Mine Would Be You (107)

The late afternoon sun doors in through the back windows, illuminating the old hardwood floors and the kitchen to my right. With the same old appliances and countertops and for god sakes, literally everything is the same. The dog dish is in the same place, the coffee maker unmoved from its signature spot, and my stupid fifth grade artwork on the fridge.

The clearing of a throat brings me out of the unnecessary feelings of nostalgia. I turn, my dark curls almost whipping me in the face as I do, immediately crossing my arms across my chest.

And the only thing that’s different about this place is him.

“Hi dad.” I say, an accidental but not unwelcome bite to my words.

He’s got more wrinkles on his face than I remember, and he’s walks with a limp as he makes his way to sit in one of the wooden dining chairs. I move deeper inside the house, knowing when I look left, I’ll see the hallway that leads to the bedrooms and I have no desire to walk down that memory lane this very second.

“May I ask why you’ve so lovingly requested my presence here?”

Shane snorts from his spot on the edge of the couch but otherwise keeps his mouth shut.

“Shane didn’t tell you?” Dad’s voice is a gruff as ever, the same deep tone to it as always.

I roll my eyes, squatting down to pet Nyx, who hasn’t left my side. “No, he told me I had to come home. He insisted that if he told me over the phone, I would find a way to avoid it and not come back.”

“Sounds like you.” He doesn’t smile, he just watches me from his seat at the table, his eyes unreadable as ever.

“Well now that I’m here, per request,” I motion to the house, trying not to focus on the chipped nail polish on my pointer finger I had picked at in the car, “Can one of you kindly spit it the fuck out?”

My dad’s deep brown eyes darken and instantly I stiffen. It’s been years since I’ve had to mind my tongue and already, I’m falling back into my role as the disappointment to the family. The look he gives me brings me right back to the past. He and Shane have the same eyes, except I can barely remember a time my dad’s held anything but unfiltered disdain or disappointment for me.

“Sheyanne, language.” His voice is stern, leaving no room for argument. I bite my tongue. “I need your help.”

I furrow my brows, “What on earth could I do for you?”

His dark brown skin hardens, the evidence of the years of sun—even with sunscreen and being African American—show how on his face. All hard and deepening lines, dark spots spatter his forehead and nose. “I’m selling the ranch. And the house too, I suppose.”

My heart beats deeply twice in my chest. “What? Why?”

Shane snorts, “Oh please Sheyanne, don’t act like you care.”

I ignore him, eyes fixed on my dad’s face, waiting for an answer that makes logical sense. I may hate it here, but him and Shane most definitely don’t. Or maybe they do, I honestly wouldn’t know.

“He’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.”

I blink once, twice and completely forget the scolding I received moments ago. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” My voice rings through the silence. It seems to echo off the old kitchen and the walls where the painting cracks. Even Nyx’s tail stops swishing next to me.

Dad ignores the curse word that slipped past my lips.

“It’s early onset. We caught it early enough to manage it for now, but still. That’s what it is.” Dad runs a hand over his buzzed black hair, now peppered with gray, and I can feel Shane’s invasive gaze on my face. I keep it impassive, my lips set in a line, no flicker of emotion on my face even if it comes out in my words. “The folder on the table has the diagnosis and recommended doctors and treatment plans.”

For a moment, I look away from them both and stare at the plain manila folder on the old dining room table. My eyes flicker back and forth between that and my dad and my brother, ignoring all the questions bubbling up in my throat except one. “Okay, but why are you selling? Isn’t it just going to Shane?”

Shane clears his throat which I ignore, keeping my eyes peeled on dad, who just shrugs. “He doesn’t want it and I won’t force it on him.”

My brows furrow with disbelief. Last time I saw dad he barely cared about what we—or at least I—wanted, as long as the job or task was done, it didn’t matter in his book as long as it was what he wanted. And now he’s just willing to sell everything? Just like that?

“Okay,” I draw, “But what does that have to do with me?”

It seems heartless to not ask how he’s doing, or the details on what the doctors have said, or to even pick up the folder, or ask how Shane is doing, but that part of myself I used to let care or get close to my dad is shoved deep, deep down in the trenches. And while I can feel a small tug of it deep in my chest at the news, I don’t pull on it.

Because I don’t want to feel it. I don’t want the thread to unravel.

His stare is cold as it meets mine and I’m sure mine is the same. “You’re both going to help me get things ready to go before I have to move into assisted living.”

Dad, in assisted living, that’ll be a day for the record books.

I look between my dad and my brother, who still leans on the edge of the couch with his arms crossed. The sun is starting to set behind the clouds, the first few hues of orange starting to light up the sky and filter in through the windows and splay across the floor. I stare at it for a few moments, not really knowing what to say to either of them.