Second Chance Summer by Morgan Matson Page A

his voice a little strained. He opened his eyes and took a folded white handkerchief from his back pocket, passing it quickly over his forehead. My father was never without one; they got washed with the rest of his laundry, and when I was really stumped for gift ideas—or really broke—they were what I gave him for Father’s Day. He returned the handkerchief to his pocket and gave the girl a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”
    “Okay,” the girl said, nodding. But she didn’t move from where she was standing, instead keeping her eyes on my father.
    My father turned to me, and I noticed he looked much paler than he had only a few moments ago, and his breathing was labored. “Didn’t mean to scare you, kid,” he said.
    I nodded, and swallowed hard, not sure what exactly had happened, or how to address it. “Are you,” I started, then heard my voice falter. “I mean…”
    “I’m fine,” my father said again. He reached down to pick up the Henson’s bag, and I noticed that his hands were shaking. He took out the key ring and headed to the driver’s side, the keys jangling against one another in his trembling hand. Without realizing I was going to do it, I took a step closer to him and reached out for the keys. He looked at me, and a terrible, resigned sadness swept over his face before he looked away.
    He let me take the keys from his hand, then walked around to the passenger side of the car without a word. As I unlocked the car, I looked down and saw the scattered licorice bits at my feet, the plastic bag trapped under the tire of a minivan two parking spots away. I climbed into the car and reached over to open the passenger door. I caught a glimpse of the girl, still standing in the door of the pet shop. She raised a hand in a wave, and I nodded back, trying not to notice that she still looked worried.
    My father settled himself into the seat a little more gingerly than he had only an hour ago. I dropped the bakery box and my bag in the backseat and moved my seat way up—even though I knew how tall my father was, this never seemed as clear as when I was attempting to drive a car he’d been in before me, and my feet couldn’t even reach the pedals. I started the car, and we drove in silence most of the way home,his head turned to the window. I didn’t know if he was still in pain. But for whatever reason, I couldn’t seem to form the words to ask him. After we’d had the dining room conversation on my birthday, we had talked very little about the realities of his illness. And I hadn’t really tried. He clearly wanted to pretend that things were just normal—he’d said as much—but in moments like this, everything that we hadn’t said seemed to prevent me from saying anything at all.
    “Did you see the name of the pet store?” I asked after driving in silence for as long as I could stand it. I glanced over and saw the corner of my father’s mouth twitch up in a small smile.
    “I did,” he said, turning to look at me. “I thought it was a little ruff .” I groaned, which I knew he expected, but I was also feeling a wave of relief. It seemed like the air in the car had become less heavy, and it was a little easier to breathe.
    “Wow,” I said as I made the turn onto Dockside. “You came up with that one without taking a paws .” My father let out a short laugh at that, and gave me a smile.
    “Nice,” he said, which was the very highest compliment he gave, pun-wise.
    I pulled the car in next to my mother’s and shut off the engine, but neither of us made a move to get out of the car.
    “It really is good news about the job,” my father said, his voice sounding tired. “Sorry if that got lost in…” He paused, then cleared his throat. “Everything.”
    I nodded, and ran my finger over a spot on the steering wheel where the leather was cracked and could probably be coaxed to come off, if I worked hard enough at it. “So,” I started, hesitantly. “Should we…