Rewind to You (29 page)

“No, thank you.”

“I’ll get you some milk anyway,” he says and hobbles into the kitchen.

I glance around the living room, shifting uncomfortably. I’m about to have a cup of milk with my dad, and it makes me feel nine again. Decorations are sparse. A few random things hang on the wall. A leather-bound book rests on a side table beneath a lamp. A Bible? Not like my dad. One framed photo sits on the mantel above a brick fireplace, a picture of a gangly kid with scraggly hair, holding a football.

My dad rounds the corner, his smile a mile wide. “Look at you! You look sharp, and you’re huge! What are you, six foot four?”

“Six two,” I say.

“And two hundred pounds a’ muscle,” he adds as he sets two cups on the table beside me. “I gotcha an orange juice, too, just in case. You want anything to eat?”

“No, thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“I got a big ol’ bowl a’ fruit in the fridge.”

Fruit? My dad is starting to sound like Sienna’s mom. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Finally he gives up on the friendly chitchat crap, but his smile remains. I almost wish he was drunk or smacked. Mean. Then I could drive away right now and never look back.

He takes a seat on a recliner facing me, the cushions permanently indented to fit his body. An awkward moment passes. We stare at each other, and again, I’m amazed to see how much he’s aged. His hair is thinning, like the rest of his body. He used to seem so big, and maybe that’s partly because I was a kid. I’m afraid I’m staring at a mirror of myself as an old man: blue eyes, graying hair. Hopefully without drugs and prison, I won’t look this awful until I’m sixty-something instead of his forty-one.

I take a sip of milk because I don’t know what else to do, and I wonder if he’s ever going to wipe that smile off his face. Are we going to sit here and chat like nothing ever happened, like he didn’t disappear without explanation? Not one letter. No phone call. Sounds tempting, actually, leaving the past buried where it belongs, rather than taking a dig. What am I even doing here?

“What are you doing here?” I voice the next logical question. “In Georgia? I mean, I know you grew up in Alabama, but that was years ago. Your parents are dead.”

“I inherited this home from Aunt Grace,” he says. “But enough about me. Tell me about yourself! What are
you
doing in Georgia?”

“I’ve been living in Savannah for the past year with Aunt Debbie and Uncle Mark.”

“No kidding! How about that. And you’ve graduated high school by now?”

I nod, deciding to take the plunge. I’m not staying long, and when I leave I’m never coming back. I came for one reason. It’s time to dig, reach some feel-goody agreement with my dad, so I can tell Sienna her birthday present wasn’t in vain, and then leave this whole mess behind me once and for all. “How long have you lived here?”

“Almost three years.”

His words sting. Three years he’s been free, and he never looked me up to say hi? “The three years after you got out of prison?”

His smile fades into a resigned look. “I’m glad your mother was the one to tell you.”

“She didn’t tell me a thing.”

He responds with a pained expression. “I’m sorry, Austin. It wasn’t your mother’s fault. Don’t hold it against her.”

“I don’t.” The sharpness in my voice has a noticeable effect on him. “It was drugs, wasn’t it?”

He clears his throat and massages his hands. “Actually, conspiracy to commit money laundering.”

I feel my forehead furrow. “Money laundering? The IRS put you behind bars?”

He looks down and mumbles, “Yeah, and the FBI. I was also charged for use of a firearm . . . in drug trafficking.”

He’s suddenly very interested in the floor. Won’t look up.

I don’t mention the fact that I’ve been working at FLETC on Saturdays, the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center where a bunch of those feds train.

“Drugs were a problem, too,” he admits.

“Were?”

“Been clean since the day they took me in,” he says with pride.

I’m not sure whether to believe him or not, because he looks a step away from his grave. Tired. Skinny. His eyes are puffy and he’s short of breath just sitting here. He leans forward and rubs his back. “And your mother?”

“Remarried,” I reply behind tight lips. When is he going to cough it out? He never came back because he’s a coward. Or was it because he loved something else more than he loved us? Tell me he doesn’t have another kid.

He gives a silent nod. “So I heard. She deserves to be happy.”

“You remarried?”

“Nope,” he replies.

“I don’t have any half siblings out there?”

“No.”

