The Lighthouse

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?”