The Year I Almost Drowned (28 page)

don’t want you hurting Jesse. He means a lot to me, and I’d hate to see him get

hurt.”

I pointed to myself in disbelief. “How can I hurt Jesse?” I didn’t get it. I didn’t think

I

had

any

effect

on

him

anymore.

She

sighed.

“Finn,

you

really

don’t

get

it,

do

you?”

“Get

what?”

I

asked.

A few customers came in the door before we could finish our discussion. It would

have

to

wait

until

later.

***

“So Lou, do you think you’ll stay?” I asked him later that day. It was closing time.

Sidney and Hannah were cleaning; Lou and I were in the kitchen. He scrubbed

the grill while I wrote down a list of items that needed to be purchased. It was a

never-ending task. Running the diner was one of the hardest things I’d ever done.

Ever.

He stopped for a brief moment. “You left me alone for the most part and I like

that. Can’t stand micromanagement.” He puckered his lips. “Don’t need it at my

age.” He scratched his stubbly chin and then ran his fingers across it. “You got a

lot of learnin’ to do, kid. There’s so much you need to know to run a diner like

this.”

I exhaled and gave an “I’m over-my-head” expression. “I know,” I replied.

“Don’t read me wrong, kid. What I’m saying is, this will be harder than you can

imagine. Much harder. But I think you’ve got Charlie’s spirit in you and can do it.”

He gave a quick confident nod and then began to clean the grill again.

What he said meant a lot to me–in more ways than one. It gave me hope, a little

nudge of confidence that I had been lacking. It’s not like I was seeking Lou’s

approval, but if a man with his experience and knowledge saw I wasn’t completely

hopeless in running my grandfather’s diner, then maybe it would be all right.

Maybe

it

was

going

to

be

all

right?

***

I pulled into my grandparents’ driveway. My father was alone sitting on the front

porch swing. I hadn’t seen or heard from him in almost a week–since the day he

left me stranded at the diner. As I cautiously approached the steps to their porch,

he

stood

up

and

got

off

of

the

swing.

“Finn,

can

we

talk?”

“Okay,” I said. We needed to talk. We couldn’t let things continue the way they

were.

“Let’s

take

a

walk,”

he

offered.

I placed my purse down on the swing, following him down the steps and onto the

grass.

We walked through the grassy lawn–the blades longer than usual–they touched

me at my ankles. The grass had kept growing while the rest of us had allowed life

to pass us by. We had all neglected to take care of the lawn just like everything

else. It’s like, when my grandfather died, everything and everyone else did, too.

He headed in the direction of their pond. Water lilies in a variety of colors were in

bloom –towering above the water’s surface–swallowing the pond. “I’m sorry I let

you

down,

Finn,”

he

started.

I felt bad about our fight, but he really had let me down. “You did, Dad, you really

did.”

“I know, and it’s bad enough that I left you when you were a little girl, but leaving

you

again

is

unforgivable,”

he

said.

“I’m sorry I said those things, Dad. You hurt me and I felt stranded...”I said, trailing

off.

“I know, and it’s been eating me up these past several days. What you said, the

way you looked at me and the hurt in your eyes. You were right–everything you

said to me is true. I let everyone else take care of me, including you, too, and it’s

not right. I haven’t been much of a father to you, but I really want to learn how to

be one, and if that means helping you at the diner, then I’ll lay my inhibitions

aside.”

I was taken aback. He had really put himself out there, and I wasn’t completely

free of guilt in that situation, either. I started to soften–it’s really hard to be angry

with someone who’s trying so hard to do what’s right. “I don’t know what to say,”

I

said.

“You don’t have to say anything, Finn. I’m the one who owes you an explanation.

You don’t owe me anything. I love you and want you to be proud of me. I want

you to see me as your father, not some feeble man you have to walk on egg

shells around or have to take care of. I don’t want to be that man to you anymore.”

His paint-stained hand touched mine. I allowed him to lace his fingers into mine,

and we continued to stand in front of that pond holding hands.

“I love you, Dad.” I wiped a tear that trickled down my cheek and looked back at

his earnest, weathered face. “I’m sorry I was so harsh with you. I didn’t mean to

be.

It

wasn’t

fair

to

take

everything

out

on

you.”

“It’s okay, Finn. I’m going to be a better father to you, you’ll see. I’ll be at the diner

tomorrow,”

he

said.

I shook my head. “I already have someone. I hired Lou Schwatzentruber.”

“Lou,” Dad said in instant recognition and quietly laughed. “He’s a character.”

“I know,” I agreed and then added, “He can’t work on Saturdays, though. I could

really

use

your

help

then

if

you’re

interested.”

Lou had absolutely refused to work on the weekend. He said it was his time off,

his time to play. Rumor was that he belonged to a biker group and rode his

motorcycle up and down the Blue Ridge Parkway on the weekends with a bunch

of old, rowdy men whose bellies were too big for their britches. I had never seen

Lou in leather chaps, but I suspected he owned a pair, as well as a pair of black

leather boots with silver buckles. Wasn’t that what all bikers wore?

“I’ll be there,” he said. “But this time, you don’t need to pick me up, I’ll drive there

myself.”

“Are

you

sure?”

