The Lighthouse

I get off the couch and notice the dirt on his pants. “What happened to your pants?”

“I fell.”

“You fell? How? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I stumbled off the curb. It’s no big deal,” he says, waves me away, and that’s when I see the blood on his hand.

“Dad, your hand is bleeding!” I go to him, take his wrist gingerly and try to look at his palm.

“It’s nothing.” He pulls away, walks through the dining room to the kitchen. I find him at the sink, filling a glass with water.

“You sure you’re okay?”

He nods, drinks. Water drips on the front of his chambray shirt, tiny dark tear shapes. I begin to feel light-headed. He turns back around, rinses his palms and grimaces.

“You should put something on your hand.” I look at his pants again. There isn’t any blood and I’m thankful for that. “You sure your knees are okay?”

“There’s Neosporin somewhere around here. When I find it, I’ll put some on.”

Dad walks back to the living room and I tag along. He sits, groans, then looks at me and forces a smile. “I’m fine.”

“I know where the Neosporin is.” And for one deep, long moment, I want my mother to be here so badly I can’t breathe. I shake the thought away, go to the medicine cabinet, locate the ointment and come back to the living room.

“Here, put your hand out.” He does, and I dab the antibiotic on the small oozing areas.

“The other one is scraped, too.” He holds his left hand out.

It’s not as bad as his right one, thank God. “This must have taken the fun out of your walk,” I say, trying to be funny as I dab on more ointment.

He gives me this weird look, for just a moment—a split second really—and then it’s gone. But it’s too late and I’m more worried than I was before.

“Maybe you should go to the doctor to check—”

“I’m not going to the doctor.”

“What if you broke something?”

“I’m okay. I’ve had broken bones before and I know what that feels like.”

“Where’d you fall?” I ask as I put the cap on the Neosporin.

“On my knees.”

“No, I mean where were you?”

“Over by the park.”

“Oh, you walked to the park?”

“Yeah.”

“I haven’t been there in years. Is it the same?”

Instead of answering, he closes his eyes. And I notice how pale his skin looks, pallid really. And the wrinkles on his forehead are much deeper than I remember.

“Dad?”

He looks at me. “Yeah?”

“Can I get you something? Maybe some hot chocolate or anything, another glass of water?”

“Hot chocolate would be good.” He pushes himself up with his elbows, his hands held high.

“I’ll make it,” I say, and we go into the kitchen. A few moments later, the hot chocolate sizzles in the pan. I stand at the stove, not knowing what to do. Dad is by the sink. I smile at him.

“I did the dishes.” I nod toward the sink.

“Thanks. Kitchen looks nice.”

“Is it cold outside?”

“A little.”

The house is so quiet and colorless without my mother. “The house seems kind of lonely.”

“It is.”

“How are you doing really?”

“Every day is tough…but I’m okay.” He purses his lips, shakes his head like a kid, and I feel so sorry for him.

I study the table for a moment, try to think of something that might make him feel better. When I look back, he’s staring at me. “Someone told me it gets easier.”

“That someone lied.” Dad straightens a little, looks at the pan on the stove. “Chocolate ready?”

“I think so.” I look for mugs that don’t remind me of my mother, but it’s impossible. I finally give up, fill two bright yellow ones that are as familiar as my own reflection.

“It’s hot, so be careful with your hands.” I place the steaming mugs on the oak table.

We sit across from each other. “So you walked around the park? Isn’t it kind of dark there at night?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve never been there at night.”

He looks down, gingerly brings the mug to his lips, blows across the surface. “What do you want to do tomorrow?”

“Well, you know I need to go Christmas shopping. We could go to the mall early before it gets busy. I’ll buy you lunch after.”