Somebody Else's Masterpiece

He arrived in a rented Toyota Carolla, strolling down the street like grandparents on a Sunday drive after church, or a family looking at the neighborhood’s Christmas lights. It was July and he looked from side to side, not at holiday décor, but at addresses hung on houses, in a neighborhood he had never been. When he reached the front of my house his eyes glanced at the 26037 above our awning and then widened, shifted down to the dining room window, and caught mine waiting. Immediately he braked while pulling parallel to the curb, in front of my house, on the wrong side of the road. He hurried out of the car, his door opening before the ignition had been turned off, and walked across my lawn, smiling at me through the window with a pink, wrapped box in his hand. He was thirty-five minutes late. Twelve years late.

I opened the door before he even reached the front steps and stood at the threshold. “Princess!” he beamed, his face showing affection, his beard showing what seemed to me as years’ of inattention. It had been shaven the last time I saw him, now thick, somewhat grizzled, and graying, three years later. He had flown in the last time for my thirteenth birthday, ostensibly, as I realized later, since he squeezed in the party between a flight from Cleveland, and a meeting downtown. Now, he appeared at my door and carried a gift I assumed meant as penitence. Entering the house his eyes searched for somewhere to put the box, eyes shifting, head swiveling anxiously. He was a stranger in this house and was unsure of himself. He had been unsure of a lot of things over the years. I extended both arms, “Here,” I offered, “I’ll take that.” The gesture appeared cordial and inviting, friendly, though I knew it was more out of agitation for his indecision. Just throw it down somewhere, I thought, Is it really that important? I set it on the coffee table as he opened his arms, spread them out like old friends would while reuniting years after graduation. A wide smile was plastered across his face. Its width couldn’t span the distance we had grown apart.

“Princess!” he repeated, as if the sound of it, the saying of it would instantly heal the wounds. I smiled wide too, cocked my head to the side a bit, and reached my arms out from my waist, elbows near the hips. As the strange word lurched up from inside me, it left a sour, resentful aftertaste, like bile, or like food offered that you know you don’t like, but have to try out of courtesy, if nothing else. It was courtesy, and nothing else.

“Hi Dad! Good to see you again!” Inadvertently I stretched and emphasized ‘again’ longer than I had planned. He didn’t seem to take notice, or care for that matter, but responded, “You too Princess!” We hugged, his more vigorous than mine, though it was rough and rigid, like he had never hugged a sixteen-year-old girl before. Yeah, Princess I thought, Is this how you treat your Princess? I began wondering if he actually remembered my name or if Princess was a cover-up, like when guys see each other but have forgotten names:
“Hey buddy!”
“Hey, how’s it goin’ man?”
I gave him the benefit of the doubt this time as he held me close, breathed in my hair, and pulled away, holding my arms with his stretched straight, head tilted. He observed me pridefully, like an artist after completion. It was like he was gazing with satisfaction at his masterpiece. But I was only his paint; somebody else had done the painting for him.
__________

The Baybrook Mall bustled at 3:30 with packs of junior highers eating giant pretzels and churros, and high school cliques with bags of new clothing, Ipods, and acne. Kids came here to get away from school, from responsibilities, but most importantly, from parents. My dad and I entered through the Robinson May double-doors and headed toward the main hall on the first floor. It was all his idea; I was just as content staying at home, catching up, or whatever he had in mind. At this point I hoped nobody would see me. Not because I felt awkward with my father at the mall, but because I assumed anyone seeing this tall, suit-jacketed man next to me would think I was abducted. I rarely mentioned him, never to some, and though I liked older guys, male pattern baldness and unkempt, graying beards were not in my typical ideal description. Everyone who knew me, knew this. I kept a three to four foot distance, pretending to look closely in a shop window, or beginning to enter a store and then change my mind. He remained close, echoing each decision, with no apparent agenda of his own. If I looked at replacement cell phone covers at the center kiosk, he’d peruse too, like he was actually interested in pink ones with hearts, or whichever I had picked up to kill time. If I paused curiously long at mannequins wearing bikinis, he’d look too, then back to me, almost picturing it on me to see if it would go with my skin tone or something. When I saw him look at me this way I turned and continued down the mall.

“You want that one?” he questioned, motioning with a hand towards the bikini-clad mannequin.
“It’s nice, but I have plenty, it’s just fun to look sometimes.” I lied, I did like it, probably would come back in the next week sometime and try it on, but since when did I start discussing swimwear with this guy?

“I’ll get it for ya, no problem, just let me know.” The offer was tempting, I’ll be honest. I knew how easy it would be to take advantage of this situation. Bikinis, purses, Hell, entire outfits I bet.

“I owe ya,” he added, leaning over giving me an awkward side-hug. You have no idea how much you owe me. He kissed my hair just above the ear, and I pulled away slightly. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Aww, you don’t owe me anything, I’m just glad to see you.” Apparently lying was in my genes. I suppose some of his legacy had carried on to me.

