In My Father's Eyes (8 page)

Emily laughed again, her shivering finally subsiding as the heat from the vents filtered through her wet clothing.

“Can you be serious?”

“All right, all right,” Harold said, “You were a stripper. So what? When I was using, I knew a bunch of strippers; some were good people, some weren’t.”

“Did any of them ever have their fathers come see them strip?” Emily challenged, twisting in her seat.

“Umm,” Harold murmured. “Not that I know of.”

“Exactly.” Emily said. “How sick and twisted is that? My Dad walking in to see his little girl twirling on a pole in a G-string and pasties. Not exactly family hour, is it?”

“Wait, wait,” Harold cautioned, “Your father actually came and watched you dance?”

Emily sat back in her seat pulling the blanket around her tighter. “Well…sort of…I didn’t wait around to find out and split out the back.”

Harold thought for a moment. “Well…maybe he was stopping for directions.”

Emily snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“Okay, okay. But there could be a dozen reasons he came in there that are perfectly innocent. What did he say when you asked him about it?”

“As if.” Emily grunted sinking lower in her seat, kicking off her pumps and letting the warm air flow over her toes. “I haven’t talked to my Dad in years. He doesn’t want anything to do with me…and that’s fine by me.”

“Don’t you think that’s something you should fix?” Harold ventured after a moment.

Emily snorted derisively.

“Why should I? He’s the one who left me.” Emily stiffened realizing what she said. “Oh, crap. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s different with my Dad. He’s not half way across the country. He’s here. If he wanted to see me, he could.”

“It’s not as easy as that, Emily.” Harold sighed. “Maybe he’s tried. Maybe he’s too ashamed, too afraid of what you think about him.”

“He should be,” Emily warned. “I don’t ever want to see him.”

“Emily,” Harold sighed again. “Do you think you’d be this mad if you didn’t care? It’s always the people closest to us that have the power to hurt us the most. It works the other way around, too. We hurt the ones we love…even when we don’t want or intend to. It’s because we
do
love them that it hurts so much. Opening yourself up to that, risking being hurt, that takes courage. Letting yourself become vulnerable, facing more disappointment…it’s a tough thing to do.”

“Better not to risk it then,” Emily sulked raising a bitter sigh from Harold.

“Maybe.” Harold said, “But I don’t know if I would want to live a life that at least didn’t have the chance for love. I wouldn’t change a thing, if it meant I would never have known Lydia, never had the chance to share her life.”

“That’s masochistic,” Emily said. “I wouldn’t do it. Love isn’t worth getting hurt over.”

Harold laughed, “Well…that answers that question.”

“What question?” Emily asked.

“You’ve never been in love, have you?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Emily flushed, thankful the dim light hid her red cheeks. She’d never even had a boyfriend. Well…just that one time in second grade, but playing post-office behind Billy Damon’s house probably didn’t count.

“Love has everything to do with it. Love is everything. When you come down to it, that’s all that really matters; the people you love.”

“Ugh.” Emily grunted. “Too touchy feely for me.”

“Love isn’t a feeling,” Harold said quietly, “it’s an ability.”

Chapter Ten

Reaching Emily’s house, Harold pulled the car to the curb, the rain continuing to patter down outside. Emily looked out the window toward the split-level white clapboard ranch house with its manicured lawn, trimmed hedges and porch light shining through the rain.

She felt warm and snug wrapped in the blanket despite her wet clothing. “I don’t think I can love. Not anymore.” Emily said, her breath filming on the window as she continued to look at the house where her mother and stepfather lived.

Harold let that pass. He knew how hard it could be to let go of the guilt and the blame; to make yourself open up to other people after you’ve learned to wall them off, keep them out, not let them get close enough to cause you pain. He also knew how false that security was. Something in the human heart, the soul, yearned for a connection to others. No matter how much you tried to keep from feeling it, you always ached for what you didn’t have.

Putting on a façade of callousness, imperviousness, was just that; a façade. A show of toughness that only masked the agony of being separate, apart from human connection. Harold reached for Emily’s hand where it laid in her lap, clasping it in his and gave it a gentle squeeze, letting her know that he knew she didn’t really mean what she said.

What she meant, he knew, was that she was afraid, terrified even of the possibility. They sat like that for a long moment; Emily staring up at the house, unable to understand what she was feeling; Harold remembering all the times he’d wished he’d been there for Colin and hoping that someone had been.

“You going in?” Harold finally spoke.

“Yeah. I suppose.” Emily nodded gently removing her hand from his and turning back to him. “Would you come in with me?”

“Oh…” Harold hesitated, “I don’t know. It’s late and I still need to pick up the receipts for tonight.”

“Come on,” Emily coaxed. “You can meet my mom.” This last with a grin. “She’s dying to meet you.” Emily sang mockingly.

Harold laughed. Telling her to wait there he dug his umbrella from the back seat, opened the door and flipped it open. Dodging the stream of runoff at the curb, he held the umbrella for Emily and escorted her up the concrete walkway to the door, rain rolling off the umbrella and onto his hair in fat rivulets.

