October Breezes (9 page)

“She’s going to the movie with him tomorrow. She’l see her father not as the person she wants him to be, but who he is.

He’s going to hurt her and there’s nothing I can do about it. I tried to tel him to leave her alone, but he demanded to see her, and the last thing I want is Skye thinking I won't let her see him. If she believes that, I'm afraid I'l lose her. He said that she's as much a part of him as she is me, but he doesn't know her. He hasn't spent years loving her or worrying about her. Now he wants to hurt her, too.” My mother’s pain-filed voice faded as low sobs filed the quiet. I leaned against the doorframe, unsettled, knowing my mother rarely cried unless something had cut her deeply.

“It’s going to be al right," Warren said . "Maybe not tonight, but soon. Where is Skye?”

“She said things she shouldn’t have. So did I. I slapped her and sent her to her room.” Mom's voice dwindled as though al the emotions gusting her sails had died.

“I'l bring down a civil child, and you stay calm so we can have a great dinner.”

“Sounds good.”

Panicked by the thought of being caught eavesdropping, I rushed to the bed. He might come to talk to me, but that didn’t mean I would make it easy. A moment later, he knocked.

“Go away,” I snapped.

The door opened anyway. “It’s not the best thing to tel people to go away without knowing who they are. I could’ve been somebody from Publishers Clearing House to give you $10,000.00.” He walked in and sat at my desk.

“What do you want?” I asked in a surly tone.

“To talk.”

“I’ve got nothing to say.” I stretched my legs out and focused on a brown stain in a corner of my ceiling where rain had left its silent mark. I gritted my teeth.

“Why do you dislike me?” He waited for me to respond, but I said nothing. “I’m giving you the chance to clear the air.” He waited for my answer. Silence. He leaned forward. “I know why you hate me, Skye. It keeps you from being afraid.”

I jerked upright and glared. “I’m afraid? Of you? Yeah, right.” My fingers plucked the covers.

Warren walked to the bed and sat on the edge. I hastily jerked my feet away. "Everybody fears something, Skye. I have my fears. So does your mother. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “You don’t know me.”

“You're right. I don’t. You haven't given me that chance.

But I have a theory I’d like to share. You’re afraid I'l get too close because when your dad left, it ripped a hole in your heart. You thought he left because you weren’t good enough. But he would have left no matter if you had done everything right al the time. You haven’t gotten over his leaving, and the last thing you want is to care about is someone else. Al the other guys your mom dated were no match for you. You wanted to get rid of them more than they wanted to stay, so they didn’t scare you. But you know I’m the real thing, and I’m not going anywhere.”

My whole body tensed, and tears burned my eyes. I tried blinking them back, but they overflowed. Warren reached toward me, but I shunned him. “Are you satisfied?”

Warren nodded, gently smiling. “Yeah, I am, because if you alow yourself to cry, one day you’l alow yourself to be happy.”

I brushed my hand across my face, unable to look at him.

“So what do you think my mom is afraid of?”

He patted my knee. “Of dating someone you'l both become attached to, only for that person to leave just like your father did.” Warren stood. “I promised your mother I’d bring a calm teenager down. Wil you buy me brownie points and come eat? Your mom fixed lasagna because it’s your favorite. It would be a shame to miss it.”

Nodding, I wiped my face one last time before standing.

“Not to mention the brownie points you’d miss out on.” I folowed him into the dining room where Mom was setting the table. Without saying a word, I grabbed napkins and folded one at each setting.

Mom, seeing me, plunked the silverware in a jumbled pile and wrapped her arms around me. “I’m sorry I hit you,” she whispered, squeezing me in a way that she hadn’t done since I was five.

“And I’m sorry about what I said.”

“It sure smels good,” Warren said. He leaned over the lasagna and smiled. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Mom and I have it covered,” I said, and Mom looked at me, and her jaw dropped; she was used to me talking about Warren, not to him. I grabbed the silverware and began to set both a fork and butter knife at each place setting while my mother set glasses by the plates.

Although a good portion of the meal passed in silence, Warren tried to engage both my mother and me in conversation.

“So have you started reading
To Kill a Mockingbird
yet?”

he asked me.

