That One Day (That One #1.5) (7 page)

I decide to make good on my promise to Mike first before I continue working on my house. My house—that still sounds crazy. I’m twenty-five and suddenly have a house. It’ll take me a while to get used to this.

Thanks to my grandmother, I also have some money and don’t have to worry right now about finding a job to pay the bills, although I’m sure that will happen soon enough. I suppose I’ll worry about it then. I’ve got plenty of other things on my mind right now.

It’s funny how you stop obsessing about stupid shit when everything goes to hell in your life. Things I would have worried about just a few months ago don’t matter in the grand scheme of things anymore.

I only have to knock once before Mike is at the door.

“Hey Mike, I owe you a new kitchen.”

“Hell yeah, you do. I was wondering when you’re going to get your lazy ass to work.”

He lets me walk past him into the kitchen. He wasn’t kidding when he talked about the color of the cabinets.

“Pretty.” I point to the cabinet.

“Just like my ex.” He cackles at his own remark.

The next three weeks I spend working on his kitchen, taking the furniture apart in order to sand it, and getting to work on the kitchen counter. It’s a shitload of work, but it keeps me busy and stops me from checking my phone every ten minutes to see if the hospital has called.

While I work, I don’t dwell on all the things that went wrong. It’s only in the evenings when thoughts and feelings keep me up and make me anxious.

I rarely see Allie or Jake, since they both work during the day. Allie works at a daycare, gracing future generations with her bubbly personality. Jake works at a gym, which explains his muscleman appearance. With those two gone, it’s only Mike and the stupid furball, Muffin, keeping me company while I work at his place.

I take some liberty, making adjustments I hope he’s going to like. The kitchen is big enough to allow for changes so he won’t have to rely on Allie’s or Jake’s help all the time.

It takes me a while to measure and plan things out, but once I’m ready to install everything, I’m confident it’ll work out perfectly.

It’s nice to have something to focus on, something I’m good at. With life as I knew it being pulled out from under me like an old carpet, I appreciate that I have something I can rely on—something that’s separate from all the drama and bullshit.

Since I don’t want Mike to see the changes before I’m done installing everything, I unfortunately need Allie’s help. So on Friday evening when she comes back from work, I intercept her before she goes inside.

“Allie.”

She smiles at me, readjusting her purse and pushing her blond hair out of her face.

“What’s up, friend?”

Rolling my eyes, I laugh. “I need your help. Can you get Mike out of the house tomorrow?”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to put the kitchen together and it’s easier if there is no one in my way—no Mike and no Muffin.”

Her eyebrows draw together as she gives me a skeptical look, but Allie being Allie, that quickly changes into a full-blown smile.

“We’ll be out by eight a.m. And tomorrow you’re coming over for dinner. You’re like a hermit, sitting around in your house working all day. You’ll forget how to talk at some point.”

“I must have already started to lose my grasp on the English language because I don’t understand what you’re saying.” I turn and saunter back to the house, a smug grin on my face.

By eight the next day, they’re actually gone. When I enter the house, I find a sandwich and an orange juice on the living room table.

So you don’t starve before dinner. Allie, Jake, and Mike.
I shake my head while reading the note, knowing I won’t get out of the dinner date with the three of them. Part of me wants to fight it, doesn’t want to let them get any closer. The last people who were close to me either hurt me or I hurt them. But fuck, it’s lonely without anyone to talk to, anyone who knows shit about me.

I spend the whole day assembling the kitchen, thankful for the air conditioning. Working physically in the Arizona heat without it would be instant death. I’m from Michigan; I’m genetically inept to deal with these kinds of temperatures.

It’s seven when Allie pokes her head into the kitchen.

“Can we come in?”

I stand back, looking at my work, the feeling of satisfaction and pride overwhelming. The work counter is lowered and has leg room underneath so Mike can comfortably prepare stuff on it. The cabinets are lower than they used to be, so he’ll be able to easily grab anything with an extendable grabber. The bottom cupboards are now equipped with sliding shelves so he won’t have to dive into them headfirst just to get to something. It’s not perfect, but should make some tasks easier for him.

When I turn around, they’re already inside and just staring open-mouthed at the kitchen which is now a neutral, beige color. I look at them, curious to see their reaction.

Allie sets down Muffin and walks over to me. She doesn’t say anything, just hugs me around the waist, her head barely reaching up to my nipples.

“I knew you were a good guy.”

I pat her head awkwardly, looking over at Jake who’s smiling at his girlfriend’s display of affection. “Thanks, man.”

I just nod at him.

Mike clears his throat and his voice sounds hoarse. “Well fuck, now I’ll have to cook for those two. No excuses anymore.” He wheels into the kitchen, looking around.

“This is great, Ben. Really fucking great. Where did you learn this?”

