I stalked around the condo, which had a few minor changes, but still held the same vibes from when my dad moved in. Only now, it felt a little more empty. Like a ghost lingered in the hallways, begging to be noticed.
"The place looks great," I said.
My father nodded as he sat on the couch with his head in his hands. My heart ached for him, and I wished the tendrils of my love could sprout arms and encompass him, reminding him he wasn't alone.
I ambled into the kitchen, past the island, and to the fridge. I pulled the door open to find barren shelves, a few cans of beer, an almost empty ketchup bottle and ripe leftovers.
I planned on cooking my dad dinner, but there wasn't much to work with here. "Wanna grab a bite to eat?"
"Sure," my dad replied half-heartedly.
"What's still good around here?”
My dad ran his fingers through his graying hair and sighed. "Uh, we can go to Jazzy's? Pasta sounds delicious right now.”
"Sure! Let me wash up real quick, and we can go. Sound good?”
I ventured into the bathroom and stopped dead in my tracks once I closed the door. Carin's personal items littered the sink, and the aroma of her stuffy perfume permeated the air as if she'd only just walked out. A variety of Clinique, Mary Kay and Avon products were spread out across the counter. A brand-new makeup brush sat in its packaging too. Again, my heart ached for my father having to be reminded of his loss even when he used the bathroom.
I cleaned up quickly, wanting to avoid staying in the bathroom longer than necessary, and grabbed my purse and keys. “Ready?"
My dad nodded and locked the door behind us.
We drove to Jazzy's in silence. Only three of the parking spaces were taken, including our own. My dad opened the door for me, and I stepped over the threshold of a long-time favorite spot. My dad took me here at least once a month growing up. If I earned an A on a test at school: Jazzy's. If I served an ace on the volleyball team: Jazzy's. If I was having a bad day as teenage hormones ravaged my existence: Jazzy’s.
Fresh mozzarella, garlic, and homemade marinara filled my nostrils. My stomach grumbled as did my dad's, and he smiled weakly.
"Brian! Elle!" a familiar voice crooned from behind the hostess stand.
Martha, grayer than my father, reached out with arms wide open and pulled us into her embrace. Pizza dough and garlic clung to her clothes, like always.
"So happy to see you both! And Elle? It's been so long!”
"It sure has," I replied, grinning.
Martha was practically family to us in this town. She and my dad graduated high school together, and she took care of us anytime we came to Jazzy's, often bringing us a slice of the day's specialty pie or cake after our dinner. It'd been a handful of years since we'd seen each other, but it didn't seem that way.
She escorted us to our usual booth in the back corner while Frank Sinatra's voice lulled through the dated sound system. Without a prompt, she brought over a glass of wine for me and a Budweiser for my dad. I excused myself to visit the restroom, knowing Martha would keep my dad company in my absence.
In the bathroom, I pulled out two mini Smirnovs I carried in my purse. I twisted the caps off and poured the room temperature alcohol down my throat. I tried to toss the empties in the trash can, but missed by several feet. My vision twisted and turned as though I wore kaleidoscope glasses. A little dinner would straighten me out, though, and then I could keep drinking.
As I reclaimed my seat at the table, a basket of fresh garlic bread greeted me. My mouth watered, and without hesitating, I reached for a piece of bread and slathered it with butter.
My dad and I made small talk while we waited for our dinners to arrive. I tiptoed around the conversation, though, not sure what to say. I settled on talking about myself or letting my dad ask me about my life.
"Still on leave?" he asked after a while.
I nodded while slurping noodles from my pasta parmigiana dish. I sensed a dab of sauce lingered on the corner of my lips and used my tongue to wipe it clean. My dad smiled at my immature gesture.
“How much longer do you think it’ll be until you can go back?“
“Once my old-as-dust counselor says I can go back,” I replied as I chewed feverously. “He says I’m not handling the grieving process over Zac as best I can.”
Just speaking about him pierced my heart, while tears welled behind my eyes. If there was one thing my father and I had in common right now, it was grief. The only difference? His was fresh, and mine only scabbed over.
My father nodded understandingly, and silence impregnated our booth again. Martha checked on us several times, for which we were both grateful. A distraction. A buffer. We wiped our plates clean, and Martha smiled and ripped our bill in half.
"It's on the house," she said.
"You didn't have to do that, Martha," my dad said with rosy cheeks.
"I know, but I did it anyway. So, deal." She stuck out her tongue.
I dropped my dad off at his condo, and he squeezed me goodbye. The sadness in his touch seeped into my core, where my heartache lived too. He needed love, and not just to have it, but to feel it down to his very bones. He'd lost the woman he was in love with, and I was all he had left.
"Night, Daddy," I said. "Do you want me to pick you up in the morning?”
He stepped out of the car but rested his arms on the open window, peeking his head back inside my vehicle. "Thanks, but I'll meet you there. I want to drive alone tomorrow.”
Alone. I knew the feeling well.
Sometimes, we can be by ourselves but not feel lonely. And other times, loneliness feels like a worse punishment than death.
I waved goodbye to my dad and drove across town, wondering why life had to be so damn cruel. Parking my car in front of my mom’s house, I got out with a heavy heart to see my mom and stepdad having a drink on the porch. Jealousy coursed through my veins as my inner self begged for another drink too.
Suddenly, a police car with its sirens initiated sped down the street. I couldn't help the tingle of adrenaline coursing through my veins any time I heard that sound. Even if I wasn't an active detective, it didn't mean I wasn't a cop at heart.
In a small community like Keygate, there isn't much crime. Maybe a few domestic disputes and troublesome teenagers from time to time, but nothing serious. If I wasn't mistaken, it was the only town in the county without a murder or a robbery in the last ten years. It was a great place to live if you didn't spend most of your time running from the ghosts of your past.
Both Jack and my mom turned their heads in the direction of the car, which stopped several houses down. A few officers positioned themselves in the front yard, one setting up the all-too-familiar yellow and black crime scene tape. Something had happened. Something bad.
Another squad car with an equally loud siren raced past us. Up and down the street, neighbors gathered on their porches with looks of concern painted across their faces. Parents ushered their kids back inside the house, while older couples held each other.
"Oh my!" my mom said. "Something's happening!”
Without a second thought, I strode down the sidewalk toward the Keygate officers. They stood by their cars speaking to one another.
"Where are you going?" Jack called out after me.