The Summer I Learned to Dive (17 page)

“What’d I tell you? The water feels good,” he said. “There’s a diving board with your name on it, Finn.” He pointed to the diving board at the edge of the pool.

“No, I’m fine floating in the water thank you,” I said.

“Oh come on. You just need a few more practice dives and then you’ll have it.” He got out of the water and walked over to the diving board. He stood on it for one brief moment and dove beautifully into the water. There wasn’t much of a splash. His dive was too perfect to cause any commotion. He swam toward me eagerly. “Come on,” he tried encouraging me. 

“Fine,” I relented and trudged out of the water and to the diving board. The air felt cooler and more crisp. The stark contrast between the warm water and the cool night air made me instantly chilled. I stood on the diving board, ready to contemplate my next move, but remembered what Jesse had taught me that day we dove together. I chose not to over think my dive and instead just dove right in without a moment’s thought. 

“That was a good one, Finn,” he said approvingly.

“Thanks,” I said, proud of myself. “It wasn’t as beautiful as your swan dives, but it was good, wasn’t it?” I felt sure of myself, confident in my ability.

“You didn’t dwell on it, you just did it. That’s why it was so good,” he praised me. “When you just dive right in without thinking, it’s near perfect.”

I thought about what he said. How it related to my life, to this summer. I leapt without looking. I came to South Carolina without a plan and if I never had, I wouldn’t have discovered this part of myself. The Finn who didn’t have a plan, who just went with the flow, who had various life experiences and allowed people in her life that had changed it for the better. Diving was a metaphor for my life.

Chapter 20

We swam in the pool until our skins became like prunes.  Swimming helped me take my mind off things. That was what I had wanted, to forget everything that I had learned in the last twenty-four hours.

Jesse drove us back to his house around four o’clock in the morning. The sun would be up soon, which meant it would be another day. I needed to see my grandfather, to find out why he and Nana lied to me about my dad. There was so much that was still a mystery to me.

We sat on his couch watching TV. He instantly fell asleep. I couldn’t. Too much had happened in one day and I was still overwrought with anxiety, feeling a mixture of emotions. I watched him as he lay there, so peaceful. His hair still wet from swimming. I brushed a few loose strands away from his face. He made a brief noise and then moved his entire body, shifting to find the perfect position. I closed my eyes, never really fully falling asleep. So many thoughts ran through my head. I couldn’t concentrate, let alone give my body the chance to relax, to find solace even for a few hours.

Learning that my mom had lied to me about my father devastated me. Trusting her again would be nearly impossible. And knowing that my father left me was difficult to digest. He didn’t want me. I wondered how long it would take for me to accept that fact. Knowing that he was alive made me curious about him, more than I had been before. I wanted to know who he was and why he left.

***

“Are you ready?” Jesse asked, staring at me. We sat in his car in front of the hospital.

“I guess so.” I wanted to go see my grandfather. I had still had unanswered questions. If they knew my father was alive, why didn’t they tell me? And they had to know where he was, he was their son. I sighed heavily.

“You’ll be fine. You need to see him,” he said. He placed his hand on top of mine.

“That’s not the problem. I want to see him. I just…” I didn’t finish my sentence, afraid I’d start crying.

“I understand. If I were in your shoes, I would want to know why, too.” He reached over and hugged me tightly. “Call me if you need me,” he whispered in my ear. I kissed him quickly on the lips and got out of the car walking toward the hospital entrance.

He had his own room now. They had moved him from the Intensive Care Unit, which was a promising sign that he would recover. I knocked on the door before I entered, not waiting for a response. I walked in hesitantly. Nana was knitting a red scarf sitting in an ugly vinyl green chair. Hospital décor is the worst. The pastel colors they use to make patients and their families feel happier in reality, just make them feel nauseated.

“Finn,” she said, putting down her needles and yarn. She smiled broadly, happy to see me, as if it had been a long time. It felt that way. I went over to her and hugged her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

I let go of her and looked at my grandfather. Tubes still ran in and out of his body but his complexion had more color and there was a hint of rose in his cheeks. Even though he was recovering, his gigantic body appeared helpless stretched out on the hospital bed hooked up to machinery that was supposed to make him better. It pained me to look at him in this condition. I wondered if he would ever be the same.

