Last Hit(8)

“Spare no expense,” Nick tells me.

“It’s a good thing you’re not in charge of the finances,” I tease him. “Or you’d have me wearing a dress of pure gold.”

“You need no adornments for your beauty,” Nick says.

I rinse the last plate and then hand it to him. He dries it and I towel off my hands, eyeing him. “Will you wear a suit to the party?” Men always dress so proper on TV at parties. I should probably watch one of the modern shows like that Real Housewives thing, but I have so much homework and so much planning to do before Saturday. I’ll try to squeeze an episode in, maybe.

“Would you like me in suit?” he asks.

I imagine him dressed in black formal attire, beautiful and regal, and my hands go to his plain T-shirt. I smooth my fingers down his chest. “I’d love to see it.”

***

The next day before class, we drop by my father’s apartment. It was difficult getting him to move in with us, even though he likes to be closer. It allows us to visit him every time that we head off to classes. Scheduled. Expected. Otherwise, my father panics. I wish I could say he was doing better now that he’s moved locations, but he’s doing the best he can. Inside his small apartment, the windows are tightly covered and sealed. He’s taped garbage bags over them to allow no light in, and I know he sits with a gun under the seat cushion of his favorite chair, as well as one under the bed. This is typical of my father. He no longer lives in the old farmhouse, but he still can’t let go of his agoraphobic tendencies. Someday, I hope he’ll be able to take down the window covers and enjoy the sunlight. For now, it’s a baby step just to have him here in the building with me.

Nick and I approach Father’s door, and I knock four times in a row, each knock evenly spaced. It’s our signal to let him know it’s me and not a stranger. Then I wait patiently as he checks the peephole, unlocks the six deadbolts, and opens the door to let us in.

“Daisy,” my father says, and kisses my cheek. “Come in, girl.”

We have a pattern when we visit my father. Nick comes inside with me, but stands at the door as we do so. It is so my father can relax, he tells me, and it seems to work. My father is almost his old self when I visit.

Almost.

When we enter the apartment today, it reeks of dog urine and feces. I wrinkle my nose at the smell and try not to hold my nostrils closed. He has a dog walker that comes by three times a day to let Peanut out, but if the dog walker doesn’t arrive on schedule, Father won’t answer the door. Which means Peanut makes a mess. “Father?” I ask. “Was the dog walker late?”

“It was a stranger today,” my father says. “You know I don’t let strangers in.” He returns to his favorite chair and picks up his newspaper. As he does, Peanut runs over and jumps in his lap, burrowing down happily.

I sigh in frustration. “You have a dog, Father. He needs to go outside to use the bathroom. You know if the dog walker doesn’t come by, you can call me and I’ll take care of it.”

“I don’t want you wandering around outside, either, Daisy. It’s not safe.” He gives me an incredulous look. “There are criminals outside.” But he pets the dog’s long, floppy ears and looks more relaxed than normal, so I let it go. If my father is happy with his apartment reeking of dog poop for a few days, so be it. I shoot Nick an unhappy look, and he simply gives his head a small shake. “I’ll come by this weekend and steam your carpets clean, Father. Just tell me what time you want me to come.”

“I will look at my schedule,” my father says gravely, though we both know he doesn’t have a schedule.

“Not Saturday,” Nick says from his post by the door. “Saturday, Daisy is busy.”

I light up at the reminder. “Yes! Father, Nick and I are having a party at a pub this Saturday.” I had to offer lots of money to the pub for them to accept our “surprise” party but it’s all scheduled now, and I’m excited. “There will be lots of students and free beer. Would you like to come?”

A flash of terror crosses my father’s face, and the hand stroking Peanut’s long ears tightens. The dog flinches, but doesn’t move away. Good dog. “No parties for me, daughter.”

I nod my understanding, though my heart hurts that he won’t leave his apartment. Despite all the progress we’ve made, my father is just as much a hermit as before. What’s worse, he won’t even try.

I feel a stab of pity for him . . . and then for myself.

Father won’t even try to go out and make friends. Am I the same? Am I turning into my father without even realizing it? Do I not make friends because I don’t try hard enough?