The Substance of Ordinary Days

On the last day of Leo Lightfoot’s intensive month-long outpatient program, her father met her on the bench by the cluster of western redbud trees as he had for the past four weeks. He could usually gauge how the day had gone by her gait and posture. This late afternoon toward the end of September, she was fairly skipping. In her right hand was a sheath of paper.

“My certificate of completion.” She grinned in a self-deprecating way. “You can hang that right up there with my kindergarten graduation diploma. Something you can really be proud of, your druggie fifteen-year-old finished a mandatory rehab course.”

Joseph looped an easy arm around her shoulder and gave her a quick hug before releasing her. He knew public displays of parental devotion did not go far among high schoolers. “You make light of this, but this is huge, Leo. I’m proud of you.”

She scanned his face and looked into his eyes as if reading his truth. For a moment, she grabbed his hand, as she had done so many times when she was young, and then let go.

Joseph let out a sigh of relief as they walked the downtown sidewalk on their way home. The past thirty days had not been easy. There were plenty of tears, and numerous times he had to walk Leo to the door of the Center to ensure attendance. But today, she seemed lighter. Initially, the admitting doctor wanted Leo discharged from the hospital directly into an inpatient rehabilitation program. Leo had burst into tears and clung to her father, saying the situation would be worse if she were elsewhere. She had never spent a night away from him in her entire life, and she wasn’t ready. She begged, promising that if she could do the outpatient program, she would try her hardest and not let him down. Convincing the doctor that this would work was difficult, and Joseph worried he was making a mistake. But he petitioned for his daughter, stating that her home was now safe. All the pain pills were gone. The doctor reluctantly agreed. Today, Joseph was sure he had made the right decision.

“Dad?” Her voice pulled him back to the present. “This means a celebration is in order, right? Afternoon Delights’ Ice Cream Parlor?” Her eyes were eager, alight.

“Me, turn down an invitation for ice cream? Never.” Joseph sent gratitude into the universe as he opened the door to the parlor of goodness.

“Thanks, Dad.” Leo took the cinnamon toast crunch ice cream roll from her father and beamed. Significant moments in the Lightfoot household were celebrated with delicious treats. Later, years into therapy, Leo would realize how unique her experience of growing up in a permissive, free-flowing family had been. If her mother had lived, would everything have been different? As it was, never was there an issue of spoiling your appetite with dessert before dinner. There had been countless times when snacks were meals and potato chips counted as vegetables. By age eight, she had memorized every aisle in the hardware store and often went years between visits to the dreaded dentist. Leo would eventually see that while searching for the missing pieces, memories of her mother, the parts that were there, the substance of ordinary days, were like diaphanous fibrin sheaths, steadily filling in wounds.

Autumnal dusk, still holding summer close to its breast, softly settled around father and daughter as they amiably walked home, enjoying their delicacies.

Leo needed to say something to her father while they were alone. Part of her recovery depended on her admission, and still, she stalled. “We have to finish our treats before we get home.” Leo took a bite of her celebratory ice cream, slowed her pace, and glanced at her dad. “Uncle Paul would never forgive us for not getting him any.”

Her father wiped the remains of his cherry jubilee from his mouth and grinned. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” He threw his empty sundae cup into a nearby receptacle.

“The story of our family.” Contained in her words was an implicit axiom. Leo was not smiling as she looked at her father.

She took a deep breath. “Dad?” As she started to speak, she was stopped short by the expression on her father’s face. He was intently focused, looking straight ahead. She followed his gaze—the high school cross country team, out for a training run, sliced through the expanding twilight. A wave of motion, a sea of bare arms and legs, swelled in asynchronous unity. They moved effortlessly, swiftly, running with the lightness of youth and promise. When the lead runner saw his former coach standing on the corner, the senior raised his right hand in a sharp salute, a gesture of honor and respect. He led; the group followed. Each successive runner followed suit, a string of appreciation, a tribute of unassailable recognition. Leo’s father knew each one of the young men. He understood their stories and their motivations. He had been coaching for as long as she could remember, and seeing them in training, brought back layered memory. After the last runner rounded the corner, in their wake, settled a palpable sense of recognition for coach Lightfoot’s service to the program, their school, and their lives.

“Dad, I’m so sorry. I cannot tell you how horrible I feel you lost your coaching job because of me.” She struggled to keep going, her voice wavered. “You’re their coach. This isn’t right. I made a mistake, not you.” Her shoulders bent in a sob.

“Is that what you think, Leotie? I lost my job because of you?” He moved closer, folded his daughter into his arms, hugged her, and then held her at arm’s length so he could look directly into her eyes. “Listen, my little one. Leaving was my choice, my decision. No one made me stop coaching.” He paused before continuing. “I still have my job, don’t I? I’m still teaching. They didn’t fire me.” He kissed the top of her head.

It was his decision. Leo struggled to put this in perspective, for she had always been the coach’s daughter