Well, at least we got that out of the way. Still, I’m not sure whether to feel happy that he didn’t remarry or sad for what a pathetic life he’s lived.

“You left us.” I let it spill, feeling my heart pound. His smile is gone now. “I came home from school one day and waited for you. But you never came home.”

He closes his eyes, as though not looking at me will somehow dull the pain. “How long did you wait?”

“Too long,” I reply.

He massages his forehead.

“I stood by the mailbox every day after school. For months. Every time the phone rang, I went running, thought I’d hear your voice on the other end.”

“Austin, I’m—”

“I asked Mom where you were, and she told me to forget about you. She honestly said that. Still, I kept waiting for
you
to explain. But no letters. No phone call. Nothing.”

“Your mother preferred it that way—no contact. She was worried you’d get on drugs and end up like your old man. Told me you two were better off without me.”

“Don’t blame it on her,” I say, my voice rising. “My dad has been out of prison for three years, and he never cared to look up his son, to see how I was doing?”

I finish the milk in two gulps, set the empty glass on the table, and stand. “Thanks for the drink.”

I start for the door, amazed at how stupid I was to think I could patch things up with this selfish man. Even if he did have an explanation, I don’t know if I could accept it. Sienna might have, but I can’t. I’m not that good a person.

I twist the handle of the front door, not looking back.

“I stood outside that football stadium,” he calls from behind me, his voice tinged with regret. “I’d just been released from prison. It was your sophomore year, and you were playing cornerback and wide receiver at Meadowbrook High. I stood there, and I stood there, listening to the crowd cheer. I listened to your name announced over the speakers. You scored three touchdowns in the first half. One of ’em was on a long pass. No one expected it; I could tell by the way the crowd stood all at once in the stands. Everyone cheered, but I held my breath.”

I turn and see the smile in my dad’s eyes, a distant look on his face as though the memory is replaying before him. I feel the knot in my throat swell.

His lips break into a smile, and a tear slides down his cheek. “Then you scored and everyone cheered your name. I stood there clear until halftime. That’s when I realized.”

He stands, barely making it to his feet. Slowly, he takes the framed photo off the mantel, looking at it like an old man whose past is all he has left. I see it in his eyes, the memories and aching regrets that make up the pitiful remnants of his life.

“Realized what?” I ask.

His head jerks up like he’s snapping out of a trance. “That I wasn’t good enough for you.” He looks back at the photo in his hands, the one of the gangly kid holding the football, the kid I used to be. “Your mother was done with me, filed for divorce while I was in prison. Still, I’d hoped to be a part of your life somehow. But that night, I figured you truly were better off without me. You deserved better, Austin.”

His words wrench memories to the surface I want to forget. All of those football games, glancing at the stands and wondering if he would ever sit there. To think he was actually there once. So close.

“That’s why I never came back,” he says. He crosses the room to a dresser against the wall and opens a drawer, retrieving a newspaper clipping. A faded black-and-white picture of myself looks up at me from the newsprint. It’s an article I remember the local newspaper did on high school sports my junior year. The paper is worn as thin as tissue, the headline smudged in spots, as though he’s held it between his fingers on a hundred lonely nights, sitting in his recliner.

Something gives within me. Maybe it’s my resentment toward this man, because I don’t feel like leaving so much anymore. How do I tell him he’s wrong, that I wasn’t better off without him? How do I tell him something I’m only now accepting myself—that although I thought I gave up waiting for him long ago, I never really did?

I feel his hand on my shoulder and look up to see the shine of tears in his eyes. “You don’t need to forgive me,” he says, his smile genuine. Like he means it. “Just seeing you again is more than I coulda asked for.”

I catch a glimpse of my bullet bike through the broken blinds, knowing I can’t walk out now. My eyes sting as I think about the feelings I’ve had for this man.

“I hated you,” I admit.

“You had every right to.”

I shake my head. “No. I wasn’t the only one who deserved better, Dad.” The name breaks through my swollen throat. I haven’t said it like this for so long. A tear spills down his cheek. This man who was always so strong and confident in my memory is now broken, beaten down. For the first time, my dad needs me more than I need him.

I wrap his feeble body into an embrace too long in coming.

