Homecoming
“Cliff Edge” - Lilith Acadia
Pop bursts through the back door in his biggest coat.
“Feel my hands,” he says, cupping my face, like I’m a child. His skin is cold, ice-cold, like he’s dead, but I stay quiet. At forty-two, I don’t try to convince him he’s not funny; he doesn’t believe it.
He walks to the kitchen sink, humming, leaving puddles of melted snow in his wake. There are only dirty dishes inside, but as his hands disappear under the tap, steam rising from the basin, I imagine, as a child does, that magic exists. Pop might be concocting a potion, something powerful out of the ordinary: russet potato peels, dried bits of egg, a stray hair, the blood oozing from his crackled knuckle.
But the moment passes. As with time, comes the death of imagination.
My childhood kitchen is as I remember. Dead moths lining the sills. Dated floral curtains, fuzzy with spiderwebs and dust. My sister’s kindergarten portrait, still stuck to the refrigerator, frozen in time, since she died and our family, too, ceased living. The pudding-yellow Formica and resting on it, Pop’s cutting board, newly bruised from greens, red onion, and cabbage—all the healthy foods he’s incorporated since his diagnosis. I recognize, too, the graying embroidered hand towel, and I’m still proud of my reflexes when he misses me with it.
As for Ma, she left us a long time ago. At least in how she goes on living: mostly in front of the television, though mercifully less angry than before. Her favorite show is on, Little House on the Prairie, never-ending reruns. I wonder, is it the family-centered storyline that appeals? The balance of hardship with joy? Something achievable—or fantasy?
Ma isn’t helping because she’s disappointed—we’re disappointed—by the distance between us, always more apparent when we’re in proximity. Younger me would say I was never the favorite, but I’m no longer attached to this belief. I was a difficult child. She was a difficult mother. We are a difficult family. What I believe now is that loss does things to us we don’t understand.
“For you, madame.” Pop hands me a salad bowl, the blue ceramic adorned with winging doves.
But, in fairness, Pop’s always been the cook. He’s also always the one to feed the animals. He loves them, but secretly, and despite never wanting them; he talks to the horses and goats like friends. Presently, he begins preparing dinner, spaghetti, for us, too, in this tiny mobile home kitchen.
None of this is what bothers me.
What bothers me is his whistling. Pop likes jazz: its swinging rhythms, its bursting horns, its syncopated off-beats he marks with a snap of his middle finger and thumb, his bouncing wrist. He pauses scraping the ground sausage in the pan to make a carrot dance. It’s some nonsensical beat, his own composition. I reach for the carrot, but it dances away. Instead, I transfer the rest of the vegetables to my cutting board, start chopping.
“Come on, Peanut,” he sings, mouth trumpeting, arms swaying like some kind of spirit.
His cheer, initially confounding, now irks me. I don’t want to play.
I only want to discuss my love for him.
“I have to pay attention to what I’m doing here, Pop,” I say. My grip is steady, my knife taking slow, crisp bites of onion.
He hands over the carrot. I take it.
Pop’s garlic-mincing is quick, in contrast, precise and merciless as the end itself—until the knife comes down with a thud.
“Ouch!” he shouts, winks. “Just kidding.”
I find myself glaring, but halfheartedly, and drop it when he goes into a coughing fit. When it ends, he clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking,” he says.
I’m listening. I’ve prepared myself for this.
“Your Ma says our phones are always listening to us. Targeted advertising. Let’s test that out. What’s something we’d never buy that we can talk about?”
I feel my face contort, collapse like a push puppet.
“Let’s see, I’ve always wanted a really nice wig, haven’t you? Something made of real human hair—a wig that’ll impress!” He checks my reaction, his expression effervescent. “Do you hear that?” He directs his speech, louder than necessary, over his cell phone’s cracked, spiderwebbed screen. “I’d love a wig in a rich salt and pepper!”
Finally, I acquiesce, and we laugh together, co-conspirators. Pop will never need a wig, no matter how sick he gets. When times were better, Ma would say she fell in love with his hair first. People still ask him about his shampoo.
“Right on, Pop,” I say, still smiling. “Report back on that.”
But he’s busy appraising his reflection in the kitchen window—a habit I adore—smoothing his widow’s peak with large, liver-spotted hands, moving closer, until he stops directly under the fluorescents.
I go still.
This white lights drain the humor from his face, like a memory.
What’s left is my dread: someone like Pop, except for what’s missing, his silver crowns and laughing eyes dissolved into a bloodless complexion, a flat-lipped smile. Without so much as a wink, his small life over, his greatness belied by its ending, the center of our wayward family, gone. And me, without him: adrift, a middle-aged orphan—sleepless, for all we haven’t said out loud.
Now the tomato sauce is hissing and spitting, calling him back to the stove.
“Damn,” he whispers and turns down the burner, samples the sauce. “Here, come taste this. It’ll make you want to dance!” He blows on a spoonful and guides it into my mouth. “Good, right?”
I nod, rest my head on his shoulder. He’s softer than I remember, smaller. Still, his warmth is a comfort.
Satisfied, he tries again, takes my hand, and humming a discordant melody, leads me in a waltz.
This time, I move with him. I’ll give him anything he wants.
But he only wants me to let go. To pretend there’s music when there’s not.
I hum along.
About the Author
Sarah Therio practices medicine and writes fiction in Tucson, AZ where she is an Advanced student at The Writers Studio. Her work has appeared in swamp pink and Cleaver and was chosen for its originality of form as a finalist for Grist’s ProForma Contest.
About the artist
Lilith Acadia is amphibious in the summer and likely balancing a mug of tea, a book, and a dog in the winter. Lilith has photography published in Lotus-Eater, Nonbinary Review, Peatsmoke Journal, Sycamore Review, and elsewhere. Connect at acadiaink.com or instagram and bluesky: @acadialogue.