Sour notes, p.5
Sour Notes, page 5
“For now. Russ checks in on me regular. Sarah comes by once or twice a week. Their oldest boy mows the lawn. He isn’t much about weeding the flowers like you were, but I’ll have time to tend to things once your dad is… gone.”
We rocked some more. I wanted to ask about Dad, but I didn’t want to at the same time. It was my standard tactic of avoidance, but I couldn’t force myself to the uncomfortable topic. As she often did, Mom saved me the trouble. “I need to warn you before you see your dad. The cancer… it hasn’t been kind. He may be awake. May not. But even if he is, his mind ain’t always right. Sometimes he’s right there, but sometimes he’s far away. And later in the day is always worse than mornings, so don’t expect much today.”
I swallowed hard and nodded.
“Most, though, the big man you remember is gone. The cancer’s done ate up his body. You need to be ready before you go in there.”
9
When I was a child, the rear parlor was the farm office. After supper, Dad would close the door, settle behind the desk, and figure out which bills could be paid and which would have to be delayed. Even in the best years, decisions had to be made. In the more-common lean years, though, a foul mood emanated from this room. Dean and I avoided entering, knowing we risked being enveloped by the darkness.
This was also the room where punishments were meted out—a judge’s chamber. If we brought a note home from school or a neighbor called about some misdeed, we would be summoned and have to stand in front of that desk for the inquisition.
Arguing was futile. We were usually guilty of the crime, of course, but even the rare times we weren’t, the word of an adult always outweighed ours.
Dean accepted that as a simple fact of life. He didn’t really fear punishment anyway. Besides, he reasoned he got away with mischief sometimes, so it all balanced out.
I struggled with the unfairness. I cowered everywhere else in life but always pushed back at home. I knew my defiance invited harsher repercussions, but that made me even more argumentative the next time. As a result, it felt like I spent half my teenaged years grounded with a host of extra chores.
Mom said Dad had grown too weak to climb the stairs to the second-floor bedroom they shared, so they had shoved the desk in the parlor against the wall and brought in a hospital bed. Hospice came by to check on him and ensure he had everything he needed to be comfortable. The only alternative was to lie in some generic hospital bed, surrounded by noise and strangers. They didn’t need the office since they were no longer running a farm, so it made sense to convert it to a hospital room.
I steadied myself against the doorframe, my legs too weak from the shock of seeing him to hold me without the extra support. Mom stood beside me, her arm around my waist and head resting against my shoulder.
The room smelled warm and moist, a hint of rot and decay despite the fresh air drifting through the open window. The lights were turned off—too bright for Dad’s eyes, she explained—but sunlight filtered through the sheers flapping in the breeze.
The spreading cancer had consumed his bulk. The husk rattling on the bed seemed inconsequential, a mere whisper of what he’d once been. His bony arms rested on the top of a blanket that hid the shadow of his body underneath, little more than a ripple in the linens. The only movement was a shaky rising and falling of his chest. His mouth hung open between gaunt cheeks. The cloudy eyes stared from sunken sockets and struggled to focus.
I hesitated to make any noise. I debated leaving—even inched back from the door—but Mom’s presence held me in place.
Just as I wondered if he was even conscious, Dad’s tongue flicked out of his mouth and ran across his cracked lips. I forced myself forward on unsteady feet, leaving Mom watching me from the doorway. My fingers tingled, and my stomach tumbled, threatening to disgorge the sandwich I’d just eaten. About halfway across the room, I halted and whispered, “Dad?”
A sound choked out from the body in front of me, an attempt at speech. A clicking noise echoed as he swallowed to clear his throat. He uttered a second effort. The word was a wisp of wind, but it hit with the brutality of a tornado. “Dean?”
