said. “I think it was uncomfortable for you. Maybe that’s why you didn’t come back until now.”
It had been uncomfortable. But it wasn’t because there hadn’t been a high chair. Her father and Greg had started talking about politics, disappearing into their man world of conversation that seemed to take precedence over everything in their immediate environment. Lily had been fussy. And Rain’s father seemed annoyed that Lily was making noise, interrupting his thoughts. He’d looked embarrassed when she nursed. The place was an obstacle course of junk. The baby couldn’t walk yet, but what about when she could? The house was dirty—like really dirty, floor gritty, dishes in the sink, coffee table covered with magazines, newspapers. She suggested he get someone in to clean; he’d been offended.
Rain felt like her father barely even looked at her, was disapproving of her choice to stay home with Lily. Then the stroller came in the mail. Don’t let this slow you down. What a clueless, male thing to say, right?
“I did get someone in to clean, too,” he said. “Did you notice?”
He’d mentioned it before, the last time they talked. He was repeating himself. But he’d always done that.
It was clean, cleaner than maybe it had ever been. She opened the fridge; it was stocked and organized. There were no dishes in the sink, flowers sat in a vase on the windowsill. There was a dish towel folded on the counter. Other things started to come into focus. His sudden consideration for her; his enthusiasm for Lily. His questioning of past choices. There was a lightness to him, something new.
“Dad?” she said. “Are you seeing someone?”
“No, no,” he said, waving at her. “Nothing like that.”
She waited.
“She’s just a friend,” he said. “The woman who came to clean. We became friends.”
She was equal parts amused and annoyed. A girlfriend? He was seventy-five.
“You know, I think I like the idea of this long-form journalism they’re doing—podcasts and such. There’s a freedom to that—you’re not beholden to advertisers, editors who fear for their jobs, you can create your own brand. You’ve made your bones—you have a name, credibility. Have you thought about that? Why not strike out on your own with this? Then maybe—best case—it gets picked up by a bigger outlet.”
She was embarrassingly pleased to have her father’s seal of approval.
He hadn’t written anything in years, but he was still up on the publishing industry, was current, informed. Well, maybe he was writing; he just hadn’t published in more than ten years. Not since he’d been accused of plagiarism, right before Rain’s mother died. The accusation, made by a student who’d claimed her father had stolen his idea and work he had submitted, was dismissed in court. But the scandal, the humiliation, the court appearances, on top of losing Mom, had been too much for him. He swore off the industry, swore off teaching, and more or less became a hermit. He did the occasional interview. Last year the Times took pictures of his writing studio in the attic, the place where he’d written every novel. That last book, which critics said was his best ever, was a huge bestseller. He didn’t have to work again after that.
She watched him dangle a set of keys before Lily, who laughed happily. The kitchen was warm and sunny; this visit couldn’t have been any more different from the last one. “What are you working on, Dad? Anything?”
“I’m working on being a better man, Laraine.” LAH-raine. “How am I doing?”
She couldn’t help but smile. She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Lily laughed.
“Great, Dad. You’re doing great.”
She walked over to the window and stared at the metal sculpture. She really hated it.
“Speaking of clutter,” he said. He disappeared, and she heard him move lithely up the steps to his office. It was quiet a moment and then he returned, in his arms a stack of papers and files.
“What’s this?”
“It’s everything,” he said, putting the stack down on the kitchen table. “It’s every newspaper clipping, every courtroom transcript, every letter we received from supporters, all my notes, even my diary from that time.”
“You were going to write about it?” she asked. Now that she thought about it, she was surprised that he never had.
“I thought about it once,” he said. “I hoped it would be a catharsis, a way to exorcise all the demons and the pain of it. But I could never access it. And now I know why.”