“I guess you’re mad at us,” he said, his voice raspy.

“I…” I began unable to find the right words to convey what I was feeling. In my heart, I knew I couldn’t be cruel to him, not in his state. It would be unforgivable. As confused and hurt as I was, releasing my anger at him would not make the truth go away. The fact was my father was alive somewhere and didn’t want me, and there was nothing I could do about it.

He took a deep, painful sounding breath. His chest rattled. He coughed a loud, hacking cough. Nana grabbed a cup of water and gently placed it up to his lips. He sipped it slowly, and then licked his lips. I felt guilty, remorse for having any sense of anger that I had when I came into that room. At that very moment, I realized how little I knew and it was very discomforting.

“I’m sorry we lied to you,” he started, but I interrupted him.

“Please don’t apologize. You had your reasons,” I said.

He put his hand up, still bruised from the tube that had been inserted days ago.

“Let him talk, Finn,” Nana said.

He patted the bed, gesturing for me to sit down next to him. I complied and sat down, looking at his face, his pained expression.

“All this time, we never realized that your mother had told you that your father had died. We tried to get in touch with her for years, to tell her what had happened to him, but she wouldn’t speak to us, she wouldn’t answer our letters.” He coughed. I winced from the sound of it. He cleared his throat and continued, “It’s not entirely her fault. She didn’t read the letters until a few days ago. She thought Pete just left her. She didn’t know. We didn’t know how to tell you the truth. It felt wrong to lie to you, to let you continue believing that he was dead, when in fact he was alive but there never seemed to be the right time to tell you the truth. We were going to tell you that night, but I had a heart attack and that put things on hold.” He forced a smile but I couldn’t see the humor in his statement. Nana placed the cup of water to his chapped lips, he sipped slowly and then looked back at me. “We were afraid of losing you again, afraid that you would resent us for lying to you. I lost a son, I didn’t want to lose you, too, when I had just gotten you back,” he said, his voice hoarse. I looked at him confused. He read my expression. “Your father is alive, but he’ll never be completely the same.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Your father was the light of our lives. We tried having other kids, and couldn’t, which made him all the more precious,” Nana said. “He was just as we described him to you. He was naturally talented at everything—sports, music, cooking—he could do it all. And people
loved
him. He was the life of the party and was beloved by anyone who came into contact with him. But things started to change.” She frowned.

“What happened to him?” I asked again, this time more frustrated because I was aching to know.

“We didn’t know what was happening to him. Your mother said he was acting strange. He was buying stuff they couldn’t afford. And he was becoming so reckless. His behavior was erratic. We had to bail him out of jail for drunk driving. We thought he had become addicted to drugs. He would have these highs and lows, and things he was saying didn’t make sense. We just didn’t know,” Nana said. She wiped the tears from her eyes.

“I still don’t understand,” I said. I could feel the tears forming.

“Your father left one day. We had no idea where he went or why he had gone. He loved your mother and you more than life itself, it didn’t make sense. We searched high and low for him, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together,” my grandfather said. He looked at me and held onto my hand. He continued, “We thought the worst, that he was lying dead in the middle of nowhere from a drug overdose.” He shook his head and frowned. “Your mother wasn’t the same and blamed us. She left Graceville, taking you with her. It was the darkest of times for us.” He reflected quietly for a moment and then said, “We never gave up searching, though. A part of us hoped that he was alive, that he would come back.”

“Where is he?” I asked, looking desperately into his eyes.

He continued. “About two years later, we got a call from the sheriff in Hendersonville, North Carolina. Your father had been caught shoplifting and was arrested. The sheriff knew me and put two and two together, realizing he was my son. He called us. We drove up there as fast as we could, desperate to see him. When we got there, he didn’t look the same. He had lost a considerable amount of weight. He was so frail and he had let his hair grow. He wasn’t the same man we had raised.”