I hesitate, wondering how to answer, how to refer to Ron. I settle on the option least likely to cause more questions.

“My mom’s husband taught me.”

“Well, he’s done a really good job. Told you I’d have more for you to do. The pub down the road needs some work on their bar counter. I gave them your number.” He looks to Allie and Jake. “And no, I wasn’t at the bar. I still talk to John though.”

They spend another half an hour inspecting the kitchen, and I’d be lying if I said this isn’t good for my ego. It worked out great, and they all love it. It feels good to have done something to make Mike’s life easier. I haven’t spoken much to him, but he seems like a nice enough guy.

We spend the evening feasting on Mike’s enchiladas. It’s nice, and we laugh a lot. I can even survive Allie’s happy attitude, but I can’t help comparing it to hanging out with Dave and Frankie. And it just doesn’t compare.

But, I’m not there anymore. I’m not who I was, so I guess it’s best if I make an attempt at starting over fresh here.

***

Four days later, I’m working on the kitchen in my house when my phone rings. Considering that no one but the hospital and Mr. Murphy has my number, I nearly trip over the wood pieces strewn all over the kitchen floor in my attempt to get to the phone.

“Ben Gibson.”

“Mr. Gibson, St. Michael’s Hospital. Patricia here. I just wanted to tell you that you’ve been cleared and are on the visitation list for Mr. Andrews.”

I sink onto a kitchen chair, relief washing over me, quickly followed by dread and a hint of panic.

“Thank you, Patricia. When can I come for a visit?”

She rattles off the visiting hours and explains that the first few visits shouldn’t be too long in order to allow my father to get used to the new situation. We agree for me to come by the day after tomorrow.

That night I don’t sleep. It’s not for lack of trying, but my mind is running wild with visions of how bad, or how well, the first meeting will go. After two hours of tossing around, I get up and settle on the floor in my grandmother’s room, looking through the pictures again, the bottle of whiskey next to me. What if my father doesn’t want to see me? What if he never wanted me?

Friday morning, I’m like a teenage girl frantically trying to decide what to wear on her first date. Though there isn’t much of a selection; just various pairs of jeans and T-shirts, mostly band T-shirts at that. But considering I’m going to a mental hospital, I have to determine which of the shirts might be less disturbing, or which one might set a patient off. Maybe it’s not like a first date after all.

When I walk through the gates of St. Michael’s, the check in process is about as extensive as visiting a high security prison. Once the door falls shut behind me, I get a glimpse of how a prisoner must feel, and it’s not pleasant.

I follow a nurse down a white corridor. My heart is pounding in my chest and for a moment it feels like the walls are closing in. At least I’m in the right place if I’m about to go crazy. A heaviness settles in my stomach and my palms are sweaty.

I fight the instinct to turn around and leave, never to come back and just live happily being oblivious and ignorant to the truth. But I need to know. I have to do this. It’s time to face the music.

I’m going to meet my father. For some reason this thought makes me feel guilty as Ron’s face flashes before my eyes. Ron teaching me how to ride a bike, tucking me in at night, and sleeping next to me when I was sick or scared, helping me with my homework or with building a bookcase for Mom. It’s stupid though. There’s no reason for me to feel guilty. He lied to me all my life, pretended to be someone he’s not. He stole those memories from my real father.

I feel like a wimp because I’m scared of what comes next. But fuck, I’m petrified. The same question circles my mind on repeat. What if my father doesn’t want me? I’m not sure I could recover from that blow.

The nurse leads me into a huge sun-lit room. There are tables with chairs and what looks like families sitting together visiting. There are couches and armchairs, as well as book cases lining the wall. Only at second glance do I realize that the furniture is bolted to either the ground or the wall. That’s fucking cozy.

The nurse points at a man sitting on a couch, seemingly engrossed in a book. We make our way over, and I study him. He certainly doesn’t look like I expected, nothing like I thought a man who’s locked away in a mental hospital should look. He’s got short salt and pepper hair. He looks quite dapper in jeans and a white shirt. He’s sitting up straight, yet he seems relaxed, his right foot resting on his left thigh. I take a deep breath when the nurse addresses him.

“Mr. Andrews, your son is here to see you.”

I swallow, trying to keep the bile from rising.

My father closes the book and looks up slowly, his face not betraying any kind of emotion, but then I can see his lip tremble. He swallows visibly, his Adam’s apple moving with the motion. He stands up and steps toward me.

His arms come around my shoulders, drawing me closer as he pats my back. “Son.”

He’s shaking slightly and I wonder if he’s crying. I put my arms around him and hug him back, but I’m incapable of any other reaction. I don’t know what I was expecting. Some kind of eureka moment, an instant connection. Maybe a feeling of belonging.

This is my father, but he’s also a stranger.