The sting of the question hammered me. Years of resenting being compared to my brother bubbled up, but now was not the time. I fought to remember Mom’s caution about his mental fogginess. I swallowed the anger that threatened to erupt inside me. “It’s Mav…”
He wouldn’t know me as Mad Maverick. I had never been that in this house. When I’d tried earlier to tell Mom that I was now known by the nickname, she simply replied, “Not by me.” That had ended the discussion, so I corrected myself here. “It’s Freddie.”
His head turned toward me. His eyes squinted but seemed to focus somewhere behind me. “Freddie?”
Was it recognition? Or was he just repeating what I’d said? I hated the tremble in my voice as I struggled to answer. “Yes, sir.”
He tried to push his arms under his body to raise himself up from the bed, but he moved only a few inches before collapsing into the pillows. He raised a quivering hand and beckoned with a thin finger. “Come closer. My eyes are…” He swallowed. “Everything’s a fog.”
Sweat rolled down my back. I took a hesitant step forward like a disobedient child being beckoned by his father. The finger continued to urge me closer until I brushed up against the cold metal of the safety rails on the bed. Dry fingers wrapped around my wrist. Death rattled in those digits. Dad’s eyes blinked as he struggled to speak, each word breathless and slow. “It’s you.”
The saliva in my mouth dried up. My voice came out raspy. “Yes, Dad.”
“I’m glad you came before…”
For the second time that day, tears welled up. I hadn’t wanted to return to this place. I’d done it only out of duty. I didn’t expect to feel anything else. But now, standing here with the dying man’s grip on me, grief and sorrow flooded through my body and confused me with their presence. “How are you…” The question seemed wrong considering the man’s appearance, but I could think of nothing else. “Feeling?”
A bark escaped Skeeter. Maybe it was laughter, though I couldn’t be sure. He pointed with a shaky finger at the dangling IV bag. “When it gets to be too much, I press a little button and start floating. Doesn’t make all the pain go away, but makes me not care. Sounds awful, but at this point, not caring ain’t so bad.”
I followed the tubing from the back of his hand. “Morphine?”
Dad’s finger touched the tip of his nose. “Bingo. Ain’t no worries about getting addicted now.” His eyes fluttered closed. “But it makes me so drowsy.”
Growing up, he’d lectured us on the vices lurking to distract boys from a good life. Alcohol. Tobacco. Sex. Drugs. Especially drugs. Legal and illegal. He didn’t like taking an aspirin, so I struggled to understand how much pain he must have been in to agree to liquid relief dripped into his veins. “Does it help?”
His scrawny shoulders rose in the slightest of shrugs. A clicking came from his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed. A cough slipped out, and he pointed with a shaky finger at a glass on a table. A straw protruded at an angle.
I turned to see if Mom was coming to help, but she had slipped away, leaving me alone with him. He coughed again, so I picked up the glass to hand it to him, but he didn’t take it. His chapped lips parted, and I slid the straw between them. He sipped, swallowed, then sipped again before falling back into the pillow with a mutter of thanks.
After settling the glass back onto the table, I watched him, shifting my feet and unsure what to say. “Are you hungry? I can get Mom to bring a sandwich. Or soup.”
He shook his head. “Nothing stays down.”
“Oh.” I looked through the empty doorway, silently begging Mom to return. When she didn’t, I looked through the slats of the blinds. “Crops look good. Harvest should be strong.” I regretted the words as soon as they slipped out of my mouth, but I couldn’t think of what else to say.
He smacked his lips. “Good for Russ.” His eyelids drifted closed.
I took a step back from the bed. “You want me to let you take a nap?”
He forced his eyes open, but they slowly slid shut again. He mumbled, “Just sit with me for a bit.”
The chair sat near the head of his bed. A book Mom was reading waited on the arm, a slip of paper marking her spot. A cardigan draped over the back would ward off any chills she felt. That was her place to be, not mine. “I can come back later.”
“Not much later left. I gotta…” His voice faded and was replaced with a soft breathing.
Trembling, I backed toward the door, my eyes locked on the sleeping form. My butt brushed against the dresser, startling me. I turned and ran down the hallway.
Mom stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Worry etched her face. “Are you okay?”
