In My Father's Eyes (5 page)

Caroline wiped at the corner of her eye and stepped back, walking Colin to the driver’s side of his beat up truck. “Call when you get there, okay?”

“I will, Mom.” Colin stepped up, pushing Sam aside as the dog fumbled into his lap. “Calm down, Sam.”

“I’m going to miss him,” Caroline said, reaching through the window and scratching under the grateful retriever’s chin. The dog cast a sideways look at Colin, his tail thumping into the seat back.

Grabbing her son’s face in both hands, Caroline planted a kiss on his cheek, having to rise up on her toes to reach through the window. “Drive safe.” She cautioned, stepping away from the loaded down truck.

Nodding, Colin gave her his love and with a last wave, eased away from the curb. With a last look back in the mirror, he plucked his sunglasses from the console and slipped them on against the bright morning sun.

Unspoken between them lay the real reason he’d accepted the grad school’s offer back east where he was born. She’d never hidden anything from him, telling him about his mother, her niece, over the years when he grown old enough to understand. Telling Colin about his father had been harder; the man whose name he gave up after the adoption was finalized.

It had been hard to hear, too. Colin thought. For a long time he was angry about it; stuck the letters away, unread, when they started to come years ago.
Too late
, he thought,
you had your chance and you blew it
. But that was then. Now Colin knew the time had come to face his past; to find the answers he needed.

The letters sat in the back of his truck still in the shoe box where he stuffed them; still unopened. What he wanted he wasn’t going to find from a piece of paper. When the grad school accepted his application, he figured it was a sign and immediately sent back confirmation.

Despite, or maybe because of, his background in theoretical physics, Colin knew there was more to the universe than could be explained by pure science. How can you explain the ecstasy of a sunrise? The awe and majesty of a dew-covered mountain forest?

The universe held more power and mystery than a human mind could comprehend and Colin was thankful that Caroline’s care had given him the sense to see past the easy answers and glimpse the sheer beauty of a universe abounding with wonders.

It was opening himself up to those possibilities that had first made him consider going back to see his father, to find the answers he needed…to fill the emptiness that sat at his center; an emptiness even Caroline’s unfailing love couldn’t touch.

His tires spun taking him up onto the highway heading east into the sun. Sam settled down on the seat next to him, his pink tongue lolling happily as they began their journey.

Chapter Seven

“Who’s that?” Emily asked Roland watching Harold through the store’s front window as he greeted a blonde woman. They seemed friendly. Too friendly.

“Mrs. Miller,” Roland answered.

“Who’s she?”

“His neighbor, I think,” Roland said.

Emily frowned. The disgustingly prim blonde patted Harold’s arm laughing with too much enthusiasm, her teeth flashing in predatory glee.

Forcing herself to turn away, Emily tried to concentrate on rearranging the display in the window. Images of Harold and the Miller wench continuing to run through her head. If they were neighbors, she probably dropped by his house; brought him cookies or fresh baked bread; anything to sink her hooks into him. The woman looked like one of those suburban divorcees, frosted hair, manicured nails and designer jeans, intent on bagging a new husband.

With each new image, Emily stacked the cases higher, not paying attention. When the woman reached out and tucked a stray hair behind Harold’s ear, Emily slung the heavy trunk in her hands onto the top of the pile. The case clipped the base of the stack and sent the entire pile tumbling and thumping to the ground.

Emily dodged back out of the way and tripped into the rack of purses behind her and went down in a snakeskin and leather avalanche.

“Agghh!” Emily screeched as the stainless steel pole hammered into her left shinbone. Roland and Mathew rushed toward the commotion. Harold, having seen the accident from his vantage in the mall, beat them both to the grumbling girl.

Emily, groaning and wrestling with the purse straps entangling her, rolled to her knees. Harold grabbed her elbow.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Emily winced, trying her left leg and shrugging off Harold’s hand.

“Mathew,” Harold instructed, “get some ice.” Mathew rushed to obey.

“I don’t need any…ow!” Emily yelped taking a step and hopping, letting loose a litany of curses.

“Come on,” Harold said firmly putting his arm around Emily’s waist and helping her hobble into the back where Mathew was just finishing wrapping ice cubes from the fridge into a hand towel. “Sit,” Harold instructed, assisting Emily to an empty chair where she slumped back gratefully, her leg throbbing.

Taking the ice pack from a hovering Mathew, Harold slid Emily’s pant leg up to her knee. Her pale skin showed an egg-sized lump already turning red and blue above her white gym socks. Harold grimaced as he gently applied the ice.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow!” Emily chanted.

“Sorry,” Harold said, “The ice will numb it in a minute and keep the swelling down.”

“It’s freezing,” Emily replied, her hands tightly grasping the sides of her chair. Harold made comforting sounds, the girl’s heel resting on his knee as he crouched in front of her. Being as gentle as he could, Harold eased the ice pack onto her shin more firmly.

Glancing up to where Emily’s pants bunched at her knee, Harold noticed three long scratches; angry red and half-healed stretching several inches along the top of her calf.

Mathew and Roland had busied themselves making Emily more comfortable. Roland brought her a cup of hot tea as Mathew pushed a throw pillow behind her shoulders.