My dad hugs me back, his hands forming a tight, almost desperate grip. “Having you show up here, just having you as my son—it’s more than I could ask for. I’m sorry, Austin.”

And finally, I find words of forgiveness I thought I’d never say. “It’s okay, Dad. It’s okay.”

CHAPTER 42

Austin

O
n Sunday I drive to my dad’s again, and I bring a friend along, someone he hasn’t seen in a long time. Turbo sits in the passenger seat of Mark’s car. Deb insisted he wouldn’t need it until Tuesday. Mark didn’t say a word, but I have a feeling his hesitation had more to do with me visiting my dad than me using his car. But I don’t think twice about this.

Turbo walks to the front door, wagging his tail and drooling all over the place. The door opens, revealing an old man in a white shirt and tie who looks nothing like the dad I knew as a boy.

His eyes swivel down, and he stares in disbelief. “Turbo? Is this Turbo?”

Turbo barks in reply. Waltzes right inside.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Turbs!”

“Are you kidding me?” My dad bends down and scratches Turbo’s head, letting the slobbery animal drool on his suit pants. “He can come right on in. I got something to show him anyway. Come on, Turbo.”

My dad motions for Turbo to follow. When we reach the kitchen, I hear a scratching sound on the other side of the glass door. My dad pulls back the curtains, and a yellow Lab puppy with floppy ears looks up at us.

I bend down. “No way.”

“Last time I saw you, Turbo, you looked something like this.” My dad opens the door, and the little puppy scuttles in, his paws slipping on the wood floor. “Turbo, this is Dusty.”

Turbo stands still, acting bored as Dusty paws for his attention. My dad laughs. I watch his smile and my own smile spreads. Can’t help it.

“Let me change out of my church clothes and then we can take the dogs for a walk.”

He leaves the room. I try to recall if he ever went to church when I was a kid, let alone wore a tie. As we walk down Mallory Street, I watch him, realizing how little I know about my dad.

“Tell me stuff,” he starts with a smile that makes him look younger somehow. “You graduated high school. Any plans from here on out?”

Maybe it’s the way my dad phrased the question, as though he doesn’t assume or expect anything, but he’s the first person I can’t wait to share the news with. “Actually, I’m playing football.”

The look on his face is even better than I expected. “In college?”

“Yep.”

“No kidding!”

“The University of Florida.”

His jaw drops, and he takes a deep breath to recover. “Well, I’ll be. My son is gonna be a Gator football player!”

I smile at his reaction, the parental excitement I’ve missed. My mom’s response to this news was a silent pause on the other end of the phone, partly because she couldn’t care less about football, and partly because she worries about me getting injured. She nearly lost it both times I got a concussion.

We walk so slowly that the dogs have to run circles around us. People pass by, heading to the ocean to escape the heat. Two old-timers cruise down the street in a golf cart, holding a leash as their dog trots along beside them. That just about sums up this town. Chill. Super laid back.

My dad waves to everyone along our way. Some return it with a weak smile at best. I look at my dad: his thinning hair, his haggard face, and every other ill effect of the life he’s lived. Dad waves to another neighbor, some lady trimming her bushes who pretends not to see us altogether. Totally avoids us. It reminds me of how people look at Milo, Tolby, or Freedom, like breathing hazards that should be kept at a safe distance.

We don’t make it much farther before my dad asks to turn around.

“Are you—you know . . .” he says between heavy breaths as we near his house. “Is there a special someone in your life?”

I give a little laugh, a weak, pathetic sound. “There used to be.”

Either my dad is completely out of breath and can’t talk or he’s waiting for me to explain, so I go ahead. “She’s got her whole life planned out, and there’s no room for me in it. Besides, she deserves better.”

“Oh, now,” he says, “that’s not true.”

“It kind of is.”

My dad takes a seat on his porch. “I realized too late in life, son, that sometimes all you can do is be the person you oughta be, and let the rest of the pieces fall where they will. If you do that, usually the pieces fall into place.”

I consider the reason I came to see my dad, knowing this had something to do with it. Still, I came with the intention of putting my anger at him behind me. Well, I came, and I put it behind me, but it wasn’t my dad I needed to leave behind.