Flashes of regretwhipped through my head, swirling alongside the caffeine migraine from the gallons of coffee I have been drinking.
I should have gone to school in Tampa. I should have stayed with my father. I should have broken up with Lucas the minute we fought over schools on prom night, and also never let him stick his dick in me. I wasn’t good. Did he ever think that maybe it wasn’t me, but him with the performance issues? I can confidently say he is consistent at effectively missing the g-spot every single time. Hell, I don’t even know if I have one. Do they disappear if they aren’t poked after a while?
The large green sign reading “Macon, next gas for 78 miles,” came into clear view. I release a solid breath from pursed lips as I circle the steering wheel through my hands to take the exit in front of me. Pulling into the small gas station convenience store, I notice it is just me in the parking lot as I stop next to the fuel pump. As I crawl out the passenger door, ungracefully I might add, wrappers for snacks and empty coffee cups fall out onto the ground with me.
“Jesus, fuck,” I seethe.
I gather all my trash at my feet and throw it away into the trash can beside me. As I begin pumping fuel inside my car, I can’t help but laugh at the sight in front of me. A lifted truck with large tires and white wheels came to a harsh stop at the fuel pump across from me. I immediately try to stifle my laughter at this tiny man overcompensating for his micro penis mobile.
* * *
Drivingfor the remaining hours into Tampa and the coffee seemed to be a placebo in my veins, doing nothing for me. A catchy song comes on the radio fuzzily through blown speakers in my car door. I roll my window down and take a deep breath of the smell of fresh rain on the asphalt. I can’t help but stick my hand out the window as my hand makes waves against the wind. A move so juvenile yet comforting. I pull into the small mobile home park where I lived my entire life. My father resided in one and directly across the street were my grandparents. The cracked asphalt bounces me in my seat as I drive over potholes full of water from the rainstorm I was previously caught in. I pulled into the driveway and parked under our metal carport attached to the single-wide trailer. It may not be much to some but to me my house was an oasis. I called it the Charming Daffodil House.
Memories of riding my bike under the very carport I am parked under flood my thoughts. I can practically hear my Nonna telling me to be careful as she plants colorful geraniums in our front yard. The once vibrant yard is now full of plants out of bloom and unkempt hedges. I sigh sadly knowing how hard it is for my father to care for the house for the past few years. Shortly before college started, my father had a stroke and was diagnosed with Parkison’s in the hospital. We argued for hours about me staying and not going to college in Atlanta, but he knew how important it was for me to go to school where my mom graduated from.
Looking back now, I am not sure if it was the wisest decision to make at the time.
As I look into the rearview mirror, I wipe any remnants of coffee off my lips with the tips of my fingers. I roughly rake those same fingers through my windswept hair and put it into a ponytail. With one last look at myself in the mirror, I climb out of the passenger door. Far more gracefully than the last few times. As I straighten my posture and stretch from the long drive, the scents of the travel park invade my nose. The damp, pungent smell of stagnant water seemed to mix with strong perfume from the other elderly ladies in the park. Before I walk towards the house, movement across the street steals my attention as two small children play tag in what used to be my grandparent’s roses. So much has changed. It is as if their home was erased and a thing of the past, but in my memories it was the realest thought I have ever known.
As I walk inside the sunroom, the reality of why I am here is in black and white and in the shape of stacked cardboard boxes lining the walls. What was once filled with patio furniture, bikes and outside toys was now bare and impersonal. I took a deep breath in an effort to calm my nervousness, guilt manifested as a lump in my throat. My father sat slouched in his makeshift chair attached to his walker in the middle of the bare living room. The room full of boxes stacked in corners with the only furniture being a lone dining table idly off to the side.
“Da,” I croak, emotional at seeing my father for the first time in six months from when I came home for Christmas.
“Amelia Quinn,” he whispers, a smile coming to one side of his lips.
“It’s so bare in here,” I say dryly.
“It’s strange,” he whispers, before holding out his trembling hands to me.
As I reach him, I hold his hands in mine before embracing my father in a tight embrace. The events of the past two days a distant memory in a hug from my support, my confidante, my rock.
“I missed you, da,” I whisper.
His muscles tightened as his arms struggled to grip my back fiercely in a tight embrace. I pull away from him reluctantly as tears of happiness and contentment fill my eyes. He wipes the tears threatening to fall down my cheeks with the back of his hands as he struggles to get his fingers to cooperate with his brain’s directions. His disease had advanced more than I could have ever imagined in the mere months we have been apart. His gaze at me through his round gray-blue eyes was poignant. I grabbed his pale Irish skin, wrinkled from experiences of life, living and loss.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“I am good today, a little nostalgic,” he says softly.
“Sad to leave,” I suggest.
“Of course,” he says.
I look around at the sparse room and its kiwi fruit-colored walls which was my idea when I was six. Why he let a child pick the living room colors and keep them into adulthood, I will never understand. I look over to see the religious relics inside various boxes like crosses and framed photos of the Virgin Mary.
“All this will go into storage for a while until I can find a different place,” I say hurriedly.
“Amee don’t worry about it,” he says reassuringly.
The house was your typical Irish-Italian American family house, with religious artifacts, empty wine bottles and hand crocheted blankets packaged neatly and safe for the trip to storage. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the room in an unexpected but welcomed surprise.
“I thought I heard you,” a voice says jubilantly behind me.
The young woman standing before me is a typical wheat blonde, red-lipped, thin woman from the Everglades. The woman whose blue eyes matched her indigo blue scrubs perfectly was my best friend from Freshman year of high school. We lost touch after high school, but recently after my father got sick we reconnected. She graduated from nursing school and offered to help take care of him.
I smile appreciatively, accepting the coffee mug into my hand gratefully, “Carol, you made Nonno’s coffee,” I say quietly, placing the coffee near my lips and inhaling the intoxicating scent.
“He made the best coffee,” Carol agrees.