“What was wrong with him?” I asked again, this time more agitated. I wanted to him to tell me. But I had to be patient. I needed to hear him out, to listen to what he had to say to me.

My grandfather took a deep breath. “When we left the police station, we immediately went to the hospital. We thought he needed to be in rehab. Our instincts were wrong. What he needed was professional help and medication. You see,” his tone even more serious, his eyes staring into mine, “your father suffers from bipolar disorder. All of his behavior was the result of his disease. He was sick.” A single tear trickled down his wrinkled face.

“Is he still sick?” I asked quietly, trying to digest what he had just told me.

He nodded his head and frowned. “He’s much better, but his disease will never go away. It’s permanently with him. As long as he is on his medication, though, he is stabilized and can live a mostly normal life.”

“Where is he now?” I asked. “I want to meet him. Does he know I’m here?” And then I added quietly, “Does he want to meet me?”

“He knows you’re here. He’s,” he started hesitantly. “He wants to meet you, he’s afraid though.”

“Why?” I asked even though I knew the answer to his question. He was afraid I would reject him. My grandfather didn’t answer me. He waited for me to say something. I finally opened my mouth again, feeling courageous. “I want to meet him,” I said resolutely.

“Are you sure?” Nana asked, her face disconcerted.

“I’m positive and you both need to let me do this on my own,” I said. They looked at each other, their expressions readable. “I mean it,” I added.

“It won’t be easy for you,” she said.

“No.” I sighed and looked down at the floor and then back at them. “I don’t expect it to be. But if I don’t do this, I’ll regret it and I can’t live my life like that.” I stood up and walked over to the window. I wiped the tears away from my eyes and sniffled.

“I was wrong,” Grandpa said.

“About what?” I asked him, turning my head in his direction.

“We should have told you from the beginning. You could have handled it. You’re grown, Finn,” he said quietly.

I didn’t respond. A part of me wanted to run in the other direction, back to my childhood where things had been carefully  laid out for me. My mother had tried to protect me from the truth. But in reality, it held me back. It kept me from discovering the gritty and ugly things in life—all that was real. With the beautiful things I had discovered this summer, like loving and being loved, there was also the ugly truth that there was no such thing as perfect. If that meant living, really living, then I had to accept the good with the bad.

Chapter 21

Nana let me borrow her truck to go see my father. It was a rough ride and the truck shifted loudly every time I changed gears. It was hard for me think about anything other than meeting my father. The image I had always had of him was when he was young before he got sick. It was how I pictured him, handsome, youthful, and happy. The few pictures my mother had of him were when he was young before I was born. I wondered what he looked like now. Was he the angelic image I had in my head? I was nervous, the further I drove, the more I wondered if I should turn around and forget about ever meeting him. I feared his rejection. I was afraid of the unknown. What would he think of me?

He lived in a remote area, out past my grandparents’ house, past any point of civilization. I felt like I was lost. Nana’s directions had been explicit, telling me every turn I needed to make, every landmark I need to pay attention to. Still, I felt like I had made a wrong turn because I was headed to the middle of nowhere.

I turned a sharp right down a long gravel road. Large, formidable trees surrounded me on both sides. I was in the middle of a lush forest, full of trees and other plant life. I looked at my directions again, ensuring I had turned down the right road. I had and continued to drive another long mile, finally reaching my father’s house. He lived in an old log cabin covered in wood that was worn and weathered. The landscaping was impeccable, filled with flowers and plants. A birdbath stood in the center of a vegetable garden. A large shade tree, perfectly manicured, was adjacent to the cabin. I parked the truck behind an old yellow Toyota Corolla. I turned off the ignition and sat in the truck for a while too nervous to do anything else. I noticed him looking out the window pulling back the curtains and peering at me. I couldn’t get a good enough look at him to see his face clearly. I wondered if he was as anxious about meeting me as I was him. I asked myself who was going to be the brave one and go first. I saw him looking out the window again. I leaned my head back against the seat and breathed heavily out loud. I knew it was going to have to be me. I would have to dive right in and be the courageous one. Somehow it made me feel better knowing that he was just as scared as I was. I just needed to muster enough courage to get out of the car.

