Something You Can Touch

by Cathee Phillips

It was the early days of autumn, and the trees were shedding their leaves like bad habits – slowly, reluctantly. They resisted the morning air, which forecast a cold winter.

He, too, felt the coming frigid days. Standing in the doorway of the old Route 66 motel room, he lit an unfiltered Pall Mall and noticed that the first “A” in “VACANCY” had burned out overnight, to join the “V” and “Y” in darkness.

“Canc,” he said aloud, making both Cs hard. A wasp flew by, investigating his cigarette smoke. He was not afraid of wasps, or bees, or hornets for that matter. He inhaled deeply and blew a huge circle of smoke towards the wasps’ nest hanging from the eave.

He cleared his throat and pulled his flask out of his shirt pocket. Time for breakfast.

A fly hovered near his cheek, and a crow cawed in the distance. He swatted away the fly and went back inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

A few minutes later, a gunshot rang out. The ensuing silence was broken only by the sound of sirens coming nearer and nearer.

“He called 911 himself, before he did it,” the motel manager said. “I called when I heard the gunshot, but the police were already on the way. It was too late. Nothing could have been done.”

“Was he acting strange?” The woman’s voice broke. “I don’t mean to offend you, but this is not his kind of place. My stepfather likes things clean, orderly. No offense.”

She held on tightly to the edge of the front counter. “I mean, he must have said something to you.”

“All he said was ‘thanks’ when I gave him the room key.”

“Do you know how he got here? Where is his car? Was anyone with him?” 

“He didn’t have a car. People usually walk or ride the bus.”

She showed the manager a photo of her dad. “Are you sure it was him that checked in? Are you sure he was alone? It’s just that he had told me he was leaving to visit my daughter and see his first great-grandchild. This motel is in the wrong direction. Nothing makes sense.”

His eyes flicked over the wallet-sized photo of a white-haired man and a young woman at a college graduation. Some of these were harder than others. He sighed.

“He was alone.”

“Can I see the room?”

He was not surprised that she asked. He knew from experience that if he said no, she would keep coming back until he relented. He handed her the key.

“There are stains on the wallpaper. He had covered the bed and floor with plastic drop cloths, but I think the – it went higher than he expected. We cleaned everything as best we could.”

She didn’t move.

He came around the front desk and opened the door for her. “It’s to your left. On the corner.”

Leah stood outside the door for a full sixty seconds. She knew because she counted them trying to calm herself. She counted slowly and focused on the peeling paint, on the smudged window, on the wasp nest hanging from the gutter. She fussed with her gray-streaked, shoulder-length black hair that was tied back into a messy ponytail. She straightened her cotton blouse and khakis, badly wrinkled from the thirteen-hour car ride. She had driven all night, unable to sleep. She probably smelled, too. She should have checked into her hotel and taken a shower first. Her stepfather, who had raised her, would not like to see her this way.

Would not have liked to see her this way, she corrected herself.

“If you don’t take care of yourself, no one else will,” he would say.

Would have said.

“Fuck it,” she said out loud. “Fuck it all,” she said to the wasps, to stained wallpaper, to old motels, to death. She unlocked the door and pushed it open with both hands.

The stale smell of Pall Malls mixed with the scent of bleach and air freshener filled her nose, and she began to sob. He never smoked inside, but he had here, in this room. That was the moment she knew. Her dad had left without saying goodbye.

The police officer had discouraged her from viewing his body, and she had been in too much shock to insist otherwise. She positively identified her dad from photos of the tattoo representing Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” on his left forearm. They had released his personal belongings to her: his worn leather wallet, the old-fashioned analog watch that he had been wearing, his slip-on loafers, placed in his small duffel bag with one change of clothes, and the suicide note neatly encased in a manila envelope. They also gave her a small silver flask – she had never seen him with a flask before, but they insisted it was his.

She had not been able to bring herself to read the note at the police station. There must be, there had to be, another explanation. Alternate scenarios played in her mind like a bad television movie. Maybe it wasn’t even him. Maybe he was running from someone and had faked his death.

She had left abruptly, ignoring the staff psychologist who offered her coffee, and driven straight to the motel. She would investigate his death herself.

She rubbed her nose against the acrid smell and realized that her face and blouse were wet with tears. She reached into her backpack for a tissue, and her hand brushed the envelope. She took it out and laid it on the small desk.

