The Lighthouse. Mary Schramski
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smiles. We’ve talked this airplane talk for a long time. That’s one of the first memories I have of my father. Him standing over my bed in his smooth, dark blue pilot uniform, and Mom saying, Good night, have a good flight. I probably giggled because of the rhyme.
“How’s work?” he asks as we make our way toward the exit door.
“Busy. Really busy. I’ve got a lot of house sales coming up. One big one.” I’ve always tried to impress him. People have called me a workaholic, and it was a big stretch for me to leave all my listings right now, but after I bought the ticket and called Dad, I didn’t have a choice.
He stops right before we walk out the door. “Can you afford to be away from work from now till New Year’s Day?”
The man behind us trips a little over my suitcase. My father puts his hand on my back, moves me to the side, out of the way.
“Sure. Christmas week is really slow, nothing will happen. I’ve worked hard all year. I deserve a little break. I’m the office’s top seller.”
“As long as you’re not losing money. We’ll play it by ear. If you have to go back early, I’ll understand.”
“Nobody buys a house around Christmas.” This isn’t exactly true—a listing can sell anytime. I lean closer, give him a quick hug. “I’ll handle everything when I get home. I’m a master at real estate sales.” I doubt if my father cares about this fact. He wanted me to go to college and become a doctor or lawyer, but I didn’t want to. We had a lot of fights over this. And it didn’t make it any better that I wasn’t settled until six years ago, when I finally found something I’m good at.
We walk outside.
“I had to park far away.”
“Parking at the Tucson airport is terrible, too.” I fill my lungs with moist air. The scent of the ocean brings a memory of my mother sitting on the back porch step, her head held back, lips parted. She takes a deep breath and smiles at me.
My heart begins to ache.
“Those bastards. President has to do more.”
“What?” I look at him. We’re walking past the corded-off, empty parking spaces.
“President needs to do more about security,” Dad says, gesturing toward the spaces. The irritation I hear in his voice surprises me and I feel achy and tired.
Dad settles my carry-on in the trunk of his Volvo and opens the passenger door. His car is immaculate, as usual. I glance down. A list stands at attention in the cup holder: bread, milk, gas, 8:15 Christine. I laugh.
“Something funny?” Dad asks as he climbs in.
“Your list.”
“Yeah?”
“You put me on the list. Would you have forgotten me if you hadn’t?” I’m kidding, but then remember the other night when he told me he didn’t want me to come home. Yet he’s always been a list-maker, a dependable man.
“Of course not. Just a habit.”
He starts the car, maneuvers out of the parking lot, and soon we’re on the 405. Air rushes in through his open window. I open mine, breathe in, feel as if I’m washing the last bit of arid desert out of my lungs.
Dad sighs.
A memory of my mother sneaks in. I close my eyes, relax. Warm afternoon sunlight streaming onto the back porch, my mother acting silly, telling me I can drink air. Me, a giggly girl. I hold my head back, sip the cool breeze. Dad asks what we’re doing, and in my little-girl voice I tell him drinkin’ air. He sighs, shakes his head and explains to my mother she shouldn’t fill my head with nonsense.
I look over at him. He’s driving like he always has, right hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on his left thigh. Some things about him I know well.
“So everything’s okay? You don’t mind having company this week?”
He glances over, then back to the road. “Of course not. Why should I mind? Everything okay with you?”
“I was just wondering. You know, well, you hung up on me.” I feel the anger I felt in my living room, but I push it back so I don’t have to feel it right now.
“I was tired.” He stares straight ahead.
For some reason, I don’t believe him and I want him to explain more, say something else, yet I know he won’t. “But you’re okay?”
“Fine. How’s work?” he asks again.
“Great. I’ll probably win top sales for the office this year. I’m the top seller.” I repeat what I just told him. I work fourteen-hour days, but to produce the way I do, I have to. Most of the time, I’m exhausted. “What have you been up to?”
“Managing to keep busy.”
“Doing what?”
He flips on his turn signal and eases into the right lane to pick up the 110. “I’ve got lots of things to do, taking care of the house, for one thing. It’s getting older by the day. So your flight was okay?”
“Fine. A little crowded, but since it’s two days before Christmas I expected that.” I drink in more air, wishing I felt as if I could open up, tell him he pissed me off when I called to tell him about my trip, but I can’t.
“Yeah, it’s crazy flying at this time,” Dad says.
“People want to be home for the holidays.”
Dad looks at me, then back to the road. “I’m glad you’re home. That you could take the time off from work.”
“Thanks. I didn’t want you to be alone.” My shoulders relax a little and I lean back. Before I became a Realtor, I used to jump from job to job—waitress, secretary, Pottery Barn sales clerk. With those jobs, I could come home every year if Mom sent me airfare. My father used to just shake his head when I’d tell him I’d changed jobs again. Then one day, a friend said I should try selling houses because I had a knack for making people happy. I didn’t know what the heck she meant by that since my life was pretty much a train wreck. I was in debt, not happy with any job and never found a relationship that worked.
When I asked her what she meant, she said I was nice. I laughed, told her I wished I wasn’t so nice. That was seven years ago, and three top sales awards later.
“Still like your job?” Dad asks.
“The job’s great. The other day, a client told me I helped her find her dream home. That really reminded me of Mom.”
An eye blink later, he turns the steering wheel sharply to change lanes and brakes squeal. I’m thrown forward toward the dashboard.
“Good God!”
A horn screeches and I glance back, thinking he’s caused a ten-car pile up on the 110, but everything’s okay.
“Dad, you cut that guy off.”
“He had plenty of room. People should learn how to drive!”
A weird feeling spirals through me. This isn’t like him at all, but neither is him hanging up on me. I look over at him. Basically, he’s the same, maybe a little thinner, grayer. I turn my attention to the window, watch as we drive through the oil fields, come all the way up Pacific Avenue and turn right on Thirty-eighth Street.
When Dad turns into the driveway of our house, my heart jumps a little. It’s the one I grew up in, the one my mother loved, decorated, the one she didn’t come back to eight months ago.
We walk on the sidewalk that cuts from the garage to our house through the night-wet grass. I’m in front pulling my suitcase, and Dad is right behind me. The night is so quiet I can hear his shoes tapping against the concrete.
I scuff my feet against the familiar flowery welcome