I don’t know where I got the strength, but I finally got out of the car and walked toward his front door. A yellow lab I had failed to notice before ran anxiously toward me, wagging its tail. It jumped up on me, nearly knocking me over by its size and force. “You’re friendly aren’t you,” I said to it. The dog stood back on all fours and continued wagging its tail. I patted its head and smiled at it. It followed me as I treaded slowly toward the door. My heart beat rapidly.

He didn’t wait for me to knock on the door instead he opened it and subtly smiled at me. “Jack, sit,” he ordered. The yellow lab happily complied and sat down on the porch, his tail still subtly wagging. “Hello,” he said, his voice deep, his accent thick. His hair was red, the same shade as mine. His face showed signs of age, a little worn with wrinkles. His skin was almost leathery and full of freckles. He was tall and thin, but still handsome. He fidgeted and moved toward me, awkwardly, unsure of what he should do. He looked as perplexed as I felt.

“Hi,” I paused. “I’m Finn,” I said, extending my hand and then instantly retracted it, feeling strange for even offering it to him. I questioned what I should do. It didn’t feel right to hug him and shaking hands with him wasn’t right either. I settled on doing nothing instead saying the first thing that came to mind. “Your yard is beautiful.” I was trying to break the tension. His eyes instantly lit up, his posture more relaxed.

“Thank you. Do you like to garden?” He asked with interest. He stood inside his house while I stood outside on his front porch, still uninvited to come inside.

“Not a lot. Grandpa has tried to get me into it.” I smiled, thinking of the first time I worked in the yard with him. It felt like a million years ago.

He looked at me curiously and attempted to smile. “Do you want to come in?” He gestured toward the inside.

“Sure.” I followed him, Jack trailing behind me. Stacks and stacks of books filled the room. He sat down in an old leather recliner. I sat on an old floral couch across from him. Jack sat in a corner and closed his eyes. I looked around the room noticing there was no television set. The walls were full of vibrant, colorful paintings that I assumed were his. They were similar to the painting that hung on the wall in his old bedroom. The coffee table was covered in books. The room smelled earthy, musty, like a forest. We sat quietly, staring at each other. He tapped his hand on the chair, in near perfect rhythm, creating an imaginary song or playing an old familiar tune, I am not sure. I began to bite on my nails but stopped myself once I became aware of what I was doing.

“I read a lot, too,” I said, gesturing to his books. He formed an excited expression.

“What do you like to read?” he asked eagerly, showing interest.

I shrugged. “Everything.”

“Me, too,” he replied.

“Do you get lonely being out here all by yourself?” I asked. I knew I would if I lived there. It was remote and isolated.

He frowned pondering my question. “Not really. I like the solitude. I go into town from time to time and your grandparents visit me every week. Mostly though, I prefer to be here by myself reading and gardening,” he said. He scratched his head and attempted to smile at me. “Do you like to be alone?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” I confessed. “Not lately, though.” His forehead wrinkled, he stared at me confused. “It’s just, I was alone for a long time and I’ve recently made friends and I like it,’” I admitted.

“That’s good. Mom told me you’re going to college to be a doctor,” he said. He shifted in his chair nervously.

I was about to bite on my nails again, but stopped myself. “I am. I’m not so sure about being a doctor anymore, though,” I told him. I realized I was telling him something that I had not told anyone else. It was a realization that I had come to recently, but was afraid to admit to anyone else, let alone myself. All my life I had said I was going to be a doctor and lately, the idea didn’t seem appealing. It didn’t feel like a good fit. When I was at the hospital visiting  Grandpa I nearly froze at the sight of him in the ICU, feeling sick to my stomach. I was starting to rethink it all.

“You’re not?” He frowned.

“I don’t know if it’s the right thing for me,” I admitted. “I’m still trying to figure out who I am.”

