I run my hand along the edge of the buttercream and blue floral-patterned couch, stirring memories of my childhood. That couch has been so many things to the three of us over the years. A protective shield during hide-and-seek, a safe base during games of tag, and where I sat tucked between my grandparents while we played board games in the years before we finally begged enough until they bought a television set.
It’s been someone’s bed recently. There is a blanket and pillow stacked neatly on one end of it. Gavin, I assume. Dallas would probably sleep in his old room, but Gavin always slept on the couch when he spent the night.
I hear Gavin turn on the shower and assume it’s for him, but while I stand staring at the old Wurlitzer where Nana taught me and Dallas to play, Gavin reappears in the doorway. My fingers drift over a few keys just heavily enough to make faint sounds. C, D, E. The first three notes I learned to play. I can still hear Nana’s voice.
“C, D, E, Dixie Leigh. One, two, three.”
“Shower’s ready for you, babe. Hand me those clothes and I’ll throw them in the wash.”
Looking down, I realize I don’t even remember putting on the jeans and T-shirt I’m wearing. Without argument or putting up a fight about being a grown woman, I strip my clothes off and hand them over. Gavin disappears down the hall and I make my way to the bathroom. The room is filled with steam from the steady rush of hot water. I’m grateful that I can’t see my reflection through the thick layer of condensation gathered on the mirror.
Bracing my arms against the wall once I’ve stepped inside, I let the water sear the past few weeks from my skin. I’ve been carrying it all for so long and I can’t anymore. I wash quickly, thinking about the many things I’ll say to Papa if he wakes up. For one, I’m never leaving again. I can get a job in town and settle for playing music on the back porch for him every night. For two, I’m going to yell at him for not taking better care of himself. And then I’m going to sit and listen until he has told me every single thing he knows about music and life. Every day with him was a lesson, and there was so much more I wanted to learn.
Some tiny section in the landscape of my mind realizes that if Papa passes, he’ll finally be with Nana, which is where he’s wanted to be all along. He won’t have to sit alone in this house anymore, missing her. They were quite a pair—a team, they used to say. There’s no denying he’s been half the man he used to be since she died.
I step out of the shower and wrap the towel around me that Gavin must have set out. Sweeping the moisture from the mirror with my hand, I stare at my reflection. Papa would be ashamed of me, wasting away, grieving as if he were already gone.
He didn’t let Dallas or me spend a single moment moping when we found out Nana was sick. He sat us down and told us to make sure every single day of the rest of her life was filled with laughter and happiness—that we didn’t mope or cry or feel sorry for ourselves. We did the best we could—holding our tears until we were allowed to release them at her funeral six months later. Even Papa couldn’t deny us that. His eyes were wet as well that day and he didn’t meet me outside for my lesson for a month. But I kept going out there, same as always, until one morning he joined me after his coffee.
“You’re pretty like a flower and tough like a weed, Dixie-girl,” he said before imparting a few pointers about relaxing my hands during a piece I was learning to play by Pachelbel.
Looking in the mirror, I don’t know about the flower part, but tough I can definitely work with. I owe it to him to be tougher than I have been.
After I slip into a clean pair of well-worn striped pajama pants and a tank top, I run a comb through my wet hair and meet Gavin in the kitchen.
Seeing him standing there, making macaroni and cheese on the stovetop from a blue box—my favorite—I’m torn between wanting to kiss him and wanting to kick him out. Dallas had to cancel two shows already this week and I know Gavin needs the money. I can take care of Papa. They should go. The words form on my tongue but I don’t say them, not yet. Instead I smile and sit at the table, where he hands me a heaping plate of macaroni and a glass of sweet tea.