel better if I knew you were with Dave. He must miss you. The diagnosis shocked me. I’ll try to eat more. And I’d feel more relaxed if you were home.”

He forks mashed potatoes into his mouth, swallows. “See. We’ll be fine.”

I nod.

“You go home, honey. David must miss you.”

Jan has just come home from the Skillys’, and she and I are standing in the living room. Dad’s in bed. I think she’s had too much to drink, but it’s difficult to tell with her.

“I’m going home in the morning,” I say. I feel tense because deep down I know she’s not going to like this news.

She looks at me as if I’ve told her hell froze over while she was at the Skillys’.

“You’re what?”

“Dad ate dinner and we talked. He said he’d feel better if I went home. In fact, he said he wants me to go home. I’ll come back in a few weeks.”

“He ate?” Her eyes narrow and her lips flatten against each other. “He won’t eat for me.”

“He didn’t eat a lot.” I go back into the kitchen, stand at the stove, stir the spaghetti sauce that’s been simmering an hour. After I called the airline, I made the sauce so I could leave an extra meal in the refrigerator.

I place the stained wooden spoon on the folded paper towel next to the stove. I hear Jan walk in and I turn around. She sits at the oak table.

“What’s that smell?” She lifts her chin, sniffs the air, makes a face.

“I’m making spaghetti sauce for you.” Why do I always lie to make people happy? I’ve never liked this about myself but can’t seem to stop. The sauce isn’t for her. It’s for Dad because I want him to eat, get better, be healthy.

“This way you’ll have meals for a few days.”

“That’s nice, but what about the other days? With all the work around here, I don’t have time to cook.”

“You can pick up Luby’s takeout.”

“It’s hard for me to drive at night. And I don’t like Luby’s.”

“You drove tonight and did okay.” I turn back, pick up the spoon and stir the sauce. She clucks her tongue.

“That’s different. Why are you going home?”

I want to say, Because you are driving me crazy, but I swallow back the words, take a deep breath and turn to her.

“Dad wants me to go home. He said so while we were having dinner. I can come back in a few weeks.”