dress where I’ve folded it. I hand the photos to my dad.
He finally stops walking and looks, but he doesn’t move to take them out of my hands. He swallows hard and I watch as his eyes well up.
“Yes, yes, that certainly does look how I imagine your sister would look at your age. She looks like your mother, looks like Carolina.” He begins walking again, his hands in his jacket pocket, his back hunched over.
I stand there for a second, put the photos back in my pocket, and then run to catch up to him.
“Dad?” I am torn between impatience at his reaction and empathy for his response. I love my dad, but he is a mystery to me and at the moment I have other mysteries that are more pressing. “Sit down and talk to me, Dad!” I pull on his sleeve and pull him down with me on the giant root of a tree. We both unfold our legs and lean against the tree, him pensively and me gingerly. I am on pins and needles.
“Tell me about Rose. Did you know that she could be Lost? What are you thinking, Dad?” I am practically begging and I am beginning to be angry at him for forcing me to be.
He pinches the bridge of his nose as he does when he encounters something unpleasant, such as see the bottom of his whiskey bottle or have a heart-to heart with his daughter. Then he rubs the back of his neck and opens his mouth. Just like the poor accosted woman who suddenly had a meat roll in her hand, he closes it again. Open. Almost gets a word out. Closed.
“Oh forget it!” I snap, standing again and brushing off the pine needles from my legs. “I’ll get Prue to talk to me if I’m such a bother to you.”
I feel his hand in mine as I start to stalk off, feeling righteously upset. He pulls me back down.
“You’re not a bother, Sonny,” he says. Only my father calls me that and I can’t help that it softens up my hard heart considerably. “I’m just not prepared…not prepared for...Rose.” He shakes his head. “Your mother loved her so.”
More than me, the one she chose to leave? The one who wasn’t enough for her after she lost Rose? I don’t want to think about that.
“I’m sure Old Babba found her real quick,” Dad whispers, his eyes filling up again. One fat tear rolls down his unshaven face and gets lost in his mustache. He pats my hand consolingly.
At that, I know the conversation is over. I sit for a moment, hoping I am wrong, but Dad just stares into space, rolling his short beard whiskers between his fingers. He doesn’t even seem to notice that they are wet.
Chapter Six
I leave Dad where he sits, perched uncomfortably on the tree root. I leave quietly, but I feel like stomping off like a small child. I feel like screaming, running, beating my fists against a wall. Why is it so hard to get through to him? He must care. I know he does. Then the realization dawns on me, like sunlight breaking through thunder clouds; he cares more than I know. And that is precisely why it frustrates me.
What exactly don’t I know?
Prue is packing up her cart when I return, hot and sweaty from my little river walk. It’s a humid day and my feet are hot and sticky in my shoes. I plop down dramatically on the stone wall behind the food cart and sigh loudly. It gets no response. This childishness of mine needs to stop; I am eighteen years old. I think.
Prue gives me no reaction other than to demand I move and count her tips - a large mason jar with a few meager handfuls of change. As cranky and ornery as I am feeling, I am certainly not in the mood to take my life in my hands, so I obey.
“Nearly eight dollars,” I tell her, handing her the money. “Not bad for a couple hours work.” It isn’t good either – I make more than that in a busy morning shift at the coffee shop in less than half an hour - but I certainly won’t tell Prue that.
Prue shoves it in her apron pocket and scowls. “Lazy rich people,” she snorts. “Can’t leave more than a measly quarter each. Ought a smack some sense into ‘em, since the good Lord knows their mamas never did.