Home Again

She felt a surge of regret and looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

He touched her chin and gently but firmly forced her to face him. “You acted like a selfish child out there, and I was ashamed of you. You should have been ashamed of you.”

She knew he was telling the truth, and it stung. She felt the tears returning, and she tried to brush them away with her sleeve, but they kept coming back. “I … I know,” she whispered.

She waited for him to soothe her, to tell her it wasn’t her fault or it was okay to be a bitch sometimes or that he understood—all the things her mother would have said. But he just sat there, letting her feel the weight of her own shame.

Finally he smiled, smoothed a strand of hair from her face. “Growing up is hard—but at least you didn’t have to get your heart cut out to do it.”

It reminded her of what she’d said to him. “I… I’m sorry about what I said…. I didn’t mean it… you know, about the heart.”

He sighed quietly. “It scares me, too, Angelina. Francis was the best human being I’ve ever known, and I can’t be him. I can’t even try to be him. But…” He fell silent, looking at her.

She felt as if everything were hanging, suspended between them. She couldn’t even draw a full breath. “But what?”

“I was wrong to want to be your friend. It was a kid’s answer to a man’s question. I know now what I really want.”

“You do?”

“I want to be your dad. And if you’ll let me try, I’ll give it everything I have.”

She felt the tears again, stinging and burning. “I want that, too,” she said with a little hiccup.

“It’s not going to be easy. I don’t always do things right—like tonight, I should have told you I wanted to take your mother on a date. I should have told you that I love her, and that I want us to be a family. But no matter what happens between your mom and me, it won’t change how I feel about you. You’re my daughter, and I love you.”

She launched herself at him, holding him tightly. “I love you, too, Daddy.”

He stroked her hair, and his touch was soft and gentle, and made her feel safe for the first time in her life.

After a long time, he drew back. “Now, I think you have someone else to talk to, don’t you?”

She stared into his green eyes and saw acceptance. It gave her strength, that look in his eyes. She nodded and slowly rose to her feet. At the door she paused and glanced back at him.

He smiled. “You can do it.”

And she could; she knew that now. She turned away from him and left her room, walking down the long hallway toward the living room.

Her mother was standing alongside the fireplace. She was biting her lower lip—the way she always did when she was nervous—and Lina understood at last how much and how often she’d hurt her mother.

Her mother, who’d loved her and kept on loving her no matter what…

“I’m sorry, Mom,” she said softly, wishing that she could take it all back. Everything, all the little slights and unkind words and cruelties.

Madelaine gave her a slow, understanding smile. “I love you, baby.”

Lina threw herself in her mother’s waiting arms and clung to her. “I love you, too, Mommy.”

The sheer volume of knickknacks was astounding. Everywhere Angel looked, he saw turkeys and Pilgrims and cornucopias—candleholders, candy dishes, centerpieces. As he stood in front of the fireplace, feeling the warmth of the flames against his ankles, he stared at the row of decorations along the mantel. A rust-colored, half-painted papier-mâché turkey roosted in the middle of it all, Lina’s illegibly scrawled name across one folded wing.

He moved from item to item, touching each one. He felt as if he were moving backward in time. The only store-bought decorations were candles—everything else, Lina had made in school. From kindergarten there was the turkey. First grade was represented by a Pilgrim’s hat made from a shopping bag; second grade was a glazed clay thumb pot in the shape and color of a pumpkin.

He lingered over that one, his fingers gliding over the slick surface. With each year, he could see the progress in her writing and artistic skill. He tried to imagine her as a five-year-old with long black braids and a toothless smile, erupting through the front door with her newest treasure, but he couldn’t quite picture it, and the inability made him sad. He’d missed so much of her life… so much … and there was no going back. No reclamation of lost years.

Thanksgiving.

He forced himself not to think about the past and instead to look to the future. True, he hadn’t been there to hold her on her first day of life, or to take her hand on the first day of school, but he was here now, and he wasn’t going anywhere. He would be there on her wedding day, and he would walk his first grandchild to school.

He turned back around, thinking that the painful swelling of emotion in his chest should somehow translate into the perfect words of love, but nothing came out.