A Visit with Dad

Since I forgot my glasses, I squinted as we drove up Dad’s street. I was looking carefully at the mailboxes in the mobile home park for the label, “The Peck’s.” It was the first thing I was looking for so it was the first thing I spotted and we pulled up and parked. I wasn’t expecting but wasn’t surprised either by the next thing I saw, a Prudential “For Sale” sign neatly posted next to the front of the house.

Dad's wives and homes are in a constant flux. Change and overspending are normal for Dad. Even so, an old pang formed in my stomach and I felt the old panic rising with my unanswered questions. “Where will Dad go? Why is he selling? He’s been in this home less than a year. Is something wrong?”

Dad invited us in with smile. He was stirring up pancake batter with a wire whisk in a glass bowl when he explained everything,

“I have nothing to do with it! It’s one of those quick sales the bank is putting on. We bought the place for a hundred thousand and they’re selling it for sixty. We already had someone come and look yesterday. I hope it goes before the end of the month before the payment is due.”

While he’s talking I keep thinking about our new Sacramento house in escrow. It sure seems very large and lavish compared to Dad’s mobile home in short sale. I keep wondering where Dad will go. When Dad finds out we aren’t in the mood for pancakes, he sits on the floral love seat next to us and reveals his plans.

“My daughter just got married on Tuesday. She married a real estate man who’s in the dough. He owns lots of houses so he’ll fix us up with something.”

It doesn’t bother me when Dad refers to his Hispanic step daughter as his daughter even though I know it should. He’s only been married to Maria for two years. It’s just one of the many of Dad’s innocent yet hurtful quirks I’ve learned to adjust to through the years. When he gets married, he takes on his wife’s whole family and calls them his own. Maybe it makes him feel like it’s more legitimate that way.

Dad looks so fragile on the couch across from us. I hear him talking about his dialysis regimen and his hobby, panning for gold. As I look at him my feelings grow louder, drowning out his soft voice. I notice Dad’s frail frame, the sight of which the day before caused my older brother Todd to guess that he probably weighed, “a buck fifty.” The hard angular slants of his cheek bones and the outline of his bony eye sockets make it look as though his staring blue eyes are peering out of a corpse’s skull. I try not to but I think of Dad lying in a coffin.

I hear Dad chuckling at Nicky and Andy as they finish bringing out the last of his “daughters” stuffed animal collection out of back bedroom. The kids grow restless and Dad gives them some candy and invites them to see the back yard. The thunder storm has passed but it is still drizzly outside and the grass wets our sandaled feet as we follow Dad into the backyard. I wonder if the kids will remember spending time with their grandfather. I imagine that if they do, he will be a shadow in their memory; perhaps his will be the face they can’t quite recall. Or, maybe they will remember this very afternoon where the wet grass stuck to their ankles and they traipsed next to my father in his backyard as I did when I was their size. I don’t feel as sad when I think they'll remember. Dad tells us about the rose bushes he planted and shows us the storage shed he built. As sick as he is, I’m amazed at the perfect craftsmanship in the shelves and the joists. Dad’s humble food storage made up of wheat, oats, Hershey’s Cocoa, shaving cream, and deodorant sits on the shelves. I try not to look at Dad now because I’m pushing back tears. I’ve already looked in the future and I see someone else, not my Dad using his shed and enjoying his roses. I know he doesn’t care. Why should I?

Dad seems to grow tired, a side effect of dialysis, and hints with his body language that he’s ready for us to leave. As we are leaving he says goodbye and calls Nicky, “little
pow.” He makes her look him in the eyes so he can see her eye color and he’s satisfied that they’re blue. Maria appears in the doorway and he puts his arm across her shoulders. They stand there watching as we drive away. The rain starts up again and pounds against the window. I look in the rearview mirror and they are gone. I think it’s the last time I’ll see my dad in his mobile home with the pretty furniture my uncle bought for him and his wife. I wonder where he will be the next time I see him. I'll adjust to wherever it is. I always do.