Karen Bender - Refund - Stories

Years groaned by. My father was interested in learning what was happening in my life, and we spoke once a week, maybe twice. He woke up, parked as close as he could to the door of his office, walked inside and made loans.

— Describe the view out your window, my father asked me, when I was in Greenpoint.

— Cars parked on the street, I said, at twenty-seven. — Some people leaning against a hood, talking.

— Let me try to picture it, he said. — What kind of cars?

— Mostly American, I said. — Buicks. Explorers. Toyotas. One car has a big dent in the side.

— How big a dent?

— Maybe the size of a big steak.

— Hm. They should get that fixed.

— Well, I said. — How are you doing?

— We have a new bagel store that opened up down the street, he said. — Delicious. You have to come try some.

— What do they taste like?

— Uh. Salty. I prefer the cinnamon raisin.

— That sounds good.

My father and I clung to our phones, imagining.

A FEW TIMES A YEAR, I CAME OUT, AND WE SAT IN THE LIVING ROOM where the furniture never changed, sunlight coming through the orange drapes the same way it did when I was a child, the same translucence that had filled the room when my father had been strong, when he laughed and tossed me into the air as though I were a feather, nothing.

I brought my mother and father an apple from the corner grocer I went to in Brooklyn, a greasy donut wrapped in a blue paper napkin from Seattle, a camellia cut from our front yard in Richmond. Then, after a few days, I left, gripping the flimsy metal arms of the airplane seat, always waiting for the plane to pause, shudder in the air, and then start plummeting.

OVER THE YEARS, MY FATHER IMPROVED A BIT. HE WAS ABLE TO work more hours, and on good days, he and my mother went out to dinner and a movie. Then they found they could drive a few hours out of town to sit by a swimming pool and spend the night. My father discovered he could sometimes walk two blocks, but that was it.

He described his successes with a kind of self-deprecating wonder as though at any moment his improvements could vanish. When he told me that they had gone on a two-day trip, and that he had come back and gone to work with just one day of rest, I said, “That’s wonderful.” And when I hung up the phone, I got in the car, drove to Burger King, ordered two hamburgers and a large fries, and ate them right then. I hadn’t known that I was hungry at all.

I started asking my parents to visit. I asked them to visit me in Tucson at eighteen, Seattle at twenty-four, Brooklyn at twenty-seven, Richmond at thirty-five. No. No. No.

— Why not? I asked.

— It’s too far. I’m afraid I can’t do it.

— Oh.

I had to ask the next question; I was too greedy.

— Do you want to try?

Long silence.

— Not now.

— When?

— Maybe someday, he said.

Ten years went by. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five.

WE SAT, LOOKING OUT OUR SEPARATE WINDOWS.

THEN, ONE DAY, WHEN I WAS FORTY-THREE, MY FATHER SAID, SUDDENLY,

— Now.

— Now what? I asked; I had stopped hoping.

— We’re going to try to come see you, my father said. — We’re getting on the plane. We’ll try. Next week.

THE YEARNING FOR MY PARENTS TO COME SEE ME, TO BE ABLE TO board a plane and come to me in a different city, another place, had illuminated my life, a constant light burning in the distance. Now, at forty-three years old, there was no knowing how to turn it off. It seemed important somehow that the house was clean. I mopped our floors, I washed the bathtub, bought some roses and set them in a glass vase. I looked at the family whom I had, through no fault of my own, assembled. They sprawled out on a couch, in the living room. They were living. They chewed gum. They had met my parents before, I had packed them in a plane to show them off, but they were happy here, in their natural habitat. We lived in one of the suburbs near Richmond off I-95, one of those developments in which newish brick houses, ringing a cul-de-sac, are designed to look old.

I was at the airport two hours early. I waited. I stood with the other waiting people, trying to ignore the Homeland Security crew strolling a few feet nearby, checking bags, confiscating shampoo bottles. The security crew was looking for anger when really the dangerous emotion was love.

— Flight 237 has just landed from Long Beach, the disembodied voice said flatly.

Flight 237.

I pretended to be casual, sipping a Diet Coke; there was a soft, distant march in my throat.

Then my mother and father appeared. Slowly. Them. They were themselves. They came through the tunnel. They came through the sour gray airport light, dressed casually, in pastel polo shirts and velour sweatpants, resembling ordinary tourists. My father raised his thin arms in triumph. He was pale, and there were sweat stains on his shirt. But he had made it. He was standing here.

My mother reached out to touch my face.

— You don’t have to cry, she said.

MY PARENTS GOT INTO MY CAR, AND I DROVE THEM TO THEIR HOTEL, a bulky, cement Holiday Inn that resembled a dam. In the carport, there was a sparkling river coursing around a stand of longleaf pine that looked like a small, organized forest. Maroon-uniformed valets lurked around the pine trees.

— I’ll check you in, I said. — You go wait in the lobby.

I watched them settle into some plush beige armchairs, and then I went to the front desk.

The lobby held the wonderfully false, cheerful odor of maple syrup, even though a coffee shop was nowhere to be seen. The concierge was done up in gold braid, as though he were part of an army for a cause that none of us were supposed to know. Two people. Mr. and Mrs. Kaufman. Welcome. Room 234. Queen bed. We have continental breakfast 6:00 to 10:00 AM.

How beautiful those words were, complimentary breakfast, queen bed!

Then I strolled — casually — over to the armchairs to hand my parents their room keys. My mind was already making plans. I imagined all of us here, for holidays, in Hawaii. By the time I got to the chairs, I had us all flying, driving around the country, the world.

But no one was sitting in the chairs.

Where had they gone? Was this the wrong set of chairs? In the other beige armchairs were a pair of excited hikers. I rushed around the lobby. Was this all a joke? Had I imagined their stroll in the airport? Had I driven no one to the hotel?

Turning, I smashed into a bellboy.

— Ma’am?

— Did you see a couple? Sitting in those chairs? They were there a second ago. .

The bellboy stared at me.

— What did they look like?

— I don’t know. Short. Gray-haired. Navy blue coat.

— How about them?

He pointed to a man and woman standing by the window. They were chatting happily, gazing out at a view of the parking lot. The man was wearing the same coat as my father. I ran over.

— My god! Don’t run off like that! I didn’t know where you had gone, I said.

— We’re just looking out the window, my father said. He put his hand on my shoulder. — What do you see? he asked.

I looked outside; the light through the window was harsh, metallic. There were a couple hawks floating over the parking lot.

— There are some birds, I said.

— Can you believe we’re seeing the same thing? he exclaimed.

He turned around. The light behind him was bright white. I blinked and could not see for a moment; when I could, I thought my father looked peculiar. Suddenly, he appeared to be forty years old. His arms were slim but muscular in the navy coat. He was pert, stalwart as a captain of a ship, his eyes bright and devoid of any defeat. I had almost forgotten how that expression looked on his face. His skin was glowing, and his beard appeared to be dark brown. His teeth were absurdly white.