The smell of biscuits baking and coffee percolating wafted up the steps and gently nudged me from my sleep. The hint of sunrise poked through the open window. A crow in a nearby tree cawed and was answered by a chorus of his mates.
Sleep had come slowly. I’d lain in bed with the lights out, listening to the lonely hoot of an owl in the rafters of the barn. A creak in the house had brought back memories of Dean sneaking in late at night, tiptoeing across the porch roof, and opening his bedroom window. I listened in vain for the clump of his shoes as he dropped into his room.
When I couldn’t stand another minute, I’d turned on the lamp on my bedside table, pulled on my jeans and sweatshirt, and retrieved the scrapbook from my desk. I’d stretched across the bed, going through it again and again. I’d fallen asleep, still dressed, on top of the covers while flipping through the pages. Now it lay open beside me.
After a quick shower, I dressed in clean clothes—another pair of black jeans and a T-shirt—and opened the window blinds. The sun peeked over the horizon. The yard below still rested in shadows.
I rubbed my eyes and reached for my phone. It wasn’t quite six o’clock. I was more accustomed to going to bed at such a time, not waking up. The old early-morning habits of farm life were foreign to me now.
I leaned against the window frame and yawned. A few high wisps of clouds danced across the clear blue sky. The leaves of the maple flipped in the morning breeze. I shivered and reached for the sweatshirt I’d bought the day before.
Following my nose, I stumbled down the steps and entered the kitchen. I found a mug in a cabinet—where they’d been for as long as I could remember—and poured myself a cup of coffee. As I leaned against the counter and sipped the magic elixir, Mom bustled into the room. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“Let me guess. You’ve been up for at least an hour.”
She pointed at the counter. “Someone had to gather the fresh eggs from the chickens. Used to be your job. Do you want them scrambled or fried? Grits and biscuits are cooking, and I’ve got bacon.”
“Already slaughter a pig this morning?”
“Store-bought. Sorry to disappoint.”
“No, of course not. It’s just…” I struggled to explain how things had changed for me. As kids, we’d eaten whatever was put in front of us, or we did without. “I don’t normally eat like this for breakfast.”
“What do you eat? Or do you even get up for breakfast?”
I opted not to answer the second question. Explaining a musician’s late nights and subsequent late starts to the day was more than I was ready to tackle. Besides, I reasoned, breakfast was the first meal of the day, even if the day started after noon. “I usually just have some fruit when I get up.”
She paused with her hands on her hips, her lips pursed in thought. “Too early for apples, but we’ve got some fresh strawberries. Good crop this year.”
“That’d be perfect.”
“Good. I’ll get them ready while you chat with Skeeter.”
I froze. Discussing the hours I kept with my mother was scary enough. Talking to Dad was a whole different level. “He’s awake?”
“I told you. He’s better in the mornings. Go talk, and I’ll have your breakfast waiting when you’re done.”
To my surprise, I’d already drained my first cup of coffee. I refilled it and carried it into the rear parlor.
The window was open a few inches, and a fresh, cool breeze wafted in. The golden hues of the morning sunlight filtered through the sheers, chasing the shadows out of the corners. I could hear songbirds cheerfully greeting the morning. The vibrance of life just outside the window seemed out of place with the dying in the room.
Dad’s eyes fluttered open and locked onto me as I entered the room. He motioned for me to sit in the chair beside the bed. “Libby tells me I called you Dean yesterday. Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay, Dad.”
“It’s just that I see him a lot lately. In my head, I mean. At least, I think it’s in my head. That morphine does a job on your mind.” He shifted on the bed, a bony rustling under the covers. “Not just him. My parents. My sister. Old friends. It’s like they’re waiting for me.”
I looked at the shadows congregating in the corners of the room and wondered if they watched from just outside my vision. Dean had loved telling ghost stories, but it’d made for many a sleepless night as I warily guarded against evil spirits after the lights went out. It seemed strange to me that they could be a source of comfort.
Dad brought me back to the present by saying, “Right now, though, I need to talk to the living. So I’m sorry I called you Dean yesterday.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I couldn’t remember him ever apologizing to me about anything. I sat in stunned silence and waited.
