I watched Dad’s line pull taut—ripples in the water the dead giveaway—and I told him to take his time. He chuckled and pulled his rod out of its holder.
“Bailey, I’ve been fishing way longer than you,” he replied, reeling in the line slowly.
Another jerky tug, and I knew the fish had realized it’d been tricked. I felt rather sorry for it, even though I knew Dad would throw it back into the lake. Dad pulled the fish out of the water, then stood up and lost his balance for a second before taking hold of the flailing perch.
“And I was hoping for something bigger,” he said, carefully unhooking his catch. He paused and looked it over before tossing it back into the lake. He carefully sank back into his chair then began the task of spearing another worm.
“No lures today?”
“Marvin brought over some bait,” he said.
I nodded and watched the sharp metal puncture the slimy worm casing. Gross.
“Poor worm,” I muttered.
Dad chuckled. “Bailey, I’ve no idea why you eat meat.”
“Huh?”
He shook his head. “Never mind.”
“Dad? How did Reece ask you?”
What do you mean?” he asked, standing up again. He cast his line and stood for a moment, reeling it in a fraction until he felt it was in the perfect spot.
“How did he ask you for permission to marry me?”
“That’s between us,” Dad replied, sitting down.
“Please tell me,” I begged.
“Why do you wanna know?” Dad asked. He adjusted his fishing hat—you know the ones with the lures attached all over—little badges of accomplishments like Boy Scout patches.
“Just curious. He really fooled me. I’d no idea he was planning to ask you if he could marry me.” I smacked my leg, missing the mosquito by a hair. “Hell, I didn’t know that he was planning to ask me at all!”
“He said he loved you more than anything and that I’d make him the happiest man on the planet if I agreed to let you marry him,” Dad said.
“He did not,” I replied.
“Those were pretty much his exact words,” Dad said.
“Really?” I breathed.
“Mmhmm.” Dad inhaled deeply and leaned his head to the left, stretching his neck.
We sat silent for a time.
“I’m glad he asked me,” Dad said softly.
“So he’ll automatically be your favorite son-in-law, huh?” I joked.
Dad smiled. “Automatically.”
I stared at the line as it sat waiting in a mirror lake. No movement. No breeze. The lake was frozen in a painting, suspended in time, and I imagined all the activity under the surface stopped cold—a computer glitch—before life moved again.
“I’m so happy to walk you down the aisle,” Dad whispered. It was the kind of soft talk that comes right before a deep sleep.
It wasn’t uncommon for my father to fall asleep fishing. The privacy of his fishing spot naturally lent itself to relaxation.
“I wanted to be the first,” I confessed. “But I’ll take seconds.”
Dad chuckled, and then he grew serious.
“Parents shouldn’t play favorites,” he said. “It’s not fair. Not right. But Puddin’ Pop? You’re my favorite. And giving you away will break my heart.”
I was shocked.
Dad shifted in his chair, eyes glued to the lake.
“No man wants to ask permission to see his daughter,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“When you’re married, everything changes. It’s supposed to. The closest person in your life becomes your spouse. Priorities shift.” He paused then whispered, “I won’t get to see you as much.”
“Dad!” I cried. “That’s ridiculous! You act like we’re moving out of town. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here. And I’ll come and see you all the time. Whenever I want.”
Dad nodded. It was one of those “I don’t believe you” nods. I couldn’t know now what he meant, about the shifting of priorities. But I knew I loved my dad right up there with Reece, and I’d never squander the time I’d get to spend with him. Married or not.
Dad reached out and took my hand, squeezing it gently before releasing it in favor of his fishing pole. He caught another perch—perhaps the same one—and went through the routine of reeling it in, unhooking its mouth, and turning it over in his hand before throwing it back into the lake.
Another hour passed, mostly in silence, as Dad caught fish after fish. It was, perhaps, the best fishing he’d ever done.
“I’m having a good day,” he said before falling asleep, head nestled against his favorite chair.
Sometime later I awoke with a start. I had no idea I drifted off, too, and rubbed my face roughly to wake up. I checked the time on my cell phone.
“Dad,” I croaked. “It’s time to get up. I can’t believe we slept so long.”
Dad didn’t stir. He must be having a good dream, I thought.
“Daddy,” I sang softly. “Mom’s already having a fit, I’m sure.”
He dreamed on.
“Why does she care how long you spend out here, anyway? You’re a grown ass man. You’re retired. You can do whatever the hell you want,” I said. I poked his arm. “Now get up.”
He didn’t move.
“Dad.”
Stillness.
“Dad?”
Nothing.
You hear that expression all the time—how your world shifts. Shifting, like the plates under the ground reworking themselves into a new structure. You can’t keep them from shifting, but you sure as hell don’t want them to. You liked the old structure just fine. The old structure was safe. You knew it. You were comfortable with it. It was your reality.
This was not my reality. I stood shaking my father, screaming at him, staring straight into a new reality.
“Get up!” I roared.
His head rolled to the side.
“Get up, Daddy!!”
His hand fell off the armrest and dangled lifelessly.
“DADDY!” I screamed into the morning.
The birds echoed my cry then took off, flapping fiercely, escaping my anger and fear.