Diane Chamberlain - The Good Father

“You’re new here,” he said as he filled my cup.

“I just moved to the area last week.”

“You working nearby?”

“No, I’m taking a little time off.”

“Room?” he asked.

“I … What?”

“Room for cream? I don’t remember how you took that first cup.”

“Oh. No. Black, please.”

“I’ll remember for next time,” he said with that dimply smile as he handed me the cup. “So, where did you move from?”

“Just … not far. A different part of Raleigh.” I wanted to get back to my seat. “Thanks for the refill,” I said.

“Anytime.”

I sat down in the leather chair again and opened my iPad. There was a new father in the Harley’s Dad and Friends group and he was in major pain. I wanted to respond to him. To let him know he wasn’t alone. I couldn’t imagine Michael ever baring his soul so openly, online or off. I typed a few lines to him. Donald, I’m so sorry you have to be here, but I’m glad you found us. It sounds like your daughter was a truly special little girl .

Nando started singing something in Spanish as he waited on another customer. I glanced over at him. He’d said he’d remember how I liked my coffee. So much for anonymity. I’d sounded rude, the abrupt way I’d answered his questions. Questions were becoming a challenge. It was nobody’s business why I’d moved from one part of Raleigh to another. It was nobody’s business that I was taking time off from work. I felt a sudden ache of loss in my chest, not for Carolyn this time as much as for my old life. The ache expanded and I had to clench my teeth together to keep from crying. I’d loved my job and I’d loved my life. Cooking, fixing up the house, taking care of Carolyn, making love to my husband. I pressed my fingers to my breastbone as if I could rub away the pain. Then I looked down at my iPad again, returning my attention to Donald and Mom-of-Five and the other people who understood how, on a warm April evening on a long moonlit pier, the life I’d loved and treasured had ended.

THE TRAILER WASN’T A PRETTY SIGHT. THE exterior was white—or at least it had been white at one time—with patches of rust and plenty of dings. It was maybe twice as long as my van and it sat on concrete blocks above the sandy soil. It was in a line of other trailers in all shapes and sizes, most of them empty now that summer was over. There was a car parked in front of the gold trailer next to ours, though—a sparkling new green VW Beetle convertible that looked out of place in a sea of grungy old trailers. I’d borrowed the money for my first week’s rent from a buddy. I hoped it wouldn’t be too long before I could pay it back, but I wasn’t optimistic.

I slid open the side door of my van and helped Bella out of her car seat.

“This is our new home, Bell,” I said. “At least for a while. Let’s go inside and explore.” Explore was the wrong word for what we’d be able to do inside a one-room trailer, but it didn’t matter. Bella stood staring up at the thing with her wide gray eyes. She’d turned four the day before and we’d had a little party for her at Franny’s with balloons and ice-cream cake and not much in the way of presents. I think Franny was actually celebrating our departure, but whatever.

“It’s not a home,” Bella said, staring at the trailer. Her lamb and pink purse were in her arms and she didn’t move from the side of the van. My mother had given her that purse for her third birthday and I was so glad Bella hadn’t lost it or the lamb in the fire. They let her hold on to something familiar. Inside the purse, she had a picture of the three of us—my mother, Bella and me—sitting on the beach around a sandcastle we’d built. She had a tiny little doll that one of the women I’d gone out with had given her. She loved that doll because it had really long, blond hair she liked to comb. And the third and final thing in her purse was a picture of Robin. Just a little headshot I’d had since we were in high school. I was glad I’d never given in to the temptation to toss it. Bella knew Robin was her mother, but that was it. Someday I planned to tell Bella all about her, though how I was going to explain why Robin didn’t want her, I had no idea.

“Well, we’re going to make it into our home,” I said now. “It’s not a house like we’re used to. It’s called a trailer and lots of people live in trailers. It’ll be an adventure for a while. Let’s go see what’s inside, okay?”

She took my hand and we climbed the steps to the door. I unlocked it and we stepped into a space so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. I could smell the place, though. It had that musty, closed-up, “beach place” odor and something else I hoped had nothing to do with cats.

“I can’t see anything, Daddy.” There was a sound in her voice that told me she was going to lose it any second. Sort of a mini-whine that only I could pick up. Even my mother never heard it, but sometimes Bella would say something and I’d whisper to Mom, “Meltdown coming,” and sure enough, five seconds later, the crying and wailing would begin. It didn’t happen much anymore, but I had the feeling it was going to happen now. My kid had been through too damn much in the past couple of weeks.

“We need to open all the shades and let in the light,” I said, prying my hand from hers to reach for one of the window shades, which I could make out only because of the line of sunlight around it. It sprang open so fast I blinked at the light pouring through the filmy glass. “That’s better!” I said. “How many windows do we have, Bella?”

She looked around the dim interior. “Three,” she said.

“I think there’s one more. Do you see it?”

She turned in a circle. “I spy!” she said when her gaze landed on the long narrow window above the kitchen sink.

“Good job!” I finished opening the shades.

Bella ran to the only inside door in the place and pulled it open. “That’s the bathroom,” I said.

“Where’s my room?” she asked.

“That’s the cool thing about this trailer,” I said. “It’s all one big room instead of separate rooms. So it’s our living room—” I pointed to the futon, then to the small table and two chairs beneath one of the windows “—and our dining room, and our kitchen, and your bedroom.” I pointed to the double bed crammed into the other end of the trailer. “You’ll sleep there and I’ll sleep on this futon.”

“What’s a futon?”

“Couch. It’s another name for a couch,” I said. “I think the first thing we should do, even before we bring in the bags with our clothes, is find a place to display your new shells.”

The people at my mother’s church had collected clothes and sheets and towels for us. They’d been so good to us that for a few days I thought I might start going back to church like when I was a kid, but the mood passed. Now I was into survival mode and I had my priorities: shelter, food, job, child care. My soul was going to have to wait.

“I want my old shells back.” The whine was there, not so little this time. A stranger would be able to pick it up now. She was tired. No nap today, and this was a kid who definitely still needed naps.

“Yeah, I wish you could have them back, but you’ll always have the memory of them.”

“I don’t want the remembery. I want them back. And Nana back, too.”

I’d told her she’d always have the memory of Nana, but I knew she wouldn’t. As she got older, she’d forget her. You didn’t remember people from when you were four. Maybe vaguely. I kept thinking about that—how my mother, who had done so much for her and who loved her more than anything, would just disappear from her memory. Whoosh! It seemed like one more unfair thing in a whole bushel of stuff that sucked.