After a pregnant pause, he continued, “So, tell me about you. Still playing in bands?”
When had Dad ever asked about bands and music? Haltingly at first, I told him about how I felt on stage, lost in the music and the cheering of a crowd. I explained how Exploding Oatmeal was right on the cusp of a world tour when the randomness of Covid snatched it away. He listened, nodding and his eyes bright as I painted the picture of the other band members. His slight smile hinted he could see the band and feel our excitement for the tour. The shake of his head showed he shared my distaste for the lead singer and his overbearing ways. He grumbled when I told him about finding out a replacement had stepped into my spot on the stage.
I’d never thought he would been interested at all, but that scrapbook suggested something different. The way he listened to my tales confirmed it.
When I finished, we lapsed into a comfortable silence. I thought he had drifted off to sleep. Then his eyes fluttered open, and he focused on my face. I couldn’t remember him ever looking so directly at me. “So what’s next? What are you doing now?”
“I play whenever and wherever I can.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you having fun?”
The question threw me more than the apology had. I wasn’t sure I could answer it. I hadn’t put much thought into it, but doubts swirled. When was music last fun? I tried to speak but could only shrug in response.
Dad’s hand slid out from under the blanket and gripped my wrist. The fingers were warmer than they had been the day before. “Life’s short, son. I sure know that. And Dean does. You gotta have fun. Promise me that.”
“Did…” I hesitated, not sure I wanted to ask—or should. Dad, though, looked at me intently, so I plunged ahead. “Did you have fun?”
A smile spread over his gaunt face. His hand released its grip. “Being out in those fields under the summer sun, walking rows of crops, fixing a broken fence—nothing made me happier. Except your mother, of course. And both my sons. So, yes, I was doing exactly what I wanted to do with my life.”
“Just like Dean.”
The smile faltered. “I hope. Sometimes, I worried he was just doing it because he thought I expected him to.”
“Didn’t you?”
Silence haunted the room. I worried I had pushed too far. I wanted to take the question back, but I was also curious what the response was. Skeeter replied quietly. “Yes. I always just assumed he would.”
“But not me.”
The smile returned, though more wistful than before. “No, not you. I always knew you were going to leave. You did your chores and everything you were supposed to, but this life wasn’t for you.”
“And that disappointed you?”
“Not for one second.” Skeeter closed his eyes, and his head sank back into the pillow. With a sigh, he continued in a hushed voice. “That’s not true. Time’s too short for lies. Truth is, yes, I was disappointed. For a bit.”
That stung. I leaned back in the chair, not knowing how to respond. He saved me by continuing, “Growing up, I itched to leave this place and go out into the world, just like you always did. A few years in the army cured that curiosity. I came back with my tail between my legs, but your pappy took me in like I’d never been gone. He said he always knew I’d return.”
“And you thought we’d do the same?”
“Dean, yes. I figured he’d go sow his wild oats and then show up on the doorstep someday.” Breath wheezed in and out. The conversation had zapped the little energy he had. He was fading. “But not you. By the time you were ten or twelve, I knew you’d leave forever.”
“I was barely playing guitar then.”
“Not as a musician. I didn’t know that yet.” He turned his head sideways so he could look me in the eye. “Just that you’d go do something else.”
“And that bothered you?”
“At first. But then…” He shrugged.
“What changed?”
A snicker slipped from him. It sent him into a coughing fit. I grabbed the glass off the table and held the straw so he could get a sip of water. When he’d recovered, he said, “Your mother told me to get over it.”
“And so you just did?”
“How did defying your mother ever work for you?”
It was my turn to laugh. “Not well.”
“Nor for me, son. Nor for me.” His eyes slipped shut again. He was fading back to sleep. “As always, though, she was right, so I just accepted it. Scared the bejesus out of me, but I accepted it.”
“Scared?” I couldn’t fathom him being scared of anything other than not getting a good harvest. “Why did it scare you?”
He slid his tongue across his lips. “I was scared I’d never see you again.”
His fear had almost come true. If it had been left just to me, it would have. I would never have returned if my mother hadn’t called and told me to. I leaned forward and clasped my hands over his. My voice breaking, I said, “I’m here now. I’m glad I came.”
Only soft snoring answered.