As it turned out, the last time my dad had visited wasn’t my last chance to see him alive. He returned to Seattle in the spring of the following year. Twenty years earlier he had shattered his elbow after falling off a roof in a windstorm, and sustained nerve damage in his hand and forearm. His condition was worsening, he said. He had to see a state-approved doctor for reevaluation. That was the only reason he was visiting—he had something to gain, and the state was paying for it.
My dad has a brother I always liked, my Uncle Daniel. He was a writer and I felt a natural kinship with him. When my dad announced that he was visiting, there was talk that Uncle Dan was coming to the family dinner that was being planned. That was the only reason I decided to go.
All of my siblings live well north of Seattle, and my uncle is 40 miles west. My dad was staying near the airport, twenty minutes from my house. That’s how I ended up offering to drive him to and from the dinner. Otherwise, he was planning to take busses there; it would have taken all day. So, contrary to my instincts and better judgement, I offered to drive him.
Times like this I really missed having a husband. Jack had a knack for using humor to defuse tension. I realized now how much I’d taken that for granted, not to mention always traveling in good company. Even if an event sucked, we had each other. Instead, I would have only Asher, which helped allay my anxiety about being alone with my dad, but it also meant I’d have to be vigilant to try and protect him from whatever my dad might say or do.
When I pulled into the mall-sized parking lot of the Red Lion Inn, I could immediately make out my dad, 100 yards away, smoking a cigarette, almost certainly a generic brand since he couldn’t afford the luxury of his coveted Reds. I guessed he’d probably been standing there since I had texted him twenty minutes before to tell him we were on our way. That’s how he was—whatever was going on, he was undistracted, fully present to the matter at hand, a trait I found endearing. He still carried a flip phone.
When Asher and I pulled up to the front door, he tamped out his smoke and put the remainder back in the box for later. I got out and gave him a hug and tried not to shrink from the smell of him, which was neither fresh nor clean. Through the back window he handed Asher a beanie that had the name of a tractor supply company on it, then pinched his shoulder and tousled his hair too hard. I watched to see how Asher reacted but couldn’t discern a feeling.
On the way to dinner, driving up I-5, my dad pointed in the direction of old construction jobs he’d completed around Seattle and told me about some multimillion-dollar project that fell through, one of his many ships that never came in. It didn’t feel like years had passed since I’d last seen him. It had always been this way; years would go by between visits, yet he always felt immediately familiar. Still, I could barely believe he was sitting next to me. Because seeing him was so rare it always seemed vaguely hallowed. And I always held out hope. Like maybe this time something good would happen. Maybe this time he would own up to his shortcomings. Maybe this time he would apologize.
When we stopped for gas he offered to pump it for me.
“I got it,” I replied.
He got out of the car anyway and stood nearby while I watched the numbers tick by on the dial. I wondered if I was going to have to remind him he couldn’t smoke at a gas station and kept an eye on his hands.
“Do you remember our agreement?” he asked.
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