His shoulders are still shaking when he pulls away and says, “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.” I look at his face and see a broken man, and I can’t help but wonder what happened to him.

“Let’s sit.” He points to the couch and I take a seat, shooting glances at the orderlies standing around the room, watching us and the others.

“Just ignore them. They are here for the crazies, not us.”

His matter-of-fact remark makes me snort. He lifts an eyebrow while looking at me, but then seems to guess my train of thought.

“I’m not crazy, just depressed. Not like them over there.” He nods his head to one of the patients who starts ripping pages out of a book before the orderlies intervene. I turn my head, not eager to witness someone else’s breakdown. I look at my father and find him studying me.

“I would recognize you anywhere, Son. Anywhere.” He pats my hand resting at my side. “So how come you’re here after all these years?” There is a hint of accusation in his tone.

I exhale loudly. “I received a letter out of nowhere from a local lawyer, informing me your mom left me the house. I…I didn’t know anything about her or you. I…Mom…she never told me you’re my father.”

Hesitantly, I look up at my father and for just a moment something about the look in his eyes feels off. Anger, loathing, I’m not sure what. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. This man is here because of a mental illness after all. It’s to be expected that his reactions might be a bit off.

“Judith never told you about me? She never told you I’m your father?” His voice is shaking, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“No, I only found out through the letter. She lied to me.”

He slumps forward cradling his face in his hands. “I can’t believe she’d hate me so much. What have I ever done to her?” His voice is muffled. I’m not sure how to react when he sits up, his face wet with tears.

“I’m sorry, Son. I need to be alone. This is too much for me. I…” He stands up, moving toward the door, his mouth pulled into a frown. He looks devastated. “I can’t deal with all of this right now. Give me some time. Come back tomorrow, maybe.”

With that, he turns around and nods at an orderly who accompanies him out of the room, and I’m left sitting on the couch, wondering what the hell just happened. The nurse from earlier comes back to show me out.

“Is my father okay?”

“It’s just a bit much for him. He hasn’t had any visitors since his mother died, and his son visiting him suddenly after so many years, makes it a bit tough to cope. But he’ll be fine. He wants you to come back tomorrow, so that’s a good sign. Do you want to talk to his doctor?”

I think about this for a moment, but decide I want to talk to my father, want to give him a chance to tell me why he’s here. I don’t want to treat him like a child, going behind his back. “No, thank you.”

She smiles at me before she opens the door. I make my way to the gates, confused and slightly shaken. This visit didn’t go as planned, though I’m not sure what the plan actually was.

***

I get to the house. My earlier confusion is now mixing with hurt and anger—feelings I’m more than familiar with by now. I should be in college. I should be fucking Frankie’s brains out, or at least fucking someone’s brains out. I should be partying with Dave. I shouldn’t have to worry about who my father is, his mental state, and how I’m going to establish a relationship with him while he’s behind those walls.

My mind is full of jumbled thoughts after meeting my father. I don’t know how I should feel. I’m confused and hurting because I don’t feel the connection or recognition I was expecting.

And now there is also a fear present I have never encountered before. My father and I look so much alike. Even in the short time I’ve seen him today, I could tell that our mannerisms are similar. What if we have more in common than that? What if his illness is something I inherited as well?

I don’t want to think anymore. I wish I could just turn off my brain, to stop memories and questions playing on repeat without a minute’s break.

All I want to do is get inside and have a hot shower, watch some porn to relieve some of the tension, and then get drunk.

But no, that’s not in the cards. As soon as I’m out of the truck, Allie comes bouncing down the steps of her front porch where Jake and Mike sit and chat.

“Hey, neighbor.”

Right now, her voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“Not now, Allie,” I grind out.

“Oh, come on, Ben. Join us on the porch. It’ll cheer you up. That’s what friends are for.”

In that moment, I lose it. I take all of my frustration out on her. She makes too easy of a target with her sweet and bubbly personality.

“We’re not fucking friends. I have friends back home. I don’t need or want you to be my friend. And I sure as fuck won’t cheer up. Not everyone can walk through life oblivious to the real world. So why don’t you just leave me the fuck alone and annoy someone else.” I’m yelling, drawing the attention of the neighbors from the other side of the street who are watering their plants. They stop mid-movement and are staring at us.

I ignore them and Jake, who’s making his way over to us, probably ready to kick my ass. I ignore Allie who stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head, shock and hurt written all over her face, her eyes swimming with tears.

I stomp off into the house, slamming the door behind me. I walk to the kitchen sink and open the tap, sticking my head under the cold water. With water dripping down my face and shirt, I grab the half-empty whiskey bottle off the kitchen table and make my way to the guestroom, where I sit down on the bed and down the bottle in one go. I suppose it’s not a good sign that I don’t even feel the burn anymore.