The Words We Leave Unspoken(37)
Moments later, the kitchen is filled with laughter and harmless but persistent bickering, a complete contrast to the quiet from before. It sounds as if a circus has staked its tent right in the confines of this room but I welcome it. This is my life, I think.
The kids are hyped up on sugar from their chocolate rainbow-sprinkled donuts. I slip upstairs to change into warm clothes and then bundle the kids. We all retreat to the expansive back yard. It’s cold outside but the sun is shining in the clear blue sky. John builds a fire in the fire pit near the beach and then we all gather on the soggy lawn for a game of baseball. More like John pitches to each of us until we manage to hit the ball and then we run around all the makeshift bases at lightning speed. It’s more fun for Max this way. Laughter rings through the crisp fall air, dancing in the breeze like the fallen leaves and I feel happier than I have in weeks. Each time I glance at Max or Olivia, it’s like my mind takes a snapshot of their smiling faces. Even John and Charley are laughing, so much at times that they can hardly run as they stand, doubled over, their eyes filled with tears. Every now and then, Charley gives me a look. A look that says, “isn’t this great and I’m so sorry you’re dying and by the way, you need to tell your husband,” all at once. It’s comforting to have her here, to know that she knows this isn’t just some ordinary day. That today is a great day simply because I don’t know how many of these days I’ll have left. And in the back of my mind I can’t help but wish that today was just another Sunday in a lifetime of somedays.
“Okay last pitch, Max,” John yells. “It’s lunchtime.”
Max chokes up on the bat just like John taught him. His tongue is resting on his upper lip, his face drawn in serious concentration. John pitches the ball and Max swings just in time, smacking it over John’s head as it flies through the air until it lands at the edge of the grass where it rolls into the tree line.
Charley and I scream in unison.
“Run Max,” Olivia yells, jumping up and down.
John makes a big show of running across the yard, scooping up the ball and sprinting straight to home plate as Max runs his little heart out. John lets him touch home before he tags him with the ball and picks him up and swings him around.
“Safe,” Charley yells. Max giggles, a huge, triumphant smile stretched across his face as John sets him down on his feet.
“Nice home run, little man,” John says in a big burly voice, mussing Max’s blond curls with his knuckle.
“Okay, who’s hungry?” John asks.
“Me, I’m hungry,” Max says, raising his hand in the air.
“Me too, Daddy,” Olivia chimes in.
I start to walk toward the house to get lunch started, but John wraps his arms around me from behind and swings me around. I laugh, completely caught off guard by his playfulness.
“I got this,” he says against my cheek as he kisses me softly. “Why don’t you and Charley keep an eye on the fire.”
“You sure?” I ask as he sets me down on my feet.
“Yep,” he says and then calls out to the kids, “Okay guys, race you to the house.”
The kids take off running as John growls and snarls, chasing Olivia and Max all the way to the house, their high-pitched squeals and bellowed giggles capturing my attention.
Charley and I watch until they reach the deck and then we sit down in the white Adirondack chairs that are set up around the fire pit.
“Wow, he’s such a great dad,” Charley says, drawing her knees up to her chest with a distant look in her eyes.
“Yeah, he is,” I agree with a sigh and then shift gears. “So what’s going on with you, anyway?”
“What do you mean?” she says but I know her well enough to know when she’s evading my question.
“You seemed upset on the phone last night and you showed up on my doorstep at eight o’clock in the morning. So what is it?”
She looks up at me, taking a moment’s pause before asking, “Why don’t we ever talk about Dad?”
I wasn’t expecting that question. Wasn’t expecting Charley to bring up such a painful memory from our past. A memory that I had stored away all this time, locked it up tightly so that it would never resurface. And now I feel the ache in my heart, almost instantly.
“What is there to talk about, Charley?” Even I could sense the defensiveness in my tone.
“I mean, do you ever wonder about him?”
“No.”
“I had a dream last night. It was so vivid, it was almost like I could smell him. Remember what he used to smell like? That salty, fishy smell when he came home from the docks?”
I remembered all too well. Only it wasn’t just salt and fish, it was the whiskey too. Although it doesn’t surprise me that Charley doesn’t remember that detail. She was too young to understand.
“Yeah, I remember. But, Charley, what does it matter? There’s no point opening old wounds.”
“I just dream of him sometimes and it’s like everything comes crashing back all at once. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if he hadn’t left. If Mom hadn’t driven him away. If we had stayed a family.”
I look at Charley and see the vulnerability that she tries so hard to mask. It reminds me of when she was young, scared like no little girl should be, her eyes so full of questions that I never answered. And maybe I should have. Maybe she wouldn’t despise our mother quite so much. Or maybe she wouldn’t dream of a father who was no more real than a fairy tale. But it wouldn’t have changed our reality, wouldn’t have changed the bad hand we had been dealt.