Gibson waved his hand as they continued through to the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of water and passed it to Emmett. “Those girls didn’t know a broom from a dust rag. I let them go a while back.”
His mother had passed away the summer after he’d left the island. God, how had he missed all of this in their weekly phone calls?
Once more Emmett racked his brain, trying to remember any incident that could have alerted him during Gibson’s last visit. He’d been a little more crotchety and particular than normal, but when had Gibson not been particular? From the pressed pants and natty ties he’d worn every day to school to the way Emmett’s baseball uniforms should be washed after the games, Gibson had ideas. Ways of doing things. Emmett and his mother had become so used to his opinions that they’d forgotten any other way of doing things. So it was normal to fall into that routine when his father had visited for a couple of weeks in October.
When he’d left Emmett had found a stack of newspapers under the bed but hadn’t thought anything of it.
Now he wished he had.
“I was thinking we’d start with the porch. You know how your mother likes a clean and pretty porch. Peach. That was her favorite color.” Gibson finished his water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “The upper level should be navy and I think green would be a nice color around the eaves.”
“Dad—”
“And in here, I know your mother likes her wallpaper, but I think paint is more practical. And if we used some of that blue, it would be a nice accent for her paintings and things.”
“Dad.” Emmett tried again, but Gibson kept talking.
“Now, we turned your bedroom into a sewing room for your mother a few years ago so you’ll be staying in the guest room. If we could just update the closets and bring in a little more storage space for your mom’s bits and bobs, we’ll be in good shape, don’t you think?” He looked around the dingy kitchen with pride, obviously not seeing the dirty stove or ancient refrigerator. “We’ll bring this place back to life yet.”
Emmett tossed their water bottles into the empty trash can and then grabbed several old containers from the cabinets to throw away. He considered running scalding-hot water into the sink to wash the piles of plates and cutlery but decided against it and tossed it all into the trash. No amount of dish soap or hot water could bring those things back to life.
“Dad, we’re fixing this place up to sell it, remember? You’re coming to live in Cincinnati, near me.” He was careful not to say “with me.” The doctors had been clear. Though his father was in the early stages, he needed more care than Emmett could give on his own. And patients like Gibson would grab on to any chance to stay in their homes. Emmett had failed his father so far; he wasn’t going to fail at this. Gibson would come to Cincinnati and get the care he needed.
“Your mother loves the island, you know she won’t move.”
Emmett took a breath and closed his eyes. His mother was buried in Toledo in one of the plots she and Gibson had picked out years before. “Dad, Mom isn’t here anymore. She’s gone.”
Gibson gestured dismissively and began adding more things to the trash. “She’s just gone to get groceries. She’ll be back in a while. She was going to bake shortbread cookies for you but forgot we were out of vanilla.” He cleared one corner of the kitchen table and started on another, tossing things willy-nilly into the big trash can along with Emmett.
Emmett reached for his father’s hands; stilled them. “Dad, let me do this, okay? I’ll make sure everything that is thrown out needs to be trashed. Why don’t you rest?”
“I don’t need to rest. I’m healthy as a horse.” He pounded once on his chest as if that would sway Emmett. Maybe he really thought it would.
Maybe he didn’t remember why Emmett was here in the first place.
“Dad, we’re selling the house, remember? We talked to the doctor about it last week. You’re moving into that nice apartment that’s just down the road from my house.”
Gibson was quiet for a long moment. “You’re here to renovate the house. Our house.”
“Yeah, I am, Dad. And then we have to sell it. You can’t stay up here on your own and my work is in Cincinnati so you’re coming to live with me.” Emmett winced. “Near me, at that nice apartment.”
“I don’t think your mom will like living in an apartment. She likes to have room to move.”
“Do you remember the bird room? With all the parrots and cockatiels?” Emmett led Gibson to the table, cleared another space and they sat. “And there was that nice walking path around the pond, remember? We saw that big, Great Dane when we walked around it last time.”
“His name was Percy. And the parrot wouldn’t repeat anything we said.”
Emmett smiled. “That’s right. The nurse said he was shy, remember? And you said once you got acquainted, everything would be all right.”
“But your mom didn’t see the place. I’m not sure she’ll like it. Maybe we should just do the painting and things here.” Gibson clasped his hands, twisting them around. “We could take her down in a few weeks, when she’s ready.”
“Dad, Mom isn’t here. She died several years ago.”
Gibson’s brow furrowed. “Mary Margaret is at the store, getting vanilla for snickerdoodles. Emmett’s coming home.”
It had been shortbreads a few minutes before but Emmett didn’t correct his father. He looked away and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Oh, God, it was happening.
“Dad, do you remember visiting Cincinnati?”
Gibson pushed away from the table and stalked to the kitchen sink. “’Course I remember Cincinnati. Terrible football team, pretty good at baseball, though, depending on the year. My son, Emmett, lives there. Mary Margaret and I go down every few weeks because he’s too busy to come up here. You went to school with him, didn’t you?”
Emmett rose from the table and began stacking old magazines and junk mail into piles. When the pile looked ready to topple, he pushed it into the trash can and started another. “I’m Emmett, Dad. I’m here to help you get the house ready to sell.”
But Gibson kept talking, as though Emmett hadn’t said a word. “You know, it’s summer and Emmett doesn’t like coming back here. But I’m hoping he makes it this year. Big party planned for July. Reunion, you know.”
Emmett thought about the invitation he’d left on his office desk before coming home. He planned to be off Gulliver by the time the reunion came along. Off the island and back in Cincinnati where the only thing people knew about him was that he was good at restoring old houses.
“Dad, do you still read these tabloids?” He picked a few issues from the floor, dated last summer.
“I never read that trash. Mary Margaret, she likes those celebrity stories. Likes to stay on top of Hollywood,” he said, his voice lilting into a laugh. “Hey, do you think that’s what’s holding her up? You think she’s reading the magazine in the store because she’s tired of me ribbing her about it? We’ll have to tell Emmett that when he gets here.”
Emmett gave up. He couldn’t say those words—Mom is dead—one more time. He couldn’t. Mary Margaret Deal was very much alive in this house. Emmett shook his head. Even if he could say it, Gibson very obviously couldn’t believe his wife was gone. Maybe that was why his father was having such a hard time letting go, because he could still feel her here.
No, Gibson’s inability to let go had nothing to do with the magazines stacked around the house or the sewing room