Hay Season

Chapter 17

Mattie

I looked at him as Jesus would, a soul going to hell, and I felt compassion and then love, but Satan was out to tear me down. ~ Susan Sanford ~

I wish I knew who my dad was, but the man living in the same house as me is a mystery. The times I remember him trying to be a father were wonderful. He would give me piggyback rides and have tea parties with me until, one day, it all stopped. He's always looked at me differently as if I were a foreign creature he'd never met. According to a family member, my parents argued one day. He stormed out, and after that, he was never the same. It was after that argument that he came in drunk for the first time. The bottle became his best friend, and the father I knew was gone, forever buried under the liquid of a beer can.

~Our Hometown of Dewbridge/Journal Entry by Mattie Mackey

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I saw the good in Rylan today—the kind that makes me want to give myself to him in a million different ways. In fact, I'm not even sure Rylan has any bad inside him. If he does, he hides it well. I believe some people are born with a natural kindness. He's one of them. My mom's not home when I make it in, but sitting on the table is a note from her.

Ran to the store. Be back later. Leftovers in the fridge. Love, Mom.

Strange. Today's not her typical store run day. That happens on Friday if we're lucky enough to get a payday. Construction is always a game of Russian roulette, depending on the weather. I don't question it. Instead, I open the fridge and grab the plate inside. I make my way to the microwave when I hear movement behind me. Turning, I watch my dad situate himself at the table with a sigh. He doesn't look well.

"You're home early," I say.

"I think my blood pressure is out of whack. Wasn't feeling good."

No matter how fractured my relationship with my dad is, my heart skips a beat at how rough he looks.

"Can I get you something?"

"A pack of crackers or something will be fine. Thank you, honey."

This is the daddy I miss; the daddy I wish I could talk to every day. I hurry to put my plate in and turn the microwave on before walking to the cabinet and grabbing the box of crackers. Carrying it to the table, I place it down with a bottle of water before grabbing my lunch. Once settled, I watch him. He looks tired and worn out.

"Bad day?"

He shakes his head. "Productive, not bad. Started feeling lightheaded and decided to come in a little early today."

"Oh."

An awkward silence fills the room. I never know how to talk to him. Most days, he seems so far away. I've heard stories that it wasn't always this way, that my parents were once a young couple deeply in love. I'm unsure when the bottle came between them, but I know it's fractured more than their love. One small crack led to a massive hole that will never be repairable. I watch him place his head in his hands and wait for sympathy to take hold. It doesn't. He's done this to himself. To all of us. He has to know that. I know he knows that. Moving the food around my plate, I try to take a bite, but my hunger has vanished.

"She used to love me."

I look up to find Dad breaking a cracker but leaving it untouched. I don't know how to respond. Waiting seems to be the most appropriate route to take. He looks at me, and I see pain.

"You look like her, act like her. She has a kind soul, and I'm happy you got that from her."

My stomach knots at his words. They're filled with sadness. For the first time in a long time, I look closer at the man I call Dad. The same man who used to throw me on a tractor and let me pretend it was me driving instead of him, the same man who would sing off-key to get a laugh out of me for no reason than to see me smile, and the same man who held my hand on my first day of kindergarten with tears in his eyes. In the depths of his eyes, I still see him. He's still there, locked away behind the demons he can't seem to escape, the same demons that caused his love for the bottle and my hatred for it. And for the first time, I understand why Mom can't leave him.

"I hope he's making her happy right now."

There's a wet sheen to his eyes that confuses me.

"Who's making who happy, dad?"

He's no longer looking at me. Instead, he seems far away. I wait, and when his focus returns a minute later, he smiles sadly before taking a bite of the forgotten cracker. I've never seen my dad this close to tears. It shakes my foundation right from under my feet. I'm not sure that standing would be the smart choice right now. This school year has turned into a year of revelations. This is supposed to be an epic finale to all the years of work we've put into school, but graduation year came in a tidal wave large enough to shake everything to its core. I never realized how much I hated change until now. If I could take the alcohol out of the equation, I'd freeze time and keep the ones I love close by. Pushing my plate toward him, I stand. I need to get out of here whether my feet want to obey or not.

"I think you need this more than I do."

"Mattie."

I pause at the doorway leading to my escape.

"I love you and your mom more than you'll ever know. I'm sorry I'm not the father you need me to be."

I open my mouth to speak, to tell him it's okay. It's not. It's a lie we've both allowed for far too long. He beats me to it.

"I never meant to." He stumbles over the words. "I never meant to be a disappointment. I couldn't compete. I let jealousy, greed, and pride take over my life and consume me."

I don't know what he's talking about.

"Don't do that, Mattie. If you love this boy, don't quit fighting. Don't let this town convince you you're not worth it. They're not worth it, but you are. You have your soul when many people in this town lost theirs long ago, including your old man."

And with that prophetic advice, he stands and takes the plate with him. Passing me, he makes his way to his recliner, where he settles with the remote in his hand. I'm pretty sure this is supposed to be a monumental moment. Not wanting to screw that up, I make my way out the front door feeling more lost than I did when I entered the kitchen moments earlier. Opening the door of my truck, I look behind me at our house. There's a loneliness to it. The peeled paint and dark windows are pleading with me to fill it back up. Houses similar to ours flow past my window when I drive through town, and I know it's not the houses that are sad but the people inside them.