“It’s hard being your age,” he replied and didn’t press further. He offered me something to drink. We drank sweet tea quietly, staring at each other, awkwardly smiling. I didn’t know what to say or even how to begin to know what to say to him.

“I’m sorry I left,” he said. I didn’t respond. He added, “I was very sick for a long time but I’m better now, a lot more stable. The meds that I’m on help me stay balanced.” He laughed nervously gauging my reaction. “I want to get to know you if you will let me,” he said looking at me, seeking my approval, curiously waiting for my answer.

“I’d like that.”

“Good,” he said and breathed a sigh of relief. “I was nervous to meet you.”

“Me, too.” I smiled, pleased that we were talking. “I didn’t know what to expect,” I said.

He smoothed his hair and shifted in his chair. “I thought you would get here and tell me off and then leave.”

I shook my head. “I don’t resent you. It’s not your fault,” I said.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I was sick for a long time. When I finally got better, I wanted to know you so badly, but didn’t know how to contact you. And, well, I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with me if I did.” He tapped his fingers on the chair, playing Beethoven’s
Fur Elise
. His hand had a slight tremor. I wondered if that was a side effect of his medication.

“I want to get to know you,” I said. He slightly smiled at my response.

“Would you like to go outside?” he asked.

“Okay,” I said.

He stood up and Jack followed. I walked with him outside. It was a warm day, but not humid. I stood next to him on the porch looking around at the trees, noticing the odd metal sculptures randomly placed throughout his yard. One that was completely made of kitchen utensils caught my eye. It was a little girl. He noticed me staring at it and said, “That’s you when you were little.”

I walked over to it and bent down to look at it. “It’s beautiful,” I said, admiring it. Nana had said he was talented. I thought she was biased but I could see I was wrong. His art was amazing.

“It was the first sculpture I made,” he said.

“You’re very talented,” I said, standing up and facing him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, almost embarrassed by the compliment. He walked a little and then stopped. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked, gesturing to his pipe.

“No,” I said. He put the pipe to his lips and lit the tobacco. He inhaled the smoke, puckering his lips, his hand shaking a little.

“Do you garden every day?” I asked.

“I try to during the spring and summer. It helps keep me grounded, keeps my mind off things.” He sucked on his pipe again, inhaling more smoke. I didn’t mind the smell. “Let’s take a walk,” he said. We meandered toward his garden, Jack eagerly followed.

I stopped to admire the daisies. “Do you like daisies?” he asked, noticing me.

“Yes.” I nodded. “They’re my favorite flower. Something about them makes me happy,” I said. He took a pocket knife out of his front pocket and cut several from the ground and handed them to me.

“Here. You can put them in a vase when you get home,” he said.

“Thank you.” It melted my heart. I could see why my mother had fallen in love with him. It was a kind gesture; his way of saying he loved me. This is what I imagined a father would be like with his daughter. At that moment, I wanted that feeling to last forever. It was a feeling of warmth and protection. It must be what most girls feel like when growing up with a dad.

We continued to walk throughout his yard admiring the flowers. He told me about each and every plant and flower, giving me intricate details, more than I could ever know, but I enjoyed listening to him.  He was excited to share what he knew with me, to talk to me. I listened patiently, intently, eagerly. Hearing his voice, standing next to him, it felt surreal. I couldn’t believe that I was in this close proximity to my father, the man I thought was dead for more than sixteen years. I wanted to relish every second of the day and remember it detail for detail. I had a father and I was not willing to let him go, not when I finally had him again.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” he asked as we stood in front of Nana’s truck.

“Definitely. How about this weekend?” I asked.

“I’d like that,” he said and smiled.

“I’ll see you then.” I didn’t know if I should hug him. I moved toward him. He hugged me gently.

He looked at me and patted me softly on the shoulder, “I’m glad you came, Finn.”

“Me, too. I’ll see you real soon.” I opened the door to the truck and sat down putting the key in the ignition. I turned the car on and rolled the window down.

“Drive safely,” he said. I drove away and looked in the rearview mirror. He was standing outside, watching me as I drove off.