Bryony’s father sat down.
As soon as Alma was out of earshot, Bryony raised one eyebrow. “Sweetie?” she asked.
“I hate that kind of talk.” Her father scowled. “Where were you last night? I thought you were coming to bring my mail.”
“I told you I had to work late last night and would deliver your mail today.” Bryony pulled a rubber-banded stack of sealed, postmarked envelopes out of her oversized leather purse and placed it in his lap.
“Your purse is big enough for someone to live in,” her father said, and they were off.
He complained for the next forty minutes about being forced out of his home and made to live in a place with a bunch of “old” people who “annoyed” and “irritated” him.
Bryony interjected reminders of how her father, brother, and she had come to the decision together. The truth was less clear.
Her father refused from the start, adamant he would not move. In the end, Bryony enlisted Mitch’s help to force their father’s hand by overstating the dangers of mold found in the basement. Coached by Bryony, Mitch was able to convince their father he should vacate the house immediately and stay out for at least a month after the workers left, to be on the safe side.
A month turned into six weeks and in the end, their father capitulated, saying, “Go ahead and sell the damned thing.” Bryony sensed he knew he’d been snookered, but was too tired to keep fighting.
“And another thing,” her father said. “The food here stinks. I wouldn’t feed it to a dog. And speaking of dogs, did you know they have one here? First time I see poop on the floor, I’m calling the authorities. Animals belong outside.”
As he railed and railed, Bryony remembered to “just listen.” The administrator had coached Mitch and her about the importance of not arguing. Bryony’s long history of not arguing finally served a purpose, but this new alternative to not arguing, this active listening without walking away or going blank inside as a defense, was new. She liked it. She liked where it led.
Over the past week, Bryony had begun to see her father in a new light.
Isolation seemed to be the source of his surliness. She’d never noticed his singularity, how he did not have friends, until now. That noticing, and the hours spent visiting, resulted in a growing tenderness toward her father, and the tenderness deflected his barbs. He might never be nice to her, but she was determined to be kind to him for the rest of his life.
“I could understand…,” her father said, arriving at the low-blow of his diatribe. “I’d understand if you had a husband to take care of, but you have no one to think of but yourself. Your mother didn’t raise you right. You’re selfish, like her.”
There it was again, the reference to her mother’s selfishness. Someday Bryony would ask him to elaborate, but not now. The administrator had said her father might need six months to a year to process the trauma of moving from the home he’d lived in for over sixty years. Moreover, he was still grieving the loss of his wife.
Bryony would give him as much time as he needed.
“Did they hook up your cable?” she asked.
“It took a week,” he grumbled.
“But now it works?”
“It’s fine.”
“And all the channels you need are available?”
“Yes.”
“And who is Alma?”
Her father smiled.
Who was Alma?
“She’s George Orman’s little sister,” he said. “They lived down the street when we were kids. I haven’t seen her since high school. She married young and moved to Columbus.”
“She seems nice.”
“She’s okay.” He smiled again.
Bryony chose not to probe.
From the parking lot, she called Mitch to give him an update.
After she finished, he first asked her to donate something for the Band Boosters bake sale, then he too went on a tear about her refusal to offer care. “It’s not too late,” he said. “You’ve got a crew in there ready to start renovations on the house in order to sell. RestHaven is month-to-month. You could take a few months to update Dad’s house, and then, instead of selling, you and Dad could move back in together!”
“I thought we were clear on this,” Bryony said.
“Think about it, Bry. You could sell your house and live rent-free at Dad’s, then pay off my half when he dies. You’d be tens of thousands of dollars ahead.”
“I would be insane,” Bryony said.
“Better crazy than poor.”
Why did Mitch constantly insist she was on brink of financial ruin?
As she had earlier with her father, Bryony chose not to take the bait. She ended the call as amicably as she could, telling him she would buy something to donate for the sale and—knowing the lunch rush would be over—called Lillian.
Bryony repeated her phone conversation with Mitch, anticipating her best friend would join her in being astonished, at least a bit peeved, over her brother’s insensitivity.
Lillian’s response missed the target completely. “You’re going to donate store bought?” she asked. “Why don’t you bake anymore? You love being in the kitchen.”
“You know why I don’t bake anymore,” Bryony said.
