In My Father's Eyes (3 page)

“Don’t know.” Emily answered, finishing the last of her spinach. “I saw him. He didn’t see me. I went in the back when he came in.”

Despite living in the same area, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen her father since the divorce. He’d sold his auto body shop after the divorce and gave all the money to Carol and Emily. Emily guessed it was his way of relieving his conscience at abandoning his wife and kid. She didn’t care anymore. What he did, where he went, she didn’t care anymore.

“How did…” Carol stopped. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Emily frowned and got up, tossing her napkin onto her empty plate.
It doesn’t matter
, she thought.
Of course it doesn’t matter. Why should it matter that I can’t bring myself to even talk to my own father? Why should it matter that you won’t ever talk about him? Why should it matter that he hates me so much he couldn’t stand to be around me?

Emily’s frustration at her mother’s reluctance to talk about Dad, about anything, was an old wound. She’d learned long ago not to talk about Emma. Every time she’d tried, the look in her Mother’s eyes would go blank and she’d change the subject. Her mother’s method of dealing with difficult subjects was to ignore them until they went away.

Curling up on her bed, Emily stared at the photograph on her nightstand. A five-by-eight snapshot of her family at Easter when she was seven. She remembered being excited by the pink and white dress. She remembered the Easter egg hunt at the church they used to attend. She remembered sunshine, the taste of sugary peeps, and the sound of laughter. It was the last time she could remember her father laughing, holding his daughters as they sat and counted plastic Easter eggs, cracking them open to discover the little treasures hidden inside.

The knock on her door interrupted her reverie.

“What?” Emily asked, wiping her mascara.

Tom eased the door open a few inches. “Mind if I come in?” Answered by a shrug, he entered. Emily sat up on the edge of the bed. “You know I don’t like to come between you and your mother,” Tom said fidgeting at the door, his hand still on the brass knob as if he didn’t know whether to stay or run away. “The two of you have been through so much and I figure it’s not my place to interfere.”

“You figured right.” Emily said shoving her hands under her armpits.

“Fair enough,” Tom agreed. “It’s just…if you ever want to talk; I’m a pretty good listener. It doesn’t hurt to have a neutral party to talk to”

“Does that work on the kids at your school, Tom?” Emily asked. “Show a little concern, act all interested and they break down and tell you their darkest secrets?” Before becoming the assistant principal Tom had been the P.E. teacher; a former college soccer player. Emily saw the muscles knot on his forearms as he twisted the door knob.

“You make it hard to be on your side, kiddo.” Tom replied. He turned to leave. Pausing in the doorway he added, “I mean it, Em. If you ever…”

“Don’t call me that!” Emily shouted jumping up from the bed. “Don’t you ever call me that!” Emily slammed the door in his face, throwing the lock before collapsing onto the floor, her mascara running from the corner of her eyes.

Chapter Four

Harold locked his front door. Lifting his briefcase stuffed with last night’s sales receipts he crossed the neatly clipped lawn with its orderly rows of gladiolas and flowering rose bushes to his car. The flowers had been his mother’s pride and joy. He kept the garden in her memory.

A short chirp sounded as he unlocked the white four door sedan. Placing the briefcase in the passenger seat, he adjusted his seatbelt and started the engine.

Like most of his possessions, the car was immaculate; free of dust and the usual accumulation of fast food wrappers and empty coffee cups found in most peoples’ cars. Harold liked is life to be orderly. He enjoyed the rituals and habits acquired over the years that allowed him to focus on other aspects of his life.

Such fastidiousness wasn’t always part of his character. But the circumstances of his life had led him to take comfort in the known and predictable pathways. Backing out of the recently resurfaced driveway, Harold again gave thanks that the trials and tribulations of his early life had, like the driveway, been smoothed and ordered into a neat existence that offered no impediment to the pursuit of his other concerns. Shifting into drive, Harold pressed play on the radio and the CD player clicked to life as Jerry Vale’s
The Same Old Moon
filled the car.

It had been his wife’s favorite song and the first song he played every day. The smooth melody took him back to their wedding day and the beginning of their brief life together. His wife, Lydia, had shared his love of old style crooners so different from the rock and folk songs of their youth.

He’d met Lydia when he was four and she three-and-a-half. From the moment Lydia’s parents moved in next door to the same house he lived in today, they’d been inseparable. Both only children, they’d naturally banded together becoming self-adopted siblings. Dark-haired with intense blue eyes and a lively sense of humor, Lydia had only grown more beautiful in his eyes as they navigated their way through childhood and into the angst ridden years of high school.

They’d dated other people in high school. The thought of becoming romantically involved with someone viewed as closer than a sister or brother seemed improper and the possibility never truly crossed either of their minds. Somehow the nascent relationships never flourished and they found themselves returning time and again to the comfortable intimacy of their friendship.

Harold wondered, as he had so many times, if things had been different; if he never took the chance and kissed her; if they never married, would she be alive today? That thought, that remorseless guilt, the belief that somehow he was responsible for her passing proved too much for him in the immediate aftermath of her death.

Distraught and inconsolable he’d turned away from his family, his friends and sought comfort in drink. What little faith he had in God was a result of Lydia’s unquestioning belief and had died with her. Soon, even the perpetual alcoholic stupor wasn’t enough to ease his pain and he’d turned to drugs. Starting with prescription pain medication he eventually moved onto illicit drugs when his doctors refused to give him anymore pills.

