The Lighthouse

He laughs. “Good for you. You sell people places to be happy.”

“Maybe. After they sign the contract, it’s up to them.”

“So your family’s still here?”

“Yes…well, my dad.” And for the first time this morning, I realize that’s all the family I have.

“Married?”

“No. Never.”

“Is that, No you never have married or you never will?”

I laugh at his slight insanity. “It’s I’ve never been married and since I’m going on forty-three, it’s not very likely.”

“Anything’s possible. Remember that.” He leans his head back a little. “Life is all about believing.” He looks around the room, then back to me. “I hardly ever come in here, but this morning I had this weird feeling, like I needed to be here.”

And for a moment, I’m back in a high school classroom with its chalky haze, and Adam is sitting, slouched in his chair, his eyes half closed, giving the teacher a bunch of crap.

CHAPTER 4

I’m standing on the porch, looking through the living room window. My father is sitting in his chair, holding my mother’s picture, and his expression is so despondent, it hurts to look at him.

My plan, after I left the café, was to come home, borrow Dad’s car and go Christmas shopping. But then, a moment ago, as I was crossing the porch, I noticed Dad through the living room window.

He glances up, sees me. I smile and give him a little wave. He walks over to the fireplace and puts her picture back on the mantel.

“How was your walk?” he asks, coming out onto the porch.

“Okay, until I went to the park. It reminded me of Mom, so I left and went over to the café and drank too much coffee.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me. Were our conversations always this stilted or did I just never notice when Mom was around?

“Maybe it was seeing the lighthouse, too, not just the park,” I say. “You know how Mom loved the…” The anguish in his eyes stops the rest of what I was going to say. I want to tell him that everything—the house with all of her things still out, the park, even the air—reminds me of her. But I don’t. He looks like he’s hurting, plus we don’t have the kind of relationship where I can bare my soul.

“Hey, I ran into someone I knew in high school at the café. We talked a little.”

“That’s good.” Dad looks out past the front porch to the lawn.

“You were holding Mom’s picture?” I gesture toward the window.

His gaze comes back to me. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about her a lot.”

“I have, too.”

He rubs his lips. “Her two big things in December were trying to get you to come home and putting me in the Christmas spirit.”

My heart pounds. I cross the porch, place my hand on his forearm. “Mom knew us pretty well. Sometimes I had to work, so did you. You two were together a long time. She understood.”

“At times…”

I wait for him to finish, then realize he’s not going to.

“At times?” I urge, then pat his arm, feel the warmth under his shirt.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Dad, Mom…” It feels good talking to someone who knew my mother, who loved her. I miss that in Tucson. Yet the way my father looks, I think this talk might upset him.

“Your mother what?” he asks.

“She wouldn’t want you to be sad. She wasn’t like that. Maybe you should think about the good times. That’s what I try to do.” This isn’t true. My memories come at will, dodge in and out, like sunlight in between the trees on a windy day.

“It’s not that easy. I keep thinking there are things I should have done.”

“I know. Me, too.”

He looks at me, squints. “What do you know?”

“Mom called me the night before her accident, and I didn’t call her back. How…stupid was that? I regret that.”

“She always called you. Worried when you didn’t call back. You should have been more responsible when it came to your mother.”

“I know,” I say, and my chest starts to ache.

He turns, studies the yard again, and I wish our lives were the way they used to be—my mother standing between us, keeping my father and me apart.

“She wanted you to go to college, get a good education,” he says quietly.

I think about how my mother used to send me money when I was job-hopping, little notes about how I should go out and buy something fun. She probably never told Dad.

I walk to where he can see me. “No, that was you who wanted that. And I think I’ve done pretty well for myself. It just took some time.”

“I wanted you to be something.”

I try not to feel angry, but it’s impossible with old hurts surfacing. “I am something! At least Mom thought so.”

I wait for an answer, but his eyes hold so much loneliness I have to look away. Before I can say another word, he goes inside.

“Hi,” Sandra says. “I was hoping you’d come by.” She leans against the front doorjamb and smiles. “It’s good to see you.”

I’m standing on Sandra’s porch. She looks the same—long red hair, creamy skin, sweet expression.

“Good to see you, too,” I say.

“You look great.” Her smile widens.

“Thanks, so do you.”