My father let out a grunt and I looked up to see him look pointedly at the TV and then me. I moved out of the way and then dropped down onto the couch and studied the man I no longer recognized.
I’d been a surprise for my parents, who’d both been in their forties when I’d been conceived, and I’d often wondered if that fact had played any kind of role in the relationship I had with them. But there’d never been anyone to ask, since all my grandparents had been dead by then and there’d been no extended family around. I wasn’t sure, but I’d kind of figured both my parents had been content with their solitary existence, having just each other to rely on.
A reality I’d intruded upon.
It was a fact I’d eventually come to accept over the years, despite the fact that it meant facing a truth I’d been denying for so long.
Some people just weren’t meant to have kids.
I watched as my father’s gnarled hand reached out for the can of beer. He held it against his chest while he opened it one-handed, his other hand lying useless on the armrest. Though I knew it wasn’t actually useless, just weak. In that sense, my father had been lucky because the stroke had left him with weakened limbs and not full-on paralysis.
He struggled for a moment, but I didn’t dare take the can and open it for him since I’d made that mistake once already. I’d learned my lesson yesterday when he’d thrown the open beer across the room, which, because of his weakened state, hadn’t sailed more than a few feet from the recliner. He’d grunted what I could only assume had been curse words at me, and then he’d tried to chuck the remote at me while I’d been cleaning up the spilled beer. It too had fallen short, but while my father’s verbal skills were impaired, my mother’s most certainly weren’t, and I’d gotten an earful about the new stain on her carpet. The fact that he’d even cursed at me was proof of the stroke that had changed him in so many ways. My father was and always had been a gruff man, but he’d never taken the Lord’s name in vain or used any kind of off-color language.
My parents were throwbacks to that generation where the husband was the man of the house and the wife was the little woman whose sole purpose was to care for the home and the children. It was a role my mother had followed to the letter, though she’d apparently interpreted the care for the children part a bit differently than most. Somewhere along the way I’d become more like an extension of the house rather than a separate entity. My mother had always made sure I had neat, clean clothes and that I minded my manners, but things like hugs and emotional support had been a foreign concept to her.
And still were.
I stood and stepped away from my father before saying, “The physical therapist will be here in the morning.”
He growled deep in his throat but didn’t look at me. I didn’t bother mentioning that I’d managed to find him a speech therapist too, but that we’d have to go to her for the appointments. I’d let my mother break that one to him since even in his altered state, he tended to give in to her requests.
I returned to the kitchen and dropped down into the chair. I pulled up my bank account information and scanned the numbers, hoping like hell I’d somehow gotten a couple of numbers switched around last time I’d checked the balance and there’d magically be more money in the account today than there had been yesterday.
Or that Trey had grown a conscience and put back even a fraction of the money he’d taken from me.
But there most definitely hadn’t been an increase in the balance. Nope, it was down by several hundred dollars since I’d had to pay for Dad’s walker. I shifted back to the spreadsheet and shook my head.
It wouldn’t even be enough.
I felt tears sting my eyes as the reality of my situation crashed down on me. When the side door abruptly opened, I quickly wiped at my face to make sure a tear hadn’t managed to escape unnoticed.
My mother shuffled in with a grocery bag slung over her arm. She cast me a brief glance as she settled the bag on the counter and then went to put her purse on a side table.
Everything in its place.
“There are more bags in my trunk,” she said as she reached up to straighten the little pillbox hat on her head. I would never understand her need to be dressed in her Sunday finest every day of the week.