I nodded while passing the rols to my mother. “Yeah, I guess it’s okay.” I couldn’t bring myself to tel him I realy wanted to know what happened next. While I found it difficult to hate Warren after our previous conversation, I settled on a truce. I wouldn’t try to cause trouble, but I was stil reserving judgment.

“How far have you gotten?” he asked, reaching for the salt.

“Walter Cunningham is on trial, which I think is wrong and stupid.”

Warren nodded and smiled warmly. “That’s the point, Skye.”

I frowned and scooped some green beans onto my plate.

“But he didn’t do anything wrong. Why write a book about unfairly arresting an innocent person?”

“Who said life is fair?” Mom asked, pouring wine into her and Warren’s glasses. “You see, Skye, life isn’t about getting what we want. Sometimes things go the way we expect, but then again, maybe we’l get a curve bal thrown in our faces and our only choice wil be to duck.”

I watched my mother take a bite of lasagna, and I knew she wasn’t talking about the characters in the book. She was talking about my father and Warren—and herself. Her long, dark hair framed her face, and she peered ahead beyond the present. Her lips curved into a wistful smile. Sensing her distance, Warren set his hand atop hers and gently squeezed. Mom blinked twice, blushed, and she offered him a weak smile. I’d thought my mother had let go of my dad so easily, but now I wondered what it must have been like for her.

Right then I should have also thought about the curve bals coming my way, but sometimes it’s realy hard to see things until they hit you upside the head. Then it’s too late.

The next afternoon I paced the living room, waiting for my dad. While getting dressed, I switched outfits at least three times before deciding on the navy sweater and jeans with suede boots.

Although I hadn’t seen my dad since he and my mother divorced, I stil wanted to make a good impression.

“How do I look?” I asked my mother, turning around so she could see my outfit from the recliner. In one hand she held the remote while the other balanced a Diet Dr. Pepper on her thigh.

“Beautiful as always.”

“Not that you’re biased or anything,” I replied, smiling.

“Not a bit.”

I thought I heard a car stop outside, so I ran to the window and puled back the curtains. Only my mother’s car sat there, snow dusting it. The sky, a n endless grey expanse, appeared swolen, rotund with snow.

“What do you think he drives now?”

Mom watched an infomercial seling an exercise machine she wasn’t interested in. “Probably a sports car.”

I sat beside the window and tried to remember my father, but that was fuzzy, like the windows at Christmas where fake snow covers the outside border and the window itself is clouded over.

Every memory got filtered through that haze. Stil, I thought I remembered a red car he once owned. "Didn’t he have a Mustang at one time?”

She changed channels. “Yes. He sold it when you were five.”

A blue mini-van puled into the driveway, and I frowned.

“Are you expecting anyone?”

She propped her feet on the footstool. “Warren. We’re going shopping later.”

Frowning, I watched the van, knowing Warren drove a car. That couldn’t be my dad, could it? In a mini-van? I didn’t even have time to vocalize that question before the driver, a tal, middle-aged guy with short, dark hair, jaunted up the walk. His long, black leather coat bilowed slightly.

“That can’t be dad,” I said, unable to stop staring, trying to shift his features and puzzle them into something familiar, but time had eroded my memories. Besides, my father always wore his hair long, his first rebelion against everyone and everything, including having a family.

Mom walked over to me and leaned close to get a better look. Our breath fogged the window, and I brushed the glass, wiping it clear.

“Dear God. He bought a mini-van, cut his hair, and became
responsible?”
Mom covered her mouth at such an unmentionable thought.

The doorbel rang, and we looked at each other. Then my mom drew me close and whispered, “Have a great time, Skye.” As she held me, I felt her tremble, but she slipped away before I could mention it, leaving me to face my father, a man who had been absent more than half of my life.

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to open the door.

When our gazes locked, I saw the man who had left so long ago reappear in those dark eyes. He smiled, a salesman's greeting, as though no time had passed since his abrupt and total departure.

“Wow, Skye, you’ve grown up. You only came to my waist when I left.” He held his hand to his side just below his belt loops as if he expected I would stil stand that high.