He shook the rain off the umbrella as Emily retrieved her keys from her purse and let them in. Stamping his boots on the mat, Harold followed her inside to a quiet house that still held the scent of cookies.

“Mom!” Emily announced her arrival, unwrapping the blanket from her shoulders and tossing it on the preacher's seat in the entrance. “Mom!” She called again. The short hall extended several paces before splitting. To the right a corridor led to the bedrooms with Emily’s tucked in as an afterthought at the back. On the left, the hall opened up into a space that held a large sitting area and a kitchen along the rear of the house separated from the den by a half wall and counter.

Stepping left, Emily looked into the den and kitchen seeing no one. The television set was off and Tom’s slippers sat before his chair.

Calling again, Emily turned back to the hall leading to the bedrooms. Knocking on the first door on the left, she opened. No one.

“There’s towels in the kitchen next to the oven,” she yelled down the hall. “I’m going to change.”

Harold stamped his feet once more and set the umbrella in the corner by the door as he heard Emily move further into the house and the sound of her door open and close. Looking around, he moved into the living area. The carpet was light and soft, the ceiling high overhead painted white, a large ceiling fan descended from the center over a sitting area fronting the entertainment center. Two reclining chairs bordered a large overstuffed couch with a garish floral print. Along the walls framed pictures showed impersonal landscapes.

Making his way through the den, he emerged in a modern kitchen half as large as the living room; its counters and cupboards recently clean and shining spotless as did the white tiled floor. A platter of oatmeal cookies sat under glass on the bar between rooms. Harold opened a few drawers until he found a pile of clean hand towels and used one to dry his face and hair.

The house wasn’t what he expected. Based on Emily’s appearance that first day, her tattoos and piercings, the Goth clothes, he’d pictured a shabby home with weeks old collections of catalogs and women’s magazines, threadbare rugs and curtains permeated by cigarette smoke and the remains of oily fried foods.

Instead, the home looked prosperous and cared for; clearly the home of an upper middle-class family and caretakers that took pains to maintain their abode. What he didn’t find, wandering back into the living area was any photographs of the family. No smiling portraits taken during holidays, no souvenirs from vacations. All the pictures were lovely, but sterile; revealing nothing about the owners of the home.

Emily emerged from the hall running a plush towel through her hair. She’d changed into blue sweatpants and an over-sized shirt that hung below her waist.

“They should be here,” she said, moving past Harold. “Mmmm. Want one?” Asking as she found the cookies and lifted the glass. Taking the offering Harold bit into the surprisingly moist oatmeal.

Emily half sitting in a high stool at the bar draped the damp towel in her lap, making short work of her second cookie.

“You’ve a nice home,” Harold said politely earning a shrug from the girl.

“Want to see my room?” Emily asked. When Harold’s brow furrowed, Emily laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to seduce you.”

“I…I didn’t think you were.”

“Un-huh.” Emily grunted, hopping off the stool and grabbing Harold’s hand as she passed. “Come on.”

Tugged along behind the girl Harold followed reluctantly, feeling a stab of guilt that she’d so closely read his mind; he’d not forgotten her question in the coffee shop months before, though, thankfully, she’d never brought it up again.

Emily opened her bedroom door and led Harold inside, flipping the light switch as she passed. Standing aside, she released his hand and let him take in her bedroom.

It was larger than he expected. He hadn’t been in a teenage girl’s bedroom in more than thirty years. Given that it was Emily, he couldn’t really say he expected frills and lace. Even so, it took him by surprise. The walls were covered in posters and collages. Playbills from defunct bands from the sixties, seventies, and eighties plastered the walls. He recognized some of them; the rest he’d never heard of though he figured they were old British punk bands based on their hair and costumes.

Rough bookcases lined the far wall bracing a bay window. Books sat jumbled and wracked; spilling over onto the floor and desk. Drifting closer he thumbed the spines noting the Plath short stories and Ferlinghetti poetry.

In the corner to the right sat a wide drafting table. Above it the corkboard on the wall held sketch after sketch; stark, austere drawings of fanciful characters and worlds. Harold moved closer studying them.

“You did these?” Harold looked back at her to see Emily nod. “They’re very good. I didn’t know you were an artist.”

“They’re just drawings.” Emily said shrugging, secretly pleased at Harold’s approval. She joined him at the desk looking over her sketches, trying to see them from his perspective.

“I like them.” Harold said. “They’re…powerful.”

Emily picked up her sketchbook and flipped it open. “I did one for you.” She pulled the completed drawing from the pad and laid it on the desk.

Harold looked down, his right hand going out, fingers shifting it and freezing as he took in the drawing.

It showed him sitting on the bench in The Gardens at night; a crescent moon visible just rising over the tops of the bamboo shining silvery in the moonlight. Bent over, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands in his hair, head crooked to the left. Everything was shadows, hinting without revealing.

Next to him on the bench Emily had drawn in the image of an angel, her dark wings half open, shrouding Harold’s shoulders; the angel’s hand resting on his shoulder. The angel’s face turned to him glowed from an inner light showing delicate features; a wide-lipped mouth, large almond shaped eyes under thick brows sat above sharp cheeks and a ski-sloped nose.