For nearly fifteen years he’d lost himself in a haze of ruin, barely able to feed himself as he went from one filthy flop to another searching only for that next hit, that next high that would erase the memory of Lydia from his mind. In and out of jail, sleeping in his clothes under bridges and bushes, he’d drifted further and further from his parents, his in-laws. He scarcely knew what he was doing when Caroline, Lydia’s aunt, presented him with the court papers signing over his parental rights to his son and place him in Caroline’s custody.

Jerry Vale’s voice faded; replaced by Frankie Lane’s
Dream A Little Dream Of Me.
His son, Colin, would be twenty-two this September. He’d neither spoken to nor seen Colin in almost twenty years.

At first it was because he was too lost in his addictions and guilt. He’d hit bottom many times. Each time struggling into recovery only to find the pain overwhelming him again and again. After half a dozen fits and starts it took the death of his father to finally shock him into awakening enough to take a hard look at his life. Managing to keep at bay the demons eating his soul with the help of twelve-step program and their rather stringent brand of tough love, he found that his little boy wanted nothing to do with him.

That had been tough. No amount of prayer, no acts of atonement, no interventions could make his son accept him again. Without the benefit of his sponsors and friends in the support group, he would have quickly fallen back into his old ways. From them he learned that faith wasn’t an excuse for ignoring life’s pain and troubles, not a crutch, but a practice of letting go of things beyond your control and putting them in the hands of someone better able to deal with them.

Letters he sent to Caroline came back requesting he keep his distance; that Colin wasn’t ready to meet him. And maybe never would be. He’d let Colin down just when he needed him most. The sickness that had taken Lydia had deprived the little boy of both his parents.

Perhaps it was failing Colin that had led him to hire Emily. Despite her tattoos, piercings and Goth clothes; despite the tough shell she wore around herself, he’d found himself responding to something in her; her need, her vulnerability, her longing to find something to hold onto, to find a haven for her tortured soul; maybe it was all those things that reminded him of the long path he’d traveled before finding his way back.

Maybe she gave him a chance to be to her what he couldn’t be to his own son.

When she showed up the next day sans piercings and clown makeup, he’d been surprised. He’d figure she’d blow it off. What did she need with a minimum wage job in a fuddy-duddy luggage and gift shop? But she’d been on time and showed an eagerness that tugged at his heart.

After two weeks, she’d proven to be a capable if somewhat difficult employee. She’d learned his iron-clad system of inventory control and usually kept to the storeroom as he’d requested. Even with the absence of piercings, his customers would hardly welcome a black lace and leather clad salesperson onto the floor.

Pulling into the mall parking lot, Harold drifted into his usual spot. Exiting the vehicle, he pressed the fob, locking the doors and made his way into the mall. The store had been his father’s when it was situated downtown. After his death, Harold moved it into the suburbs as the city became less populated. Leasing the space in the high-end shopping center had revitalized the business and his mother had finished her last days proud of him. That was a gift Harold would always treasure.

Fingering through his key ring for the shop key, Harold looked up to find Emily waiting for him at the door the ubiquitous cup of coffee in her hand.

“Morning, Bossman,” Emily said. Harold frowned at her clothing, again.

He followed her into the dim interior. Crossing behind the counter, Harold turned off the alarm and keyed the lights as Emily disappeared into the stockroom. Opening his briefcase, he sorted through the paperwork, nodding hello to Mathew and Roland, the two salespeople he inherited from his father, as they entered a few minutes later.

With little fanfare the day progressed. Harold enjoyed the quiet predictability of his profession. Assisting well-heeled patrons in finding that perfect purchase gave him a sense of pride. At this time of the year his store filled with Moms and Dads sending their kids off to college. They came to buy duffels and suitcases, steamers and footlockers of all sizes for their children to carry off to university and a lifetime of itinerant employment. Outside of the holidays, it was the busiest time of the year for his store.

Harold was busy helping a mother and her truculent teenage son examine the benefits and drawbacks of an H. J. Cave keep all. Assuring the mother the piece could certainly withstand the rigors of college life, he looked up to find Emily speaking with an elderly couple who had just entered the store.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I have to check on something. I’ll be right back.” The mother nodded, once again opening the long trunk to examine for the fifth time the sturdy lining. The son ignored him.

“And you’ll be travelling how?” Harold heard Emily ask as he approached.

“A cruise. Four week through the Greek Isles.” The silver haired grandmother answered. “It’s our second honeymoon, you know.”

“That’s very romantic,” Emily replied. “Four weeks, hmmm. I think I know just the thing. If you’ll follow me.” Emily turned to find Harold standing behind her. “Oh!”

Stopping, she placed her hand on her boss’s elbow. “Maude, Clyde. This is our owner Mr. Villatieri.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Harold smiled shaking hands with the elderly couple. “Emily, perhaps I could be of assistance while you finish up in the back?”

“No. No. That’s all done.” Emily cut her eyes at Harold. “I thought Maude and Clyde might find the Bernard ivory cases suitable for their adventure.”

Not wanting to make a scene, Harold agreed trying to keep the strain out of his voice as he bid them good luck and watched the strange teenager lead the septuagenarian couple away.