Because I couldn’t think of a proper greeting—do you shake a prodigal father’s hand or give him a hug when he has returned?— I kept a comfortable distance. I must've grown up because the man standing on our porch appeared thin and not so much taler than I. Grey streaks touched his temples, and beneath his jacket, he wore a blue button-down shirt and black slacks. I nodded, finaly managing, “Yeah, I guess I have.” I wanted to add,

“And without you,” but didn’t.

He pointed to the van which stil idled softly. “Ready to go?”

“Sure.” I slipped on my coat and grabbed my purse before folowing him.

“How have you been?” he asked as I closed the front door. Sensing that he intended to put his arm around me, I upped the pace, putting distance between us.

“Fine.” I started toward the passenger side but a woman not much older than I sat there, fiddling with the radio station, her long blonde hair feathering her face softly—a petite young thing who had to be ten years younger than my mom. I thought,
Who is that?

I chewed my lower lip, not liking what I saw.

“You’l have to get in on this side,” he said, opening the door behind his seat. “Gracie is in the passenger seat, and Amy is behind her. But you can sit next to Alie.”

Gracie? Amy? Allie?
Puzzled, I folowed my father around the van and got in next to a little girl, probably two and a half. Someone had spent a lot of time to make her into a cherubic little dol wearing a pink, fur-trimmed coat. Her long, blonde hair was drawn into a pony-tail and secured with a pink bow. Next to her, in a separate car seat, sat another two-and-a-half-year-old girl wearing an identical pink coat and ribbon.

Suddenly it dawned on me: my father had remarried. Now he had not only another daughter, but twins—two cherubic blonde dols, fair-skinned with dimples, so unlike my own Hispanic coloring which favored my mother's family. I would never be blonde. A flush lined my face as I thought of my mother, who had ached for more kids. He hadn’t even wanted me. Now he drove a mini-van to accommodate twins from a former cheerleader.

I leaned against the glass. The van's heater, set on high, filed the air with stuffiness, accentuating my claustrophobia and nausea. The window cooled my forehead, and as I peered outside, I realized the snow had thickened, larger flakes swirling down.

Once I would have been excited. Instead, I pressed my hands deep into my lap and tried to ignore the little girl who made a game of grabbing my arm and cooing to get my attention. I had been replaced by two babbling little girls.

My father shifted to reverse and backed out of the drive, his arm resting behind Gracie's neck. When he shifted to drive, I thought he might move his arm, but it lingered there. Looking at me via the rear-view mirror, he said, “Skye, this is your stepmother, Gracie.” He nodded toward her. “Gracie, this is Skye.”

The woman turned, and we looked at one another. The long blonde layers spiled around her face attractively, and her make-up perfectly accentuated her eyes and mouth. Even her perfume suggested perfection, and I almost laughed because my dad had been stupid enough to marry a former cheerleader who could never compete with Mom, who was smart and funny and real.

Al of us lapsed into silence except the twins, who whispered back and forth, often grabbing each other’s hands since the closer one had given up on me. Then they both erupted into fits of giggles, their little pony-tails wagging back and forth as they jabbered.

Even before we had arrived, I knew we were going to see some dumb kid’s movie, and the neon sign advertised only one title, a cartoon. Why else would he have brought the twins? Stil, I tried to justify this as not a complete loss. Gracie sat between my father and me so I couldn’t even talk to him, then they each hoisted a daughter onto their laps and managed to hold the popcorn bucket between them.

Although I tried to focus on the movie, Gracie laughed and cooed in my father’s ear, her voice sounding like the twins’. Despite the wriggling toddlers, they even held hands. I also couldn’t stop watching my father cuddling Alie or Amy—who could tel which was which?—and he kissed her forehead. A thick lump blocked my throat, and my vision blurred. That was when I knew my father was dead—at least to me. Turning away, I promised myself not to cry.

After the movie, we walked through the parking lot, my dad carrying one toddler on his shoulders while Gracie held the other child’s hand, as they sang a nursery rhyme song.

“Where would you like to eat, Skye?” My father asked, adjusting the little girl on his shoulders.

I looked at the snowflakes which had grown bigger while we’d been inside. A thicker dusting of white covered the asphalt.