Lost December (35 page)

I knew what I had to do even before I got to my car. There was no other way. As difficult as it would be, I had no choice. I had to face my father.

I am facing the most difficult thing of my life—
my own greatest failure
.

Luke Crisp’s Diary

I sat in the car in front of my father’s house for nearly an hour gathering my thoughts or courage, I’m not sure which. Then again, maybe I was just stalling. I feared facing my father more than anyone or anything I could ever remember.
I was dead to him
. Those words Henry had pronounced continued to echo in my conscience. My guilt was searing. I couldn’t imagine how much I must have hurt my father to make him pronounce my death. My father was as generous and good as anyone I had ever met, but he could also be austere and sharp-tongued. My father didn’t tolerate fools—and I was a fool of the worst sort. Honestly, I don’t think I would have knocked on his door if my visit was only for myself. But it wasn’t. I’d come for people I cared about more than myself. I hoped he would listen to me. I hoped I would have the chance to say what I needed to say before he threw me out.

I walked up the front cobblestone walk and stood on the doorstep. Then, before I could reconsider, reached out and pushed the doorbell. It felt odd, ringing the bell to the house I had grown up in—a door I had slammed a million times after school.

It seemed like an eternity before the door opened to a middle-aged woman I did not know. “May I help you?” she asked. But before I could speak the woman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Luke.”

I wondered who she was. I wondered where Mary was.

“I’m here to see my father,” I said. “Tell him I won’t stay long.”

She looked at me a moment more, then stepped back. “I’ll tell your father that you’re here.”

She walked away and I stepped into the foyer. Somehow the home seemed foreign to me—the familiarity was gone.
How could it be gone?
Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was something inside of me that was gone. When she didn’t return, I began to doubt that he would see me. As the minutes passed, I was sure of it. Of course he wouldn’t. I was dead to him.
The dead are best kept buried
.

As I was wondering what I should do, the woman walked back into the foyer. “Your father’s in his den.”

I mumbled a terse thank you, then walked down the hall past the dining room. The hallway outside my father’s den was always dim. I slowly opened the door. The room was also dark, lit only by desk or floor lamps, illuminating the room in places.

Then I saw him. On the opposite side of the room, on the other side of his desk, my father sat in his tall, throne-like chair. His hair was thin and gray, and for a moment the two of us just looked at each other. My father’s eyes were locked on mine—those sharp, piercing eyes, dark and unreadable.

I stepped inside. “Sir …”

He held up a finger, silencing me. He just stared at me for a moment then he said, “Are you really here?”

My mouth felt dry. “I’m sorry, I just …” I took a step toward him, desperately wanting to hide from him and knowing I couldn’t. “I’ve come to apologize.” I dropped my head. “You were right to disown me. I’m so sorry.” I put my head down, waiting for his words—his rebuke and rejection. It didn’t come. Then I heard something. I heard a sniff. I looked up. My father’s eyes were red. He didn’t speak because he was crying.

“My boy,” he said softly. “My boy.” Tears flowed freely down his face. He stood, walking around his desk with his arms stretched out to me. “My boy!”

“Dad?”

“Mary!” he shouted. “Mary! Luke has come home! My son has come home!”

He walked forward and we embraced, his still powerful arms nearly crushing me. I began to sob. I couldn’t look into his face. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

My father just held me, kissing my head. “I’ve prayed every night that you would find your way back. And you’ve come back. You came back. It’s all that matters.”

Just then Mary stepped inside the room. She froze when she saw me. “Luke!”

“He’s back, Mary!”

Her eyes immediately welled up with tears. She walked over and hugged me. “I told you he would come back, didn’t I?”

“You never lost faith.” He pulled me still tighter. “My boy. Oh, my boy.” He said to Mary, “Make reservations at DiSera’s. Tell Larry to hold our table. Tell Larry to pour the Monfortino and break out his mandolin. We’re celebrating. My boy’s come home.”

The sweetness of reunion is the joy of Heaven
.

Luke Crisp’s Diary

There we were. The two of us (actually three of us, since Mary had come), sitting at the same table where we’d sat when my father had first suggested that I go off to school. The joy I felt was indescribable. Yet, it was my father who seemed most joyful. My father was positively giddy, as if he might suddenly burst into song.

The Monfortino wine we drank was special not just because it was DiSera’s best, but at $1,000 a bottle, it was something my father had never ordered—would never order. But tonight he did. It was a gesture, and it wasn’t lost on me. Tonight, nothing was held back.

My father wanted to know everything about what I’d been through. Everything. I told him about our journey, my extravagances and partying. I was embarrassed to confess my foolishness, but my father just listened and shook his head knowingly. When I told him about Sean and how he had taken me, his only comment was “I’ve been there.”

His eyes welled up with tears when I told him about Candace leaving me, more when I told him about the months I spent under the Las Vegas streets and even more when I told him about being mugged. His eyes shone with gratitude
when I told him about Carlos and how he had saved me. He smiled when I told him about Wayne.

“I remember Wayne,” my father said. “He looks like Gepetto in the Disney cartoon.”

I laughed. “That’s him.”

“He really screwed up that MGM bid,” he said, grinning. He sighed and took a drink of wine. “Every now and then I do something right.”

When I told him about Rachael, I realized how much she meant to me.

“It’s not done, is it?” my father said.

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

Throughout my story my father never once reprimanded me. There was no judgment. No “I told you so.” No anger. Only love and joy at my return.

Later in the evening, after Larry had finished playing
Volare
for us on his mandolin, my father stood up and clinked his fork against his wineglass until everyone in the restaurant was looking at us.

“My friends,” he said. “Most of you are strangers. But tonight, you are all my friends—because tonight we are celebrating. My son has come home. I invite you all to join me in a toast.”

Larry walked around his restaurant, gesturing wildly and shouting “Glasses up!” Larry’s restaurant was his home and he ran it as such. (He was notorious for throwing out people he didn’t like, which only added to his restaurant’s fame and popularity.)

Even without Larry’s encouragement, most of the restaurant’s
occupants were already smiling and raising their glasses.
Who doesn’t love a happy reunion?

My father lifted his glass. “To my son. Wherever he has sailed, I give thanks to the winds that brought him home.”

We touched our glasses as my eyes filled with tears. Such gratitude and love filled my heart for this man. For
his
love.

My father looked out over the dining room. “Thank you for sharing our joy,” my father said. “Tonight, your dinners are all on me.” The entire restaurant broke out into applause. Then Mary whispered something to him and he grinned wryly. “But not your drinks.”

Everyone laughed, then applauded again.

“Cantiamo!”
Larry shouted. “We sing.” He played
That’s Amore
on his mandolin and the entire restaurant sang like we were old friends. Everyone except my father. The whole time my father just looked at me and smiled.

My return has awoken the giant
.

Luke Crisp’s Diary