ONE
THE MORNING SUN HEATED my cheek, pulling me awake. One eye peeped open, taking in the amber-hazed room full of unpacked moving boxes, surrounding the only thing I cared to put together last night: my bed. Moving with my father to a new home at the age of twenty-seven was a jagged pill to swallow. It became a depressing necessity I couldn’t circumvent. My biggest reservation? If the reason we were here was a success, my wait for autonomy would be lengthened.
It was easier to stomach after remembering the crime committed against someone important to me. Upon making the decision to move, my father wanted me to live with him for my protection. He wasn’t fully aware that my prime reason for agreeing was due to his protection and not mine.
As I sat up in bed, the smell of fresh ground coffee made me smile. It meant my father had finally unpacked his espresso machine, ensuring the availability of freshly ground coffee.
I checked the time, hoping I wasn’t late for the job I’d applied for online and interviewed through Skype to obtain. My new position, as a retail associate, was a far cry from the job I once held. I’d had many professions in my short working career; my last was as an office manager for a large architectural firm in New York. As much as I enjoyed my job, my duty complicated things, forcing me to resign and come to central California with my father.
The retail job seemed easy enough, and one of the women who interviewed me helped in making my decision. We got along right away, chatting as if we’d known one another for years. It was high on my list of priorities to get to know her better, and it might have been the reason I accepted the job offer in the first place.
After showering and preparing for my first day at work, I met my father downstairs.
In a daze, he stared out of the picture window in the kitchen at the lush green grass sandwiched between densely packed trees. The house was located on a golf course inside a gated community, twenty miles northwest of Santa Maria. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” he said, his voice distant. “I’ll have to get a rider to tame all of that land. The broker said our water bill will be pretty high in order to keep it this way.”
We’d bounced around different areas of the country, occasionally spending a short while in international locations. No matter where we went, we hadn’t had a yard as huge as the one we currently have. “You always said you wanted a real yard.”
“I could’ve moved anywhere for that,” he countered with an almost tangible distance in his voice. The distance became cutting when he added, “If I’d had a choice in where we lived.”
I grinned at him in an effort to cheer him up. Behind his eyes was something profoundly sad. The father in front of me was very different than the one I grew up with. A tragedy transformed him into an emotionally fragile man, and at times, volatile. When he fell into his darker moods, he was liable to drift into a space only I could get him out of.
The relationship between my parents was very complicated. While my mother and father never married, my mother took several husbands in rapid succession after their break-up. For some reason or another, my parents weren’t able to stay away from each other. According to my father, they had an ongoing affair during each of my mother’s marriages; my father admitted he wasn’t proud of his adulterous practices. There were many details I couldn’t recall about their past together, and the affair counted as one of the many.
In another life, my father was the District Manager of a family-owned chain of grocery stores. He resigned to play the part of the stay-at-home father while my mother spent many weeks and weekends traveling on the road.
Their relationship ended when my mother found her first husband, a wealthy man, to help sponsor her career. My father made it clear to me that my mother was still in love with him, but stressed she preferred money, her duty, and her profession over love and her children. Although it was her first marriage, it wouldn’t be her last. No matter whom she married, she made sure her family benefited financially. On the eve of my mother’s accident, the money my mother funneled into my father’s account, unfortunately, ran out.
“I can help with the finances, Dad,” I offered.
Waking out of his daze, my father eyed me carefully. “You’re not supposed to worry about those things. It’s enough that you pay for the home health nurses.”
“I’m going to pay rent,” I protested, slightly offended that he continued to view me as a child instead of a twenty-seven-year-old adult. “I won’t live with you without contributing to more of the bills.”
“I won’t accept it,” he rebuffed my offer with a growing edge to his tone. “Not in this case. We’re protecting each other. I’m hopeful things will go better this time and we won’t be scrounging for money for long. We’ll make up for what we failed to do the first time.”