My father took me out to Merewether’s backyard and showed me the apple tree, the plot of dirt for flowers and vegetables, the wheelbarrow. ‘I have a new job,’ he declared. ‘I’m replanting the garden, weeding and mulching and making sure that the bulbs are evenly spaced.’
‘Why aren’t you in the office anymore?’ Last year, his doctor told me that once the patients graduated to Merewether, the hospital staff gave them small jobs. They’d assigned my father to the accounts office; he was to update pertinent information into the Center’s database.
He shrugged. ‘Because I’m doing this now.’
‘Did something…happen in the office?’
He stiffened. ‘I just didn’t want to work in the office. It was my decision.’
I held up my hands, surprised by his defensiveness. It was unusually brave of him. ‘Okay, okay,’ I said. ‘I got it.’
My nose filled with the earthy smell of mulch and dirt. When my father first went to the Center, his therapist told me that breakdowns were very likely within the first two months. When that didn’t happen, he told me that if the patient doesn’t have a breakdown in the first two months, he is almost guaranteed to have one in the following six months. He said I shouldn’t be alarmed if my father had to move back into the Center’s main facility for a while-it was actually a sign of progress. I was confused. A breakdown was now progress?
Yet my father looked strong. He told me on the phone a few months ago that he’d begun playing tennis. An instructor came out on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and a group of them were talking about holding a tournament later in the summer. I was happy for him, but I didn’t want to say it out loud or even feel it too strongly in case that might jinx it.
My father made sandwiches for lunch and brought them out to the patio, remarking that the tomatoes were from the garden. ‘So how’s work?’ he asked, taking a big bite.
That generic question, yet again. ‘Fine.’ I noticed a big blob of tomato on his cheek, and leaned over and mopped it up.
‘Doing anything in the lab?’ he mustered.
‘I’m not licensed to do that, Dad. I’m just the office assistant.’
‘You’re smarter than everyone that works there. Are you going to apply to grad school?’
‘It’s too late now. I missed the deadline for fall.’
‘Apply for spring. It would be a waste not to go, if they’re paying for it.’
Dr Hughes had found me a job at NYU’s genetic counseling office. When she introduced the possibility, she kept apologizing for its meagerness-‘It’s like a glorified assistant’s job. I’ll see if I can get them to give you some more challenging projects, and it’s a great way to go back to grad school, because working for NYU means they’ll comp your tuition, but still, it’s awfully menial’-to the point where it annoyed me. Maybe menial is all I can manage, I wanted to say.
Most of the counselors at the genetics clinic were sweet, soft-spoken, adequately educated women, there to gently explain the details of Tay-Sachs disease and sickle-cell anemia and spina bifida to couples who were either already pregnant or thinking of conceiving. A guy named Alex, 25, was in charge of the billing department, gathering people’s insurance information and asking for upfront payments and making sure bills weren’t outstanding. The women in the office loved Alex in a mother-hen way. The first thing people noticed about him was his size: He was six-five, broad, with ham-like arms and powerful legs. And he was a fan of wearing the same color tie and dress shirt, like Regis Philbin. One day, as we were both leaving the office at the same time, he’d asked if I wanted to get a cup of coffee. It was the way most people started dating, I realized. Not after years and years of tempestuous pining-as I’d done with Philip-but casually, curiously.
My father stood up and carried our dishes into the house. When he came back out, he asked me if I could help him put up a chicken-wire fence around one of the trees. I was to hold the posts steady and upright, and he would hammer them into the ground.
The sledgehammer had an awkward center of gravity; it took my father by surprise. The first time he swung it, he missed the top of the post completely. The second time, he hit the side. I watched as his hands shook, probably a side effect of his medication.
‘Maybe you should let me do it,’ I suggested.
‘It’s pretty heavy.’
He finally hit the top of the post, but it was a tentative, ineffectual little tap.
‘You have to give it more force than that,’ I said with a laugh.
My father dropped the sledge to the ground. It fell heavily, the wooden handle tipping into the dirt. The air was absolutely still. He trudged over to the graying, splintered picnic table and sat down. When I lifted my head, he was staring at me peacefully.
‘What’s going on with you, Summer?’ he asked. He didn’t sound wounded or fragile, merely curious. ‘I haven’t heard from you in a long time.’