Rewind to You (30 page)

“Is that why you came here?” I ask as I take a seat beside him. I think about my dad’s smile, the way he greets everyone we pass on the street. He’s a better man than I gave him credit for.

“I was lucky to inherit this house,” he says. “Didn’t exactly have any place else to go, and I figured this was as good a place as any to make a change.”

“You were telling the truth, weren’t you?” I ask. “You’ve been clean all these years.”

My dad nods and puts his arm around me, pulling me into a side hug. “And look. The pieces fell into place.” I think I see a tear in his eye as he looks away and adds, “I got my son back.”

We fix my mom’s Swedish pancakes for dinner, a recipe scribbled on a grease-stained four-by-six card Dad still keeps around. He offers a prayer, and we talk about days past, hazy memories I left in the dust. Some of which I wish would remain in the dust.

I wasn’t always the best kid. Or the brightest. My dad isn’t the only one who’s changed. I try to pinpoint the exact time I made the change. I think first of Aunt Debbie and Uncle Mark, who took me in and have been nothing but good to me, then the moment I received my scholarship to the University of Florida, but in the end I decide it has more to do with the night I met a certain girl on River Street.

We talk until the sun fades, until our eyelids droop and we slump in our chairs. I check the time.
Eleven o’clock
. I sit up, remembering the long drive and work at the beach shop tomorrow morning. My dad is quick to offer me a place to stay the night. Remembering how Aunt Debbie insisted they wouldn’t need the car, I agree, deciding to hit the road at first light.

I brush my teeth with my finger and fall asleep in the spare room on a bed that my feet hang off of. I dream about Tybee beach, about Sienna and the time we took shelter from a storm under the pier.

I quit my job Monday morning and move my stuff down to my dad’s place by Thursday. Makes sense. I’m only taking up space in Aunt Deb and Uncle Mark’s house. It’s time to move on, and I get the sense that Dad won’t protest my staying with him. Wants me to, even.

Football camp starts on August sixth, three weeks away. I’ll have to settle into my apartment before then, but for now I have nothing but time to waste. I’m heading into college practically broke now that all but three hundred dollars went to repair Jesse’s café. I take a leap into the unknown, something I’m no good at, and hope the pieces fall into place like my dad suggested.

I awake one morning to sunlight streaming into my eyes. I look up, surprised to find Dad standing at my door. He scuttles away. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say, wondering how long he’s been watching me. Kind of weird. I’ve caught the look on his face at least a dozen times, like he’s looking at a photograph he’s afraid will up and walk out his front door at any moment. I grab my Meadowbrook Monarchs T-shirt, which still holds the faint scent of Sienna, and throw it on. “What’s up?”

“Oh, not much. Just thinking about all the things I missed out on.”

“Don’t worry about that, Dad. I’ll only be a few hours away for the next four years. I’ll come see you on weekends.” Then an idea strikes, rekindling some excitement for football. “Hey, you wanna come to one of my games?”

I see him swallow as though he thought I’d never ask. “I’d come to every single one of ’em.”

“So, that’s a yes?”

He smiles. “I’d love that.” Then he turns and walks to the kitchen.

Football occupies my thoughts as I chop peppers for breakfast omelets. I decide to take a run after we eat, find a gym somewhere. Dad’s coming to one of my games. If only Sienna was still planning to. I see Dusty in the backyard, clamoring for Turbo’s attention as always. Unable to take it any longer, I grab my cell and pull up Sienna’s number.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse an eggshell dropping into the bowl of egg yolks. I turn, look at Dad. See him tear down the hallway. The bathroom door shuts behind him. I set my phone down, recalling things I’ve only taken passing note of, like how Dad is always slipping away to the bathroom. All the time. I creep down the hallway and hear the faint sound of him retching into the toilet.

Twenty minutes later, he returns. Regardless of the smile he puts on, I notice the way he holds his back as he sinks into his recliner. I take two plates of omelets into the living room and hand him one.

