My Better Life

In all this I never thought about how hard this has to be on the kids. How their own father not remembering them must feel. By the look on Elijah’s face, it must feel horrible.

I’m about to say I’m sorry, when he runs from the kitchen, his feet pounding on the floor. In a few seconds the front door slams so loud the plates in the cupboards rattle.

Shay looks around the table with big eyes.

“Rawr.” Which sounds a lot like the kitten version of wow.

Jamie stands. “I’ll go…”

I hold up my hand. “No. It’s okay. I’ll go see him.”

I hurry outside. The brisk evening air hits me, and I look around the yard, trying to find where Elijah ran off to. Dusk makes the shadows darker and longer. Birds swoop overhead, catching bugs, and the hens cluck in the coop. I walk through the tall grass. It brushes against my legs, letting off a sweet smell. I pass a pile of what I thought of yesterday as junk, and now I see that it’s old gears, pulleys, wires, wheels, spokes and handlebars, all the things a budding mechanical engineer would need to make “contraptions” to his heart’s content. I remember that Andy Warhol loved junk and junkyards and then I wonder how I can remember a fact about Andy Warhol’s life, but nothing about my own.

I step past the pile and then I see Elijah in the coop. He’s sitting cross-legged on the ground, a hen in his lap. He strokes the hen’s feathers and when I come close he turns his head away.

“Mind if I come in?”

Elijah shrugs and lets the hen loose, it flutters off and joins the other chickens mingling on the other side of the coop, looking to roost. I duck through the fence door and close it behind me. There’s Billy, the old, one-eyed rooster, glaring at me, making sure I don’t bother his ladies.

I ignore him. I’m not here to bother him, I’m here to talk with my kid.

I sit down in the dirt next to Elijah. The ground is cold, and the coop smells like chicken feathers, dirt and the pleasant scent of birdseed held in your hand. The bugs start up, letting us know night is here. The sound is comforting and I get the feeling that I’ve often sat outside at night, listening to bugs sing.

Elijah doesn’t seem like he’s going to break the silence. He’s just scratching at the dirt with his finger, ignoring me.

I study his face. He has brown hair, a shade darker than mine, and large hazel eyes. I get the feeling that of the two brothers, Elijah takes things more to heart.

“I’m sorry,” I begin.

Elijah’s shoulders stiffen, but he keeps scratching at the dirt.

I shift on the hard, hen-scratched ground. “I’m sorry I forgot your names. And I’m really sorry that I don’t remember you.”

Elijah turns his face away and wipes at his eyes. “It’s not that you don’t remember. I don’t care about that.”

“Then what is it?”

He turns back to me and my breath catches. I want to tug him close, he looks so lost.

“I’m scared I’ll forget. What if I don’t remember? You forgot. What if I forget? Nobody will remember then, not Tanner, not Shay, nobody.” A tear slips from his eye and he angrily swipes at it with the back of his hand. “I can’t forget.” He stares at me, as if he’s challenging me to tell him otherwise.

I shake my head. “You won’t. Don’t worry about that.”

“I’m not worried.” He glares at me then scrubs at his face.

I nod. “I was thinking. I don’t know much anymore about what you like or how to be a dad. But you remember what you like, and you know how to be a son. So I was thinking, you might be patient with me, forgive my mistakes, and help me out? You could remind me what we used to do, you could help me be a good dad? How’s that sound?” I hold my breath waiting for him to answer. I’m more nervous than I think I’ve ever been. I dig my hands into the dirt and wait for his response.

Elijah stays quiet, sniffs once, then twice, then he looks up at me with clear hazel eyes. “You want me to teach you how to be our dad?”

I let my breath out, then give a solemn nod. “I thought you might remind me what we like to do?”

He gives me a thoughtful look, then a slow smile spreads over his face.

“We like to play outside.”

My chest tightens. “Really?”

“Uh huh. Tanner makes contraptions and I help. Granny says he has a mechanical brain.” His brow wrinkles. “You like to help too.”