Waking Up in Dixie by Haywood Smith Page B

you’re here, and Gamma and your mama are here.” His face went sly as a little boy’s. “And Charles brought me food from the Varsity.”
    “Which obviously you tossed,” Patricia retorted with a dimpled smile that never failed to win him over.
    “Without regret,” Howe insisted. But the mere speaking of the word
regret
sent his features falling. “I have a lot of regrets, Patti-pie, but I plan to make them up, mostly to your mother and your brother. Things look . . .”—he struggled visibly to hold on to his composure—“very different to me now. I don’t know how to—” He choked off, eyes welling as he looked to Elizabeth with profound apology. “God. How do people stand it, the guilt? I never felt this before. Ever.” He looked away.
    Howe? Guilty?
    “It’s horrible,” he went on, more to himself than to them. “Goddamn.” He turned to Elizabeth. “How can you even look at me? Shit.”
    Patricia’s eyes widened with fear at his use of profanity. “Daddy?”
    He covered his face with his hands. “Oh, God. How did I look myself in the mirror?”
    Elizabeth couldn’t have him blurting out some torrid confession, not in front of Patricia. She firmly drew her daughter away from the bed. “Daddy’s had a rough day, honey. Let’s go get a Coke and let him get some rest, now. He’s not really himself just yet.” Patricia looked back at the spectacle of her poker-faced father now in tears, but Elizabeth propelled her toward the door. “We’ll look in on you later,” she told the Alan Alda masquerading as her husband.
    Howe swiped at the agony on his face. “Your mother’s right. I’m not myself.” He closed his eyes, bleak. “Do what Mama says, Patti. Go with your mama.”
    Patricia waited till they were in the hallway to balk. “What’s the matter with him?” she demanded loudly, oblivious to everyone else in the vicinity, as usual. “You said he was okay, but he cries all the time. And he
cusses
!” she accused, as if it were all Elizabeth’s fault.
    “Patricia Augusta Whittington,” Elizabeth scolded in a tight whisper, “you hush. He can hear you.” She dragged her daughter down the hall to the waiting area beside the elevators. When they were safely out of earshot, she sat Patricia on a large ottoman, nearing the end of her own rope. “Why do you talk to me that way? The man had a stroke, and brain surgery,” she clipped out, grateful there was no one there to overhear. “And was in a coma for almost six months. But he woke up, and he’s not a moron or paralyzed. It’s a miracle he can even talk.So he cusses. So he cries. Big deal.” A very big deal, actually, but not one she planned to go into with her daughter.
    The shocks of the day finally got the best of her. “Have you once thought about how hard this has been on me?” she blurted out, hating herself for doing it. “I know you’ve been upset, but have you ever thought about anything besides what this has meant to you, and how you can use it as an excuse not to study or go to your classes?”
    Patricia glared at her, lips compressed in a stubborn frown.
    “Your father just came back from the dead,” Elizabeth reminded her. “And the first thing you do is try to use him to keep from losing your car. I’m ashamed of you.”
    Elizabeth knew she should sit down and shut up, but Howe’s lack of control seemed to be contagious. “I swear, Patricia,” she vowed, her voice low but unsteady, “I’d shake you if I thought it would bring any sense into you. You’re not a child anymore. This isn’t about you. It’s about your father. And me. He has a lot of work ahead of him before he can even come home. I could use your help to get through this.”
    Years of adolescent resentment for Elizabeth’s efforts at discipline finally came to a head. “You don’t love him,” Patricia retaliated. “You never did. Gamma told me. You just married him for his money.”
    Elizabeth’s hand rose to slap her daughter,