I tried to answer, but nothing came out. My pulse raced. I gasped for air, memories of childhood asthma attacks haunting me, though I’d long since stopped using an inhaler.
Unable to stay in the house for another minute, I raced out the screen door and to my car. As I tore down the driveway, I could see her standing on the porch, wringing her hands in worry.
She would just have to deal with it. I would explain when I came back.
In the back of my mind, a voice whispered, If I come back.
10
The curves in the road were too sharp. I was going way too fast. I did too much city driving and not enough country roads now. The tears clogging my eyes weren’t helping. Instead of slowing down, though, I pushed my foot harder against the accelerator, weighted down by waves of grief.
With each snaking turn, the tires squealed. The colossal beast of a machine swayed and pulled me farther and farther across the yellow line with each twist. I fought the steering wheel harder and harder to maintain control.
Then came the curve that was too much to handle. The SUV slid sideways, and I overcorrected. The Escalade fishtailed. Its weight sent it into an uncontrollable spin. In the commotion of screeching tires and smoke from burning rubber, the rear became the front. I hurtled backward down the road, unable to clearly see where I was heading. I slammed on the brakes.
Was this the panic Dean experienced in the last seconds of his life? Had he known he was going to crash? Did he feel the tentacles of death wrap around his heart before he hit that tree? Or had he been as confident as ever, convinced he would save himself once again? Maybe he’d believed he would walk away with only a few scratches and bruises, less banged up than after a good football game. Maybe he’d truly believed he would avoid a collision entirely.
I had no such illusion. A grove of trees grew in my rearview mirror. The steering wheel wobbled in my hands, a useless rudder in an out-of-control skid.
Then the rear tire dropped off the edge of the pavement and sank into the soft dirt. My top-heavy vehicle shuddered when the momentum slowed. The driver’s side rose. The vehicle threatened to roll.
A low-hanging branch slapped the back window, as loud as a cannon retort in the confines of the cabin. A crack slithered across the glass. My body tensed in anticipation of a greater impact. I closed my eyes and prayed.
Then it was quiet. The vehicle had, somehow, come to a stop with two tires still on the road. I leaned my head against the steering wheel and closed my eyes. My body quaked with fear and relief. A thin sheen of sweat formed over my body. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. A wail escaped my lips.
Seeing my father—a stern, healthy man in my mind—as little more than a withering body in a deathbed was too much. I’d wanted only to escape the pain and anguish so badly that I had driven faster than I had in years. Much too fast for these country roads, especially in this ridiculously big SUV.
On unsteady feet, I walked around the vehicle, inspecting for damage. Scratches from tree limbs etched the paint. A taillight was shattered. The rear window sported a thick crack. But somehow, I had avoided plunging off the road and into the forest, where I would have ended up wrapped around a tree. Just like Dean had.
I lowered my head against the side of the car and sobbed. My emotions confounded me. Just a day earlier, I’d told myself I’d felt so indifferent that I hadn’t even wanted to return to Millerton. But if that were true, why was the sense of imminent loss so great? How could I lose something when I hadn’t even seen the man for nearly two decades?
The obvious answer shook me—because I cared more than I had ever admitted to myself.
My breathing slowed as I contemplated that thought. The tears dwindled. I took a shaky breath.
Opening my eyes, I focused on the deep skid marks painted across the asphalt. Fortunately, no oncoming traffic had been on the blind sides of the curves. Not a single vehicle approached as I sat on the side of the road. Chalk one up in favor of the isolation of Miller County. I needed to extract my car before that changed.
The tires on the passenger side were sunk about three inches into the soft shoulder. Not hard to escape. I’d pulled myself out of far worse messes as a teen in a significantly less capable car. The four-wheel drive would have me back on the road in minutes.
But where would I go? Back to the house. Eventually. That much I had decided. Whatever doubts I had harbored moments earlier were squashed, even if I dreaded the coming days.