She cranked open the front window to allow fresh air to flow through the screen. The crank was rusty, and her shaking hands were not working very well. She must be getting dehydrated. She went to the sink and turned on the tap. She watched the water swirl down the drain.

“Leah Ann,” he would have said, “Don’t let the water run like that. It’s not going to get any colder. Don’t waste water.”

She was ten-years-old, letting water blast from the garden hose as she waited for it to get cooler. The day was the hottest on record that summer, and she had been riding her bike around the neighborhood while he mowed the lawn.

“Let me have a drink,” he said, and put out a hand to take the hose, but she sprayed him with the water. He laughed and grabbed the hose, and, giggling, she let go and ran away, towards the front door. She was betting that the hose wouldn’t reach there, but she lost the bet. They both ended up soaking wet, sitting on the steps.

“It’s too hot to finish mowing today, anyway,” he said. “How about an ice cream cone?” They climbed into his sports car, and he put the top down.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll dry off fast, and the water won’t hurt anything.”

Water. The water won’t hurt anything. She blinked and saw that the tap was still running. She hurriedly cupped her hands and gulped the cool water.

She dried her hands on a scratchy towel and sat down at the desk. She drew out the crisp, white linen paper from the envelope. He had printed her full name, address, and phone number at the top of the page. She nearly started crying again at the sight of his meticulous handwriting. Each line ran straight and true across the width of the paper, and he had left a precise one-inch margin on the top, bottom, and sides.

After she left home, he had written to her once a month, without fail.

He would say, “We talk on the phone and text, but you can’t touch those. Phone calls and texts disappear. Handwriting says a lot about a person. A letter is something you can touch, can keep. It’s like having a part of the person with you.”

She had sent him emails and told him that he could print them out – they were her letters to him. He did and kept the printouts organized in neatly dated binders, on top of his file cabinets where he stored his engineer drawings.

“He won’t write to me again.”

Out of nowhere, the thought blazed across her mind and strangled her.

“He won’t write to me again.”

She began breathing like her therapist had taught her, four counts in, hold for seven, out for eight. As her throat relaxed, she remembered how he would sit at his drafting table to write. He would use a ruler to trace straight lines across the paper with a pencil. Once he finished, he would carefully erase the lines without smudging the ink. She loved the smell of his pencils, the rubber erasers, his home office. As a child, she would join him, sitting on the couch and drawing quietly beside him. Later, as a teenager, she would haul in her books and do her homework.

He had started working at home after her mother died.

“I’m not leaving you alone after school,” he had said. “It’s not good for a child to be alone.” In high school, though, those afternoons became rarer. She would hang out with friends or attend after-school activities. But she knew he would be waiting, in his office.

The angry buzzing of a wasp drew her back to the present. It was trying to get in through the screen.

“Go away,” she said firmly to the wasp.

“Read the note,” she said even more firmly to herself and held the sheet so that the afternoon light increased the contrast between the black ink and the white paper.

Dearest daughter,

What I have done, I did because it was the best for both of us.

We watched your mother suffer together. She died too long and too young. I could not bear for you to watch me decline and become less than myself. I could not bear to see your face when I told you that I had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I could not bear to be a burden to you.

I’ve disposed of my things. The house and car have been sold, and the money is in a bank account under your name. I put your letters, your childhood things, my artwork, and the filing cabinets with my drawings in the storage unit with your mother’s things. It’s paid up for two years. You can take your time sorting through everything, which I hope may provide healing for you. Just contact my attorney. She’ll give you all the details.

I know this is not fair to you, but I also know how strong you are.

I’ve always been so proud to be your dad. You may not feel it, but you are still young. Please live your best life. Don’t let anyone hold you back. Keep your chin up!

Please give my granddaughter and grandson my love. I hope you all can forgive me.

Love you more than I can say,

Dad

“Sold your house? Give them your love? Chin up? Fuck all that!” She yelled. “I would have taken care of you. You didn’t even give me a chance!”

She crushed the note into a ball and sprung up, ready to tear the place apart. Then she saw what she had done and smoothed the sheet out with quick, furious strokes.

And, not caring about bedbugs or mites, holding his last letter to her heart, she collapsed on the bed and fell asleep listening for his voice.

She woke up an hour later. Groggy and a little disoriented, she picked up her cell phone and dialed her daughter, April. She told her as gently as possible that, yes, her granddad was gone.