“Thanks,” he says. “Sorry I didn’t help you finish.”

“You okay?” I ask, watching him as I sit in the orange rocker.

He nods. A lie.

“Got the flu?”

“No, I’m fine,” he says. Three minutes pass and he still hasn’t touched the eggs he could once devour in two. Something is definitely up.

“I got something for you,” he blurts out and sets his plate on the coffee table. He reaches into a cabinet at his side and pulls something out. He hands a manila folder to me.

I look down at the folder. “What’s this?”

He takes a deep breath like he’s nervous. Stalling. “You really love her, don’t you?”

I look up. Dad wears a perceptive grin.

“That girl,” he goes on. “The one you said you don’t deserve.”

“Yeah, I love her,” I admit. What’s he getting at?

“Son, sometimes you gotta let the pieces fall where they will, and other times you gotta reach for the stars even if they can’t be reached.”

“What are you saying?”

Dad leans forward. “That’s one thing you’re good at and always were, Austin. You stride forward despite the odds. Don’t spend your life looking back, regretting things like I did. You’re only young once, and it’s gone before you know it.”

No letters. Not one call. I think back to the little boy waiting at the mailbox, and I wonder if Sienna could still be thinking about me. Waiting. I smile, thoughts racing. She’s only a phone call away. Forget that, I’ve got to see her. Crappy thing is, I only have three hundred dollars to my name. That’ll hardly buy an airline ticket.

Dad winces and massages his side again, drawing my attention back.

My gaze drifts to the manila folder in my hands. “Dad, what is this?”

“My will,” he replies, his voice even, his eyes glued on me.

Fear crawls out and creeps all over me. I stand and toss the folder on the coffee table. “I don’t want it.”

I look at him long and hard. His swollen hands. Tired face. I recall the effort it takes him to walk down Mallory Street, and all the other signs I overlooked.

“You’re sick,” I say with a dry throat, finally putting it all together. Every good thing from the past week and a half begins slipping away: forgiveness, finding the relationship we lost all those years ago, reliving past times, and the silent moments when nothing needed to be said at all.

Finally Dad nods, a simple confirmation that sends my whole world crashing.

He takes a deep breath and breaks the prickly silence. “Unfortunately, part of living a life of regrets means living with the consequences.”

Chronic kidney failure.

The tick-tock of the clock on the wall hammers through the silence. I’m angry at the almost-contented expression my dad wears.

“You’re treating it, right? I mean, there’s something they can do for this?”

Dad gives a sad smile. “Chronic kidney failure is only one on a list of problems I got, Austin. The kidney disease has caused heart disease, too.”

Tension rises, compressing my chest from all angles. “Are you on medicine? Come on, Dad, you sound like you’ve given up already.”

Again, he smiles. “I thought you’d take it this way. Like I said, you stride forward despite the odds, something I was never good at.”

“Then get good at it, Dad!” I almost shout. “I’m taking you to a doctor. Come on.”

“It’s not that easy, son. I been in and out of doctors’ offices for years, on all kinds of meds. Been on dialysis, too. It’s stage four, Austin, almost end-stage. There’s only one thing you or I can do now, and that’s learn from my mistakes. It’s because of the drugs, you know.”

I try to swallow the knot in my throat. “How long?”

I endure seconds of painful silence before he finally answers, “Hard to say. Last January, my cardiologist said not to expect much past six months.”

I run my fingers through my hair, an effort to ease the sudden headache mounting. “Aww, geez. Dad, that’s like two weeks ago.”

“I know.” He smiles. “I’m beating the odds already!”

“What about surgery? A transplant?”

“That’s the other hiccup. Heart disease is getting the best of me. If it gets much worse, they won’t even try a transplant. Been on the waiting list for a kidney transplant two years now. Docs say it can take anywhere from three to five for a match to come up, but with my blood type, who knows how long. It’s a lost cause, Austin.”