“I think we’re good here,” Harold advised, suggesting Mathew and Roland go take of the store and clean up the mess in the display window.

After the two left with words of encouragement to Emily, Harold looked back at the livid weals on her calf.

“How did you get those cuts?” Harold asked.

Emily looked down. Leaning forward she tugged her pants down, covering the wounds. “An accident. I fell.”

“On what? A pitchfork?”

“Nevermind.” Emily tugged her foot from his grasp, easing her pant leg all the way down. “My leg’s fine. Thanks. I’m okay.”

Harold stood, the ice pack forgotten in his hand as he stared down at her. After a long moment he spoke, his voice husky, firm.

“Let me show you something,” he said, his voice soft. “Can you walk?”

Emily, alarmed by the tone of his voice, merely nodded. Limping slightly she followed Harold through the store. On the way out, Harold stopped and asked Roland to close up, that he would take Emily home.

“Certainly, Harold.” Roland agreed.

The lame girl and the silent man made their way to Harold’s car. Emily didn’t speak until they had exited the mall lot.

“Where are we going?”

Harold’s lips quirked upward in a small smile that never reached his eyes. “My wife, Lydia, had a place she liked to go whenever she felt the need for serenity. It’s not far.”

“Your wife?” Emily said. “I didn’t know you were married.”

“She died.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Emily reached, her hand hesitating over his before finally landing in her lap.

“It was a long time ago.” Harold explained. “It’s taken me more than twenty years just to be able to say those words: ‘She died.’ It doesn’t seem like enough, somehow.”

“I know,” Emily answered, her eyes staring down at the floorboard.

They continued to drive in silence. Ten minutes later Harold pulled the car into the lot of The Gardens; a botanical refuge in the middle of the city. Parking at the end near the trailhead leading into the woods, he escorted Emily up the leaf strewn trail mindful of her sore leg.

Large oaks shaded their path; dappled sunlight filtering through the greenery. The temperature fell a few degrees as they went deeper. Soon Emily heard the gentle warble of flowing water over rocks. Crossing an arching footbridge, the trail curved through a stand of fist thick bamboo and let out onto a clearing of closely cropped grass fronting a Japanese Teahouse.

The leaves on the path gave way to finely crushed gray granite that crunched underneath her boots. In front of her Harold removed his jacket and slung it over a shoulder. She followed as he made his way to the left of the Teahouse. Another bridge painted a brilliant red arched over a pond studded with broad lotus leaves. Two swans, sinuous necks bobbing gently, slid across the surface eyeing the intruders.

“Through here,” Harold said after crossing the bridge and stepping to the left amid a stand of whip-thin bamboo fronds. Using his arm to hold back the stalks, he motioned Emily forward.

Ducking through the bamboo, Emily emerged into a tiny grotto fronting the lake. Surrounded by bamboo, the sanctuary was completely isolated on three sides, only the lake visible from the rough hewn stone bench in the middle.

“This is beautiful,” she whispered, reluctant to pierce the tranquility. In three steps she stood beside the bench. Crafted from solid stone, the block showed rough chisel marks on the sides. The seat had been smoothed. On the back a tarnished brass plaque had been inlayed:
Lydia Claire Connors Villatieri In Loving Memory
etched into the brass in large Roman type.

When she turned around Harold stood looking out over the pond, his jacket on one shoulder, his other hand in his pocket. He spoke as if a memory.

“Lydia discovered this spot in high school.” He continued, still looking out over the pond, watching the swans scud across the still water. “She said in this place, surrounded by this…” he waived absently, “she felt the rightness of the world…that in this one place, she knew what was most important in life.”

Turning to face her Harold gestured at the stone bench. “That was a boulder the first time she brought me here. We had our first kiss sitting on it one Friday night.” He stopped, his voice thick.

Emily’s knees bumped into the stone and she found herself sitting, waiting.

After a moment, he went on, “I knew her all my life…” In simple words he told her about his wife. Told her about their love that seemed to spring into place full grown and never questioned. Told her of their desire and longing; the years after their marriage when they wanted nothing more than a child to complete the bond between them; the frustration and anxiety when it didn’t happen and the years passed.

“It was me,” Harold said, looking at the girl. “Low motility, the doctors said. Doubtful we’d ever have children. After a time we resigned ourselves to not having a child, but a shadow was drawn across our world, our sense of who we were together.” Harold moved to sit beside Emily on the bench. His elbows resting on his knees.

“After twelve years, we’d given up. I’d given up, anyway. Then Lydia called me at work…this is when my Dad’s store was still downtown…she asked me to meet her here for lunch.” Harold stuttered to a stop and took a deep breath.

“We thought it was a miracle.” He whispered. “I’d never seen her look happier than that afternoon as we sat here celebrating what we’d thought would never be.”

Setting his coat aside, Harold unbuttoned his left shirt cuff and rolled the sleeve upward, exposing his arm to mid bicep. Leaning forward, Emily saw a sprinkling of pockmarks dotting the inside of Harold’s arm; little puckered indentations that followed the line of his vein. Tentatively she reached out with her fingertips and brushed them across his skin feeling the tiny holes covered by old scar tissue as Harold continued his story.