Scratch the Surface

Lots of laughing accompanied this allegedly benign statement.

My father squinted at him. “I raised that man, Sean,” he told his brother, and the jovial laughter came to a dead stop. “I know all about his loyalty and his heart.”

“Oh come on, Ray,” Brian said in a way that told me he thought my father was overreacting. “I didn’t mean any––”

“I’m tired,” my father stated, brows furrowed, turning to look at me. “Hey, kid, make yourself useful and come fluff my pillows.”

After standing up and setting my laptop on my chair, I moved to his bedside. “You want to watch a Netflix documentary with me?”

His eyes lit up. My father was addicted to documentaries, especially true-crime ones. “That one about the Night Stalker your mother won’t watch. Yes, bring it on.”

“I guess we’ll go, then,” my aunt Eleanor announced, her tone petulant.

“Yes, good, excellent,” my father replied, distracted, as I moved the tray table and put my laptop on it for him. “Ask the nurses for popcorn,” he told me.

“You can’t have popcorn,” I assured him as his brothers and their wives and a few of my many cousins streamed out the door.

After I drew the blinds and, to my surprise, the nurses brought him no-butter, salt-free popcorn that he said tasted like cardboard, I started the first episode.

“You know,” he began about fifteen minutes later, without turning his head to look at me. “If you plan to steal all my money and leave me in a nursing home, at least put me in the same one as your mother.”

“Yes, sir,” I agreed, chuckling.

“That way I can sneak into her room at night and––”

“Can we just watch this, please?”

There was no answer, but a few minutes later he reached over and took hold of my hand.

Easy to have blind faith in your children when you knew they adored you.

After he fell asleep, I did some more work, had Grubhub deliver lunch for me from a nearby deli, and decided to call Jeremiah. I’d waited as long as I could, and then, of course, accidentally hit FaceTime when I called him. I was surprised and thrilled when he picked up.

“Hey,” he greeted me with a smile that made my stupid heart flip right over. “How’s your dad?”

“He’s great,” I assured him, turning the screen around so he could see him sleeping. “We’re bringing him home tomorrow morning.”

“I’m so glad,” he whispered. “Do you want to call me back later? I don’t want to wake him up.”

I snorted. “Uh, no. The man can sleep through a tornado or a Metallica concert; I’m not even kidding.”

He chuckled and nodded, and something about the way his eyes glinted in the light, as well as the sexy grin, made my stomach flutter.

“So, where are you?” I asked, in hopes of getting him talking. My voice was going to go out on me in seconds, and it would get awkward fast. “It doesn’t look like the restaurant.”

“No, this is my second job,” he explained. “My favorite one that I wish I could do full-time. I’m at a counseling center in town called The Mission.”

There was a concrete floor with folding chairs, and in the background old couches with blankets draped over them. The walls behind him were wood-paneled, and together, the entire vibe screamed ’70s rec room.

“It’s not much, we’re a nonprofit, but we have a gym and a kitchen and a few smaller rooms for groups to meet in. Me and one of the kids are working on painting what we call our library, which has more manga than chapter books, if we’re being honest.”

“Yes, but reading is reading,” I assured him. “Whatever gets kids doing it is good.”

“Agreed,” he said, and my phone chimed with a text. “That’s me, so take a look.”

I did as I was told, wondering what I was getting, hoping, ridiculously, for a picture of him in the shower or in bed, but I saw a perfectly boring nightstand instead. It took me a second to understand the point of the photo, when I saw my watch lying beside a laptop at the bottom of what appeared to be a T-shirt drawer. The watch had been a graduation gift from my parents when I got my master’s in accounting, and I had worn it at work religiously ever since.

“That’s to remind you I have a hostage, so we definitely have to get together,” he informed me, his voice like a caress when I resumed our FaceTime chat.

“I would have anyway,” I promised him.

He stared at me a moment and then took a breath. “Listen, I’m kidding, and I hope you know that. I can put it in the mail with some serious insurance and tracking, and you’ll have it no later then––”

“No,” I rushed out, “hold on to it, and I’ll get it back when I see you.”