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22

MIGHT BE RIGHT

MAY 2023 – PRESENT DAY

The unopened letter sits on my coffee table where it’s sat since the morning Dad delivered it. It’s been weeks. I haven’t been able to read the words Tate penned to me on the papers that weigh heavy inside.

After the news Dad broke to me that morning when I returned home from taking care of a deliriously ill Faye, a lot changed. Not only was I haunted by the truth Dad gave me that morning, but I was haunted by the words Faye spoke in her delirium. About him loving her through her love for me, and what that meant.

I take another swig of the beer, my eyes still fixed on the letter.

I can’t lie and say I’m not terrified of what I might read on those pages.

After the news Dad broke, I’m fucking scared shitless.

I replay the conversation again, as I’ve played it at least a thousand times since it occurred.

I’m trying to make sense of the insanity of it.

The sun is just beginning to paint the horizon by the time I arrive back to the condo from Faye’s. Her fever broke. Finally. She’s sound asleep, and her mumblings had all but stopped. Not wanting to explain my presence when she woke, I decided it was best to ditch. I’d get Mom to check in on her in a few hours.

But when I park, I see Dad’s truck parked in visitor parking, him behind the wheel. He looks ashen as he exits.

“Should you be behind the wheel?”

“It was a knee replacement, boy. Not a heart transplant,” he grumbles, clearly not in the mood.

“Pop, it’s not even five in the morning.”

“You were at Faye’s, yeah?”

There’s no doubt he talked to Mom. “Yep.”

“Your mother said she was pretty bad. How’s she now?”

“Her fever broke around two-thirty this morning. She’s been sleeping soundly since. I’ll ask Mom to check on her today.”

“She made her homemade soup. I’ll tell her to take it by early.”

I nod, not wanting to ask him why he’s here. When I say nothing, he grumbles some nonsense about kids these days even though I’m I’m in my thirties. Then he starts his hobble to the lobby doors.

I take it he’s coming inside.

I usually take the stairs, but because I’ve got Dad with me, I take mercy on him and take the elevator. We ride it in silence to my floor. I lead him through the hall to my door and let him in. He grunts, “Nice place,” before he slides himself onto a chair at the table. His knee looks like it’s bugging him.

“How’s the knee, Pop?”

“Getting better every day.”

“Good.”

“You gonna make coffee?”

I wasn’t. I was going to drop into bed because I’ve been up all night watching my ex-girlfriend and widowed sister-in-law.

I start a pot and lean, arms folded over my chest, into the counter. “What’s going on, Pop?”

“Tate was dying.”