\nOn Saturday morning, I make my way down the stairs to the kitchen, and Dad is sitting there in the breakfast nook, facing the window, a cup of coffee in his hand. I catch a faint whiff of tobacco. There\u2019s something natural about his presence, not surprising or shocking or horrifying. I\u2019ve been looking for him all this time, and now he\u2019s here.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDad,\u201d I say, taking a chair opposite.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe\u2019s been dead more than thirteen years, but that seems too obvious to mention.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhy are you here?\u201d I ask instead.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe looks at me, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling as he smiles.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou dreamed about me last night.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes, but\u2026\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHe\u2019s often in my dreams, not as the focus but as a background character, just someone who\u2019s there.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI summoned you?\u201d I say.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe sets down the coffee mug, which features a faded Toronto Blue Jays logo. It\u2019s one of his, one I inherited when Mom cleaned out the old house.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI wanted to come,\u201d he says, \u201cbut I have only this one day.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOne day,\u201d I say, and I see what this is. It\u2019s an opportunity, the chance any son would take to see his Dad one more time, to say and do the things he always regretted not saying or doing. I think I should probably break down sobbing, reach across the table and grab him in a big bear hug, but we were never that huggy, and I feel no need to sob. I\u2019m more worried I\u2019m about to waste this time.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy hands shake a little as I prepare a simple breakfast, just juice and toast. Dad looks at the newspaper on my tablet, says, \u201cThings have changed, but not really.\u201d He has that faint, calm smile that I remember, as he just sits there, sipping his coffee, as I eat my toast. This is like so many mornings, long past.\n<\/p>\n
\nI remember the car.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI need to show you something,\u201d I say, filled with sudden purpose.\n<\/p>\n
\nMy wife Janine, who always gets up before I do on weekends, is in the garden, not so much gardening as admiring what she\u2019s accomplished so far. Her face goes slack as Dad and I emerge from the back door.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cLook who\u2019s here,\u201d I say.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe advances and throws her arms around him.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOh!\u201d he says, a little awkward, but then he slaps her back and adds, \u201cIt\u2019s good to see you!\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nShe looks stricken as she steps back, hands going to her mouth, face flushing.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d she says.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe\u2019re going to the garage,\u201d I say, realizing this doesn\u2019t answer her question, but I\u2019m eager to show Dad the \u201968 Mustang. He\u2019d always wanted one, but life got in the way.\n<\/p>\n
\nIn the garage, his face glows. He doesn\u2019t have to say anything.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThe gearbox has been leaking a bit of oil lately,\u201d I say. \u201cI don\u2019t know why.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nDad lights a cigarette. That\u2019s what killed him, but I don\u2019t object, because it\u2019s also a part of him.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIf I had time, I\u2019d take a look at it,\u201d he says. \u201cMight be the humidity, but also because the car is just old.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nJanine is in the doorway, watching. Behind her, my son appears, hair dishevelled and sleep still in his eyes. He adjusts his glasses and says, \u201cGrampy?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cLook how big you\u2019ve gotten!\u201d Dad says.\n<\/p>\n
\nTim was five when Dad died, and is eighteen now. His thirteen-year-old sister is trailing behind him, carrying a banana which I assume passes for her breakfast.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cSuzy,\u201d I say, \u201ccome meet your grandfather.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nShe was born about three months after Dad died, and this is a moment I\u2019ve wished for many times. She\u2019s shy and looks down. She\u2019s been hearing things about this man all her life, has seen pictures and videos, and I imagine he must be something of a legend to her.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cVery pleased to meet you, finally,\u201d he says.\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019m like a soda bottle that someone just shook before popping the cap, and have to walk away, back into the garden. I can hear Tim talking, voice rising in giddy excitement, telling Grampy all the things that he\u2019s been up to lately. I hear a welcome ring of laughter from Suzy.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen I go back into the garage, Janine is alone.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cTim wanted to show him his room,\u201d she tells me.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe seems a little embarrassed by her earlier loss of composure, and I encircle her with my arms. She lays her head against my shoulder and whispers, \u201cWe\u2019ve been given an amazing gift.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nTim convinces Dad to go for a walk down to the creek, and Suzy goes with them. I stay back and try to decide how to make the most of this. It starts to rain, and Dad and the kids return, laughing as they try to dodge raindrops. By now it\u2019s lunch time, so we eat and Dad and I have a beer and watch some of the ball game. I haven\u2019t been watching baseball since he died.\n<\/p>\n