“Yes I do,” he reiterated, without hesitation. He seemed genuine, and rather than his usual transparent grin, I recognized a gentle smile gracing his face. All I could come up with was, “Okay, well since you owe me,” and before the snide joke would be construed as serious, I added, “How ‘bout some coffee?”
__________

My dad insisted on bringing the pink box with us, rather than letting me open it at home. He wrapped it in a plastic Macy’s bag from our house and carried it throughout the mall, not wanting me to open it just yet. “Wait ‘til we can sit down together someplace. I want you to open it then.” I had never asked to, but he kept persuading me to wait anyway. I wasn’t exactly sure why he had a gift in the first place. It wasn’t Christmas; my birthday was five months ago, and seventeen, and twenty-nine. I didn’t want any presents anyway; I had enough stuff. He couldn’t possibly pack what I wanted in a sweater-size pink box with ribbon wrapped around, and a card attached to the top, addressed “Princess.”

“Okay, you can open it now.” His countenance revealed authentic wonder. It was as if him waiting for the expression on my face was equal, in his mind, to my anticipation of the box’s contents. I began with the card. “Forget the card,” he insisted, “Open the box.” His hands clasped together and he rocked forward in his chair, seemingly holding himself back from leaning in and ripping the damn paper off himself. But he restrained; I pulled the ribbon on one end, slid it gracefully until both sides fell from the top of the box and down near my legs. Then I found a separation of paper near the tape and started to tear it. The pink paper split unevenly and without pattern revealing an Old Navy box. “Rip it,” he urged, “Tear it all off.” Inside was a smaller box, about the size of a paperback novel. Most people would be pleasantly surprised at this charming mystery. What a thoughtful gift, some would think. I was perturbed, more annoyed now than his arriving with a gift in the first place, or lugging it up and down the mall. This was ridiculous.

With a faked giddiness, “Another box? How clever Dad.” The ‘Dad’ again tasted bitter and I watched his eyebrows rise a bit as if to say, I know, and then his gaze returned to the box. He knew what was in there, had wrapped it himself I presumed; yet the gift was separate from both him and me, like it floated mysteriously between us. The gift found its worth not in the giving, but in the receiving. I gingerly tipped the box on its end, searching for a way in, and found the tape. As I unwrapped this second box, I couldn’t imagine what was possibly inside. What I wanted couldn’t fit in here. What I wanted couldn’t be wrapped in a pink box with a bow and a ‘Princess’ card. What I wanted, I knew, he could never give me now.

I wanted twelve years back where this man with the plastered smile wouldn’t leave me. I wanted trips to the zoo, on Daddy’s shoulders, craning to see over the fence and into the baby chimpanzee cage. I wanted my sixth grade musical to have just one more seat filled, my softball game one more fan, my parent-teacher conferences one more parent. I wanted bedtime stories and father-daughter dances. Hell, I wanted to get home past curfew and have a dad awake, in the living room, grounding me for two weeks. I’d take a dad who sits stone-faced when I bring a boy over, and questions him, like a hostage interrogator, making sure he’d treat his daughter right, the way she deserves, like a princess. After all these years, I just wanted a dad.

“I’m so excited,” he affirmed. I wasn’t sure if this gift was more for him or for me, like when kids give their sibling a game or movie they really wanted themselves. I slid off the lid and looked around, finally tossing it on our table. White tissue paper covered the inside of the box and I reached in to pull it off, to find my gift. Though I had no particular expectations, I definitely didn’t expect what I found. He looked from the box to my face, as if to say, Yeah, you know what those are. I knew, but I didn’t at the same time. I smiled, more genuinely than I had before, and I was more genuinely confused now than any other time today. My dad sensed this, saw it in my half-open smile looking into his, questioning.

“Well, pull ‘em out, Princess,”
“What are they?”
“What are they? You know what they are.”
“I know but, I mean, what are they? Dad?” The tone in my voice confirmed a sincere You shouldn’t have.
“I talked to your mom, she said it was okay.”
“You talked to my mom? When?”
“Don’t worry about it, she said it was okay. You wanna go get it?”
“Sure, I’m so excited.”

I was, that was no lie, but it still couldn’t fix everything, wouldn’t change it all. He knew this, I had to assume, and I didn’t want to give any false pretense that I had completely forgiven him. But it was a nice start on his part, I assured myself, perhaps a very nice start.
__________

“You’re a great driver Kaylen, just like your old man.” He ended with a chuckle, and I smiled back, though I wouldn’t know, never seen him drive. “Why don’t you get on ‘I-45’ and open her up, see what she can do.” I rolled our windows down halfway, let the summer heat mix with dry air at seventy miles an hour, and took in a deep breath, looked over at my father. He was gazing out the right side of the windshield, smiling. His face looked almost twenty years younger, like a previous self. He reached his left hand over and embraced the gearshift, my right hand underneath where it was resting.

“You’re a great driver Kaylen. You really are.”

I looked over and at him and smiled again, deep and genuine, with tears masked behind my sunglasses. Twelve years, I thought, twelve years too late, Dad.