But returning to the house without time to think wasn’t possible. I needed to compose myself and wrestle with my feelings. I needed a quiet spot to meditate.
Getting back on the road and turned around only took a couple minutes, but this time, I kept my speed well below the limit. My luck had been pushed as far as I dared.
As I neared the edge of town, the number of houses grew. A few businesses dotted the road. Then the town’s park, a place of so many childhood memories, came into view. Maybe my subconscious had known all along where I needed to go and guided me in this direction. The park had the perfect spot to get away from everything.
Not the sports fields near the main parking lot, where crowds gathered, watching kids’ games—baseball on one end and soccer on the other. I had spent hours in those bleachers, watching my brother’s rise to fame. By the time we’d entered middle school, everyone knew he would make any of the teams he wanted.
The hiking trails that circled through the woods didn’t offer the sanctuary I sought either. On a pretty day in June, families with squawking little kids would traverse the paths, stopping at informational signs and learning about nature. Too much noise and too many people to think.
But there was a remote corner of the park, where few people visited. A narrow, winding trail led deep into the forest until it opened into a small meadow. Wildflowers exploded with color as bees buzzed through the air. No picnic tables or benches enticed casual visitors, despite the surrounding beauty. Only the hardy went to that spot, so it was a perfect place to be alone.
During my teen years, I had spent many hours in that hidden meadow, scribbling in a journal, making up songs, and daydreaming of playing them in front of screaming fans. Sometimes, I sat there alone with a guitar in my hands, strumming chords and picking through notes. Other days, Xander drummed rhythms on the barks of trees. Either was far better than being forced to watch Dean score yet another goal and lead his team to yet another victory. It was our sanctuary.
The trail remained etched in my mind, and I followed the path without hesitation. At the first turn, the parking lot disappeared behind a thick layer of leaves. The sounds of cars and cheering fans dwindled. Squirrels scampered about, their claws scrabbling across bark. An unseen hawk shrieked as it stalked a meal. Tree branches clacked in the gentle breeze.
The deeper into the forest I walked, the calmer I became. The tension seeped out of my tight muscles. My chest loosened. My freed mind grappled with the conflicts in my head.
In this more emotionally controlled state, I could envision the impact of my father dying without panicking. How would my aging mother, always so resilient in my memories, handle living alone? Would Russ honor his commitment to let her live out her years in that house?
My thoughts were distracted by an unexpected sound. From a distance, the chords of an acoustic guitar floated in the air. The song was unfamiliar. Slow. Melodic. Beautiful.
Someone had beaten me to my oasis. I would have to find somewhere else, but I didn’t resent the intrusion. The music was too interesting. Who played so beautifully? Who had written the haunting melody? My listening tastes were eclectic and wide-ranging. I knew many obscure artists, but I couldn’t place this one. Intrigued, I pushed forward, tiptoeing down the trail. I didn’t want to disturb whoever was there, but I wanted to be close enough to hear the song more clearly.
The trees thinned. Sunlight filtered through the branches. The meadow came into view. Sitting with his back against a broad oak, eyes closed, a teenaged boy strummed a guitar. He sang softly, lyrics I couldn’t place. I inched toward the opening of the trail, mesmerized.
Despite my effort at stealth, my foot came down on a twig, snapping it in half. In the meadow’s quiet, it sounded like a crack of a rifle, loud and rude. The boy’s eyes popped open. His hand froze over the strings. The music stopped. He searched the perimeter. It didn’t take long before he focused on me.
I had intruded on his solitude. How many times had I wanted the same solitude as a teen, just to be alone with my songs, only to have some clueless adult interfere? I did my best to apologize. “Sorry for interrupting.”
The boy didn’t respond. He only stared at me. The awkwardness made me feel compelled to explain. “The song. I had never heard it. It’s really… good.”
He looked down at the guitar in his hand and shrugged. “It’s not finished. I’m still working on it.”
An open notebook lay to his side, a pen keeping the pages from flapping in the breeze.