“I’m positive.” He squeezed my hand. “I have something for you. It’s in my car,”

he

said.

“What is it?” I asked as I followed him to his rusty, yellow Toyota Corolla.

The back door squeaked as he took out a smaller sized canvas. It was another

landscape full of rich blue, green, and yellow hues. Trees that were outlined in

charcoal; green mountains were in the distance and an aqua colored lake ebbed

in the forefront. “It’s beautiful,” I said as I held his work of art in my hands.

“It’s

Lake

Kiawassee.

I

know

how

much

you

love

it.”

“You should sell your paintings, Dad. It’s a waste to not show anyone but me and

Nana.”

“I’d like to, I just don’t know who to contact,” he said, with an uncertain expression.

“There are tons of galleries in Asheville. I bet they’d love to have your art!” I said

enthusiastically.

He laughed. “Well, I don’t know about that. My art is a little primitive.”

“Quit with the self deprecation. They’re beautiful. You should go to Asheville.”

“Maybe we can go together,” he offered, with hope in his eyes.

“I’d

like

that

very

much.”

He gave me a warm smile, a beautiful smile. “Good. We’ll plan on it, then, soon,

right?”

he

said,

seeking

my

response.

“Sooner than soon, Dad. This Sunday sounds good to me,” I said. “Get your art

together

and

we’ll

scout

out

the

galleries.”

He placed his palm on my face. “If I had half your spirit.” He looked at me with

admiration. “You’re remarkable. I’ve never told you how proud I am of you, but I

am, Finn.” He wiped tears from his eyes and smiled at me again, the sun shining

into

his

light

green

eyes.

***

My dad and I drove up and down the mountainous roads, crossing the border into

the state of North Carolina, looping around, and around again with mountains on

both sides of us, and finally finding our way to the city of Asheville.

Asheville was near the Blue Ridge Parkway and nestled in a valley of the Blue

Ridge Mountains. The weather was more humid than it was in Graceville. The

atmosphere was mellow and freeing. People with dread locks, tattoos and body

piercings walked up and down the city streets. Street performers entertained

passersby on each and every street corner. Incense shops and vegan restaurants

occupied most buildings. It was the antithesis of Graceville, more urban, like San

Francisco, or at least what I had read about San Francisco. It was different, but I

liked it. I knew right away that Dad’s art would find a place in one of the many

galleries

that

filled

the

city.

We scoured the city in a quest to find an art gallery willing to give my dad a

chance. Asheville was inundated with art galleries. We traipsed through the city

streets, carrying a couple of my dad’s paintings in our hands. We entered the first

gallery that we found. La Rose Gallery was in an old brick building. All of the walls

were painted white. Even the floor was white. Each sculpture was precariously

placed on long, narrow white boxes. Modern paintings hung on the walls. My

father stammered about and was nervous. He wouldn’t talk to the gallery owner,

so I spoke for him. The gallery owner was receptive and complimented his art

work but said it wasn’t the right fit, which was obvious by the collection of modern

art that filled the room. I should’ve paid more attention but was just as anxious as

my

father

when

we

had

come

in.

“You can’t give up, Dad,” I said as he gave me a defeated expression. “It was all

modern art in there. We need to steer clear of galleries like that.” We started

walking.

He

followed

closely

behind

me.

We entered the next gallery. A plethora of folk art was on display. “This is the

one, Dad,” I whispered to him. “You talk this time.” He gave me a frantic look.

“You have to.” I knew I couldn’t keep talking for him. “I’ll be here for you. Promise.”

He approached the chic looking older woman who wore her hair super short and

shaped to her small, head. She had on thick, funky eye glasses, bright colored

clothes and a raspberry colored scarf wrapped around her neck. My father

approached her timidly, awkwardly, and uncertain of what to say or do.

“May I help you?” she asked him politely. She had a pleasant sounding voice, the

kind

that

could

have

been

used

for

late

night

radio.

“I’m Peter Hemmings and these are my paintings,” he said, holding a canvas up

to show her. It wasn’t eloquent or articulate, but it was a major step for him and I

couldn’t

have

been

more

proud.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” she responded. “I like the use of color and charcoal.”

And with that compliment, his stiff posture loosened and he started talking with

ease. They spoke for a while and exchanged contact information. She told him

that she wanted to see more of his paintings and that his art might be a good fit

for

her

gallery.

We left feeling hopeful. It was the most excited I’d ever seen my dad.

“I

really

think

she

liked

my

art,”

he

said

to

me.

“I

told

you

that

you

are

talented,”

I

said.

“Thank

you,

Finn,”

“For

what?”

“For supporting me. I could’ve never done this without you,” he said. We

continued walking down the streets of Asheville different than when we had

started. This time, my dad took the lead, and I happily followed.

The morning sun shimmered through my window. I could see dust particles

floating in the air. A blue bird had formed its nest inside the large laurel oak tree

that stood outside my window. Baby birds were chirping. Someone was outside

mowing the lawn; the roar of a John Deere tractor echoed into my bedroom. I

stepped out of bed and opened the window. The smell of freshly cut grass filled

the

air.

I peered out the window, trying to see who was on the tractor. It was Jesse. I

could tell from the tanned, built physique sitting on the tractor seat. He had on a