I reach into my pocket. Pull out my cell. “What blood type are you?”

He watches me suspiciously, his smile fading. “You didn’t screw up my life, Austin. I did! Look at you. You’re strong and healthy. You’ve got a shot at a life I never had. And you’ve got college football. You aren’t putting that in jeopardy for me.”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s over, Austin,” Dad says. “And I’ve come to terms with that. Really, I have. I found God, and I got my son back. That’s more than I coulda asked for.”

I cross the room, kneel down beside him. “I don’t want to play football unless you’re in the stands watching. Got it?”

Dad falters for a reply, as if what I said really means something to him.

“If there was a kidney,” I say, “if there was a chance you could get better, would you do it?”

He rests his hand on that big leather-bound Bible of his and takes a deep breath. In his moment of delay I see it in his eyes: The will to live still runs strong within him, despite what he says.

“Dad, would you do it?” I repeat. “For me?”

At last, he nods. Just once.

I stand. “Okay, then. What blood type are you?”

He looks at me reluctantly before finally replying, “AB negative.”

I leave Dad sitting in his recliner and step outside to make the call.

“Austin?” My mom sounds surprised, and it reminds me I should call her more. “Are you all right?”

I don’t feel like lying, so I get right to the point. “Mom, what blood type am I?”

Dad’s health is borderline acceptable for surgery. He found his match in the nick of time: me, his only living blood relative. I try not to think about what could have happened had I not come to St. Simons, had Sienna never given me the address.

After physical exams, x-rays, tissue matching, blood work, and all that, my dad is cleared for the transplant that could fix his kidney problems and seriously improve his heart function. The doctors tell me a transplant between family members can happen as soon as one month after evaluation of recipient and donor, but this presents a problem.

I plead my case to the doctors in my dad’s absence, using the whole starting-U-of-F-wide-receiver thing to my advantage for the first time. Football practice starts in less than three weeks. It’s then that doctors give me the lecture on surgery and contact sports that silences the world around me for a good hour as I sit in the hospital, mulling it over. Considering the consequences and the dream that still could be.

I guess I’m not sure what I expected, that docs could suck my kidney out one day and I’d pop up to play ball the next? In the end, I put everything else behind me and forge ahead. Don’t look back. Considering my dad’s declining health and my college start date, doctors put a rush on the operation and schedule it for August third, a little less than two weeks away.

I walk from my bedroom to the kitchen and spot Dad in his recliner, the seat he hasn’t budged from since breakfast.

“Hey, Dad.”

I open the fridge, pull out the bowl of fruit, and sit down at the table. Dad’s change of diet makes sense now. I watch as he sits motionless in his chair, staring at the floor.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“When do you start football practice?”

I chew on a strawberry, stalling. Dad wasn’t with me when I spoke to the doctors about my football plans. He didn’t hear the doctors tell me a contact sport like college football was a no go so soon after surgery. I swallow the seedy remains of the strawberry. “August sixth.”

Dad massages his forehead, something he does more and more now, like he can’t concentrate. “Have you told your coach about this?”

“I’ll call him today,” I say. I throw in another strawberry and lie, “It’s no big deal.”

“Austin, you’re donating your kidney.”

“Doc said recovery is slick. I’ll be up and running in no time.”

“You’ll be in the hospital for three days,” he counters, his voice thin and frail. “That means you’ll get out of the hospital the day before training.”

I smile because he’s looking back at me now. “Perfect timing.”

“But you’re not supposed to lift anything heavy for, what, four weeks, right? It doesn’t add up. At all.”

I divert my gaze to the bowl of fruit and fork another bite. I already know this. Reality is, if I donate my kidney, chances are I won’t play college football. Let alone professional ball. Our first game is on September fifth against Charleston, a little over four weeks after the surgery. I may have been the Gator’s top pick for a wide receiver, but I need those four weeks of training as much as anyone.