“Mom, I can’t believe it. He was supposed to be here tomorrow – to see the baby!”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Leah paused and then said, “He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and he didn’t tell me. He didn’t want us to have to take care of him. He didn’t want to be a burden. I think his mind was already failing. All this – it’s just not like him. I should have gone to see him more often. I didn’t realize.” Her voice faltered.

She heard April swear softly before she said, “Mom, this isn’t your fault. He made his choice. I think he made it out of love. He knew how hard your divorce has been. He didn’t want to make your life even more difficult.”

Leah could not respond. She felt as if her body was breaking into a thousand pieces that she would never find.

“Mom? Mom, what can I do?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing to do,” Leah whispered. She said more loudly, “I need to go now. Give my grandson a kiss and hug for me.” She hung up quickly, shoving her grief down into the abyss that had opened inside her. She reached into the side pocket of her backpack to get the flask that she had never seen before today.

“Chin up, is it, Dad?” she said. “Bottoms up!” She took a big swig of the bourbon.

She drained the flask and called his attorney, who spoke in a tightly controlled voice: “No, he did not tell me that he was planning to take his own life. I thought he was moving into assisted living.

“He did not leave a letter. He didn’t even have a will – he didn’t need one. All the money is in your name. I thought you knew about everything. I’ll email you the information.

“I’m so sorry for your loss. Please let me know if there is anything I can do.”
 

Leah did not move for a long time but sat staring out the window at the old oak trees across the parking lot. The branches were moving back and forth slowly in a light breeze. After a while, she became aware of the rush of the evening traffic. The rays of the setting sun outlined the trees in a brilliant red-orange. A few leaves fell, sparks that tumbled down to land harmlessly on the scant grass cover that had survived the summer. She should leave now. She hated driving after dark.

She went over to the desk and was slipping his crumpled letter back into the envelope when she noticed a line of small writing on the inside flap: “The secret ingredient is sugar. Chin up!” And, of all things, he had drawn a smiley face. He had never done that before, not even on the birthday cards he gave her as a child.

Suddenly, she laughed. Of course. Sugar! 

The taste of cold turkey sandwiches flooded her mouth. Every year, on the day after Thanksgiving, he would make enough turkey sandwiches to last them the entire day, enough for both lunch and dinner.

She had tried for years to duplicate his recipe but had never been successful. Her daughter would complain, “They just don’t taste like Grandad’s, Mom. Can’t you get him to give you the recipe?”

“Nope,” she would reply. “He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

She had tried one year, when she had come home from college. She leaned against the counter, watching him chop up the leftover white meat into neat half-inch square chunks. He seasoned the turkey with salt and pepper and add heaping tablespoons of mayonnaise. Before he mixed it all together, he told her to turn her back so that she could not see him add his “secret ingredient.”

“Really, Dad?” she said, “Don’t you think I’m too old for this game now? Please just give me the recipe.”

“Too old? One is never too old for games. Besides, I’m not ready to tell you what the secret ingredient is yet. Now turn around.”

She obliged him and turned her back but tried to peek over her shoulder.

“Turn all the way around.”

When he let her turn back around, her mouth watered as she watched him pile the turkey mixture on fresh white bread and cut the sandwiches diagonally. He put each one in its own sandwich bag on a tray in the fridge.

The grumbling of her stomach interrupted her reverie, and she found to her surprise that she was hungry. She picked up her billfold and room key to go to the diner across the street. On her way, she stopped at the motel office.

The manager looked up as she came in.

“What are you doing here this late? Extra shift?” she said.

“I’m it. 24/7.”

“I’d like to stay overnight. I’ll pay.”

He paused. “You’re sure? You doing all right? No offense, but I don’t want to hear any sirens tonight.”

She nodded her head. “Oh, I’m not doing so great. That’s going to take a while. But I promise that I’ll be alive in the morning. We’re just not done talking yet.”

He raised his right eyebrow at her.

“Never mind,” she said, laying cash on the counter. “See you in the morning.”

She frowned at him. He seemed worn down, exhausted.

“I’m running across the street to the diner. I’m in the mood for a turkey sandwich. And a side of sugar. Want some?”

Confused, he shook his head and said, “No, but thank you.”

“Thank you! For letting me see the room. Keep your chin up, okay?”

Her eyes glistened with tears, but she smiled at him, and he smiled back.

Outside, the house sparrows chirped to each other, nestled in the glowing boughs.