Sweet Water(67)

I climb the three corrugated slabs of gray cement that serve as the front steps and ring the doorbell. I didn’t let Dad know I was coming, but he’s always told me it isn’t necessary to announce my visits.

Mary Alice prefers a day’s notice. Not surprising.

It’s taking longer than usual for Dad to come to the door, so I peek in the window, but I don’t see anyone there.

I’m contemplating whether I should use the spare key in the planter on the porch to open it myself when the handle jiggles. The door swings open, and Dad is wearing his striped pajama bottoms and a Steelers T-shirt. His eyes are half-shut, and he looks as though he’s been sleeping even though it’s after one o’clock in the afternoon. Dad’s retired, but he’s always been an early riser, and this is concerning. “Rough night?” I ask.

“Sarah?” he says, as if he’s not sure it’s me.

“Jeez, it hasn’t been that long, has it?” I joke.

He gives me a tight smile, and I realize that maybe it has. It’s true—I’ve been busy pushing my agenda with the city on funding for the single-parent project, and before Yazmin’s death, Finn’s college applications took precedence in our lives, and then there is the Children’s Heart-to-Heart Gala tomorrow night. I’ve done a piss-poor job of fundraising for it and haven’t even bought a dress yet. This gala used to be one of the most important community events of the year for me, but I realize, much like the designer sunglasses and purse, it’s all for show. Most of the people who attend don’t really care about the cause. This shift I’m feeling to get away from Martin isn’t just about him but the entire life we’ve built here.

“What’s going on, Dad? Can I come in?”

He shimmies to the left a bit. “Threw my back out. On muscle relaxers. Don’t mind the mess.”

He holds his side while he scooches over to let me in, which seems to take a tremendous effort.

“Oh my.”

There are empty Chinese food containers and pizza boxes piled up on the coffee table like a homeless college kid has been squatting in the living room for months. As I walk farther into the kitchen, I see the sink is overflowing with dirty dishes. Flies buzz around two bags of ripe garbage, and when I pick one up, the foul odor almost knocks me over. This isn’t like Dad, always one to take care of his possessions and home with pride, and now I’m scared.

I open a window. “Jesus, Dad!”

“The bags were too heavy for me to carry with my back.” He sounds defeated, and I don’t like it. My big, strong dad, unable to lift a couple of measly bags of garbage.

“Ever hear of calling us for help?” As I haul the bag outside, it leaks something acrid and yellow on the kitchen floor.

When I come back in, he’s balancing his body between the kitchen island and the counter. “I think you need to see a doctor,” I tell him. “I’m worried about you.”

“Already been. Just tweaked it lifting lumber with Sal.”

I take out the other bag and then wipe up the mess on the floor. I begin to do the dishes, uncertain of how to broach the subject of the past when he’s suffering so much in the present. I should’ve checked in with him sooner.

“Are you ever going to take your retirement seriously?” I ask. Dad still works odd jobs to stay busy, but I thought it was because he never knew how to relax in the first place.

“Staying active is important for my health as I become a senior,” Dad proclaims. I hear his sarcastic tone tingling in there. There he is. He just needed to wake up a little.

“Become a senior?” I begin to remove some dirty dishes so I can fill the sink up with soapy water. The dishwasher is already full and hasn’t been run.

“That’s right. Got my official Medicare card yesterday,” Dad says.

I take a plate crusted with marinara sauce and let it soak in the suds. My thoughts muddle as the clean water slowly turns pink. I take a quick side glance at my father, and my heart dips in my chest, then rises again. His hair looks different—grayer, thinner. And his eyes are withdrawn with dark circles beneath them. I can tell he’s struggling to stand up by the way he’s leaning to the side, and I wonder how he’s aged without my even noticing. My emotions are on a Tilt-A-Whirl today between Alisha and Joshua and now Dad. I sniffle up the tears.

“What’s the matter, Sarah?” My dad may be injured, but he’s not blind. “Put those dishes down; they can wait. One more day of meds and I should be right as rain.”

“I’ll feel better if you let me clean while I tell you what I need to say.” My voice is short and clipped. My father’s physical condition is tripping up my moment of reckoning if my suspicions are true. Did he know something about Martin and not tell me?

“Yeah, fine. Okay, shoot, darling daughter.” Dad coughs, and I wonder if his condition stems from his back alone or if there’s something else going on. Paranoia shakes more tears out of my eyes. I don’t need this right now.

“Sarah, what is it? Kids okay?” He starts to shuffle toward me.

“The kids are fine. Stay right where you are. You aren’t moving so well.”

“Well, you’re crying, baby girl—what’s happened?” He goes back to the stool at the counter and balances there.

“The girl they found dead, on the news . . .” I pause, wiping my nose on my sleeve.