search the living room for the TV remote.
As usual, there’s nothing decent to watch at this time of day. I stretch out on the couch and consider going back to sleep, but quickly get bored with trying to think restful thoughts. I wander through the tiny dining room, fiddling with the pillow on Dad’s armchair, stacking up the coasters, and peering at the watercolors in their plain black frames. I open the drawers beneath the television cabinet and find them empty except for a whisper of dust. Finding myself in front of Dad’s bedroom door, I take a deep breath and turn the knob.
It’s locked.
I blink, shocked, and twist the knob one way and then the other. Mom and Dad’s door is
never
locked. None of us ever lock our bedroom doors at home. Baffled, I find myself rattling the knob again and stop, slowly releasing the smooth metal sphere. Obviously, things are different now. This isn’t Mom
and
Dad’s door; in this place, it’s Dad’s door. And Dad has something to hide.
I back away to look for my father in his bland beige house. I snoop through the kitchen, opening every cabinet and all of the drawers, counting the silverware and the place settings. Inthe drawer beneath the phone, I find a phone book, a pad and pen, a few packets of breath mints, stray rubber bands, and all the mundane detritus of Dad’s austere life. I also see a yellow-handled screwdriver.
The idea strikes like lightning, and I’m across the room almost before I can think it through. I want to find out who Dad’s become. It’s not like I’m looking for something bad; I only want to know. I ignore the whisper in my head, warning me to slow down and think. I want to know something more about Christopher Nicholas, something he can’t filter or decide not to tell. I want to know as much about him as he is holding back.
There are only two cross-marked screws, and they’re tighter than I expected. Probably no one has taken the knob off of this door before. But it’s five minutes’ work, sweating and slipping and nicking my thumb, then my fingers are pressed against the rough hole where the handle once was, and I’m pushing open the door, and—
The air crowds my throat with tears, and I stand in the doorway to my father’s room, staggering under the weight of memory, feeling my chest squeeze.
It smells like him. Like his safe Dad smell of a citrusy cologne, the moisturizer Mom makes him use, his shampoo, and the ink from the pen he always carries in his jacket pocket, all concentrated into one place. The smell of coffee and wood and drafting lead, the smell of security and familiarity and routine. This room smells like home, like everything I’ve been missing for so long.
This is the only room in the whole house that looks right. The pillows on the king-sized bed and the matching duvet are a deep navy, just like Mom and Dad’s at home. Though the bed ismostly made, the pillows are stacked haphazardly, and there are two alarm clocks, one on each night table. I wrap my arms around myself, staring. Did he lie? Is someone else sleeping with Dad?
I barely take in the rest of the items on the night table—on the right, a box of tissues, Dad’s open Bible, and a notebook, closed. On the left, a desk lamp, a tidy stack of newspapers, and engineering journals. Beneath the window is a glass-topped counter that holds Dad’s computer and a blueprint. At the foot of the bed, there’s a dresser and a bookshelf, with a picture of Justin and me when we graduated from the eighth grade and another of all of us on our last vacation in Colorado.
I pick up the heavy silver frame and study my father’s high cheekbones, his long, straight nose, wide mouth, and crooked smile. Mom says in college Dad looked like a dark-skinned Harry Connick Jr., all awkward long arms and big hands. She’d thought he was geeky until she’d seen him smile. She’d fallen in love with his dimples.
I stare at the picture, trying to find a resemblance to the jazz
As usual, there’s nothing decent to watch at this time of day. I stretch out on the couch and consider going back to sleep, but quickly get bored with trying to think restful thoughts. I wander through the tiny dining room, fiddling with the pillow on Dad’s armchair, stacking up the coasters, and peering at the watercolors in their plain black frames. I open the drawers beneath the television cabinet and find them empty except for a whisper of dust. Finding myself in front of Dad’s bedroom door, I take a deep breath and turn the knob.
It’s locked.
I blink, shocked, and twist the knob one way and then the other. Mom and Dad’s door is
never
locked. None of us ever lock our bedroom doors at home. Baffled, I find myself rattling the knob again and stop, slowly releasing the smooth metal sphere. Obviously, things are different now. This isn’t Mom
and
Dad’s door; in this place, it’s Dad’s door. And Dad has something to hide.
I back away to look for my father in his bland beige house. I snoop through the kitchen, opening every cabinet and all of the drawers, counting the silverware and the place settings. Inthe drawer beneath the phone, I find a phone book, a pad and pen, a few packets of breath mints, stray rubber bands, and all the mundane detritus of Dad’s austere life. I also see a yellow-handled screwdriver.
The idea strikes like lightning, and I’m across the room almost before I can think it through. I want to find out who Dad’s become. It’s not like I’m looking for something bad; I only want to know. I ignore the whisper in my head, warning me to slow down and think. I want to know something more about Christopher Nicholas, something he can’t filter or decide not to tell. I want to know as much about him as he is holding back.
There are only two cross-marked screws, and they’re tighter than I expected. Probably no one has taken the knob off of this door before. But it’s five minutes’ work, sweating and slipping and nicking my thumb, then my fingers are pressed against the rough hole where the handle once was, and I’m pushing open the door, and—
The air crowds my throat with tears, and I stand in the doorway to my father’s room, staggering under the weight of memory, feeling my chest squeeze.
It smells like him. Like his safe Dad smell of a citrusy cologne, the moisturizer Mom makes him use, his shampoo, and the ink from the pen he always carries in his jacket pocket, all concentrated into one place. The smell of coffee and wood and drafting lead, the smell of security and familiarity and routine. This room smells like home, like everything I’ve been missing for so long.
This is the only room in the whole house that looks right. The pillows on the king-sized bed and the matching duvet are a deep navy, just like Mom and Dad’s at home. Though the bed ismostly made, the pillows are stacked haphazardly, and there are two alarm clocks, one on each night table. I wrap my arms around myself, staring. Did he lie? Is someone else sleeping with Dad?
I barely take in the rest of the items on the night table—on the right, a box of tissues, Dad’s open Bible, and a notebook, closed. On the left, a desk lamp, a tidy stack of newspapers, and engineering journals. Beneath the window is a glass-topped counter that holds Dad’s computer and a blueprint. At the foot of the bed, there’s a dresser and a bookshelf, with a picture of Justin and me when we graduated from the eighth grade and another of all of us on our last vacation in Colorado.
I pick up the heavy silver frame and study my father’s high cheekbones, his long, straight nose, wide mouth, and crooked smile. Mom says in college Dad looked like a dark-skinned Harry Connick Jr., all awkward long arms and big hands. She’d thought he was geeky until she’d seen him smile. She’d fallen in love with his dimples.
I stare at the picture, trying to find a resemblance to the jazz
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