He hefted the window open, cold wind swirling in. He put one hand on his hip. ‘I’m thinking that white Lincoln might be next. It’s got a sticker on it. See?’
I looked at the white car he was pointing at. ‘Uh huh.’ I stepped away from the draft, leaning against the credenza. I gazed at an old photo of my father and me standing at the top of a snow-covered hill in Prospect Park, wearing snow pants and heavy coats and carrying a single plastic sled between us. We always used to go down the hill using just one sled, my father lying on his stomach, me piled on top of him.
‘How do you feel today?’ I asked.
‘Like shit,’ he singsonged, not turning from the window.
‘What kind of shit? Cat shit? Dog shit?’ I never meant to sound frustrated, but I always came off that way.
In another room, one of the dogs barked.
‘Where’s Cora?’ I asked, trying to soften my voice.
My father pressed his head against the glass of the window. ‘I let Cora go. Look! Didn’t I tell you? Here comes the tow truck. I thought they’d give that Lincoln another couple days, but I guess not.’
‘You fired Cora?’ I sank into the couch. ‘Why?’
‘Summer! This is our lucky day.’ He pointed at the tow truck. ‘Watch how they load it up. Have you ever seen this? It’s beautiful.’
‘Dad. Why did you fire her?’
His shoulders lowered. He turned around and picked up the rain stick that was leaning up against the couch. It was supposed to simulate the sounds of the rainforest; he’d bought it a few months ago when we went into the Nature Store. Sometimes, late at night, I heard him turning it over and over, a million tiny downpours. ‘I didn’t need her,’ he said, sulking. ‘She was always here. She was watching me.’
‘Of course she was always here! That’s her job, to be here!’
‘She brought a Neil Diamond CD here. Neil Diamond, Summer.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Even your mother didn’t listen to Neil Diamond.’ He shuddered. ‘I’m fine. This is so exaggerated.’
‘You think so?’
‘I feel all right. I’ve been feeling all right.’
At least he was talking today. At least he was watching the cars. Some days, he couldn’t even do that. I wondered if I should call up the clinic in the hospital and cancel the whole thing. Because you couldn’t do just one treatment and decide, Nah, I don’t like it. Once you started, you had to do all six. Or eight. Or however many the doctor deemed appropriate. For my father, the doctor had decided on eight. Words repeated in my head: He will have eight seizures. His brain will be electrocuted eight times.
‘So do you want me to cancel tomorrow?’ I asked quietly. ‘Is that what you want?’
He didn’t answer. Outside, the guy operating the tow truck attached the illegally parked Lincoln to its hitch. My father’s shoulders hunched.
‘I’m going to call Cora.’ I walked into the hall toward the kitchen, all the dogs following. ‘She needs to come back. She’ll come back, right? You didn’t say anything really terrible to her?’
‘Summer…’ My father was behind me fast.
I curled my hand over the receiver. ‘What?’
He gave me a pleading, desperate look. Then, without answering, he walked into the kitchen, bumping a stack of mail teetering precariously on one of the island barstools. A magazine fell to the floor. On the back was an ad for perfume: a naked woman kissing a naked man. I turned the magazine over. Vogue.
‘I thought I cancelled this.’ I held it up to show him.
He shrugged. ‘I renewed it.’
‘Dad…’ I slammed it down on the island too hard. Some of the subscription renewal forms fell out and slid across the tile.
‘What? I might read Vogue. Ever think that?’
‘You wouldn’t read Vogue.’ I turned it over and looked at the mailing address. RICHARD DAVIS. At least it wasn’t in her name. ‘I don’t understand these magazines.’ I held up the cover, Cindy Crawford in a bikini. ‘She looks constipated.’
‘I think she looks nice. She looks like a woman.’ He glanced at me.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘What’s what supposed to mean?’
‘That look.’
He flipped through the mail. ‘I didn’t give you any looks.’
‘What, I should go around wearing a bikini like she does?’
‘No. Of course not.’ He bent back the edge of a flyer. ‘Although, it wouldn’t kill you to wear something other than jeans once in a while.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with wearing jeans,’ I snapped.
‘Except that a dress is more ladylike.’
And a suit is more masculine, instead of pajama pants. ‘Got me there. You win. Some day when I go off in the world, I’ll wear lots of dresses. Some day when I leave.’
I should have known better. My button: jeans. His: leaving. But who dared press the buttons of someone who was depressed? Someone who could turn on a dime, and-just like he was doing now-start to cry? My father shut his eyes and tried to hold it in. Who dared do this? What dark, evil person?
I crumpled. ‘Dad, no…stop. Let’s not do this.’
‘I wish I were someone else. I wish I weren’t me.’