\nLater, we take the Mustang for a spin. I let Dad drive and just enjoy the look of satisfaction on his face. When we return, the rain has stopped and we have a barbecue on the patio, then sit in the deck chairs while Suzy gets her three-quarter sized guitar and sings us a song, something she\u2019s usually too self-conscious to do in front of her parents.\n<\/p>\n
\nAs the last note fades, Janine looks at me with a sad smile and, wiping at her eyes, asks, \u201cWould anyone like tea or coffee?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nTime is passing too swiftly, and shapes swirl and blur around me. The night is warm, the deck chairs comfortable. Dad and I are alone and he\u2019s just a dark shape marked by the point of light from his cigarette tip, like a tiny orange star.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThis is a cozy spot,\u201d he says. \u201cYou\u2019ve done well for your family.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nAnd I think of all the years that I couldn\u2019t settle on a degree program, how I\u2019d worked for a non-profit and couldn\u2019t get a job in the field I\u2019d eventually chosen, and how my relationships with women, until I\u2019d met Janine, had been ridiculous and childish, and how stupid I\u2019d felt a lot, and how frustrated\u2026\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI know how you used to feel,\u201d Dad says. \u201cAnd why you were so touchy for a while there.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s true. He and I had been close, very close, especially when I\u2019d been a kid. There\u2019d been no drama, but sometimes we create drama from nothing.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhen you got older and things didn\u2019t work the way you wanted, you thought you were a loser and I was disappointed.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHe chuckles, but in fondness, not mockery.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI need you to know something,\u201d he says. \u201cI was never disappointed in anything you ever did. Not when you were in school and not after. I know you thought I was, but I wasn\u2019t. I knew what you didn\u2019t, that life can\u2019t be planned and doesn\u2019t always go how you want it, but you accomplished more than you think, and I always thought you\u2019d been awfully lucky to find Janine, and when Tim came I was never so happy in my life.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI can\u2019t speak. My throat feels stuffed with cotton.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019m going to have to head back soon,\u201d he adds. \u201cRight now, actually.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI can\u2019t bear it. I never asked for this day, but I don\u2019t want it to end. I feel like I need to do something to mark it, make some gesture. He did this for me. I need to do something for him.\n<\/p>\n
\nI still have the key to the Mustang in my pocket.\n<\/p>\n
\nI give him the key.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cThis was always for you,\u201d I manage to say. \u201cMaybe you can fix that leaky gearbox, wherever it is you\u2019re going.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHe holds it, looks at me.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou sure?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cMore than anything,\u201d I tell him. I don\u2019t want him to refuse it, and he doesn\u2019t. He nods and slaps me on the arm.\n<\/p>\n
\nI stand in the garage as he starts the car. Janine and the kids come out of the house and we all watch as Dad waves and backs out of the driveway, then as the car rumbles down the road to the stop sign, brake lights flaring, turns right and disappears around a bend.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe night is quiet.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou saw him, right?\u201d I say to my wife. \u201cDid I dream that just so I could hear something I must have wanted to hear for years?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNo,\u201d she says. \u201cAnd don\u2019t try to explain it. Just let it be.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe next morning is like every other Sunday morning. Janine is in the garden, and I make myself coffee and go outside. She just smiles and says nothing.\n<\/p>\n
\nI go into the garage, half expecting to see the Mustang still there, but it\u2019s not. There\u2019s just an oil stain on the concrete, and the faint scent of yesterday\u2019s tobacco.\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Harold R. Thompson has written non-fiction and short science fiction and fantasy for a variety of print and online magazines. He is also the author of the \u201cEmpire and Honor\u201d series of historical adventure novels, which include Dudley\u2019s Fusiliers, Guns of Sevastopol and Sword of the Mogul. He lives in Nova Scotia and, when not writing or spending time with his family, works for Parks Canada.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
On Saturday morning, I make my way down the stairs to the kitchen, and Dad is sitting there in the breakfast nook, facing the window, a cup of coffee in his hand. I catch a faint whiff of tobacco. There\u2019s something natural about his presence, not surprising or shocking or horrifying. I\u2019ve been looking for …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107220,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20081],"tags":[20082],"class_list":["post-137956","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-37-autumn-2020","tag-the-colored-lens-37-autumn-2020","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137956","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107220"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=137956"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137956\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":137957,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137956\/revisions\/137957"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=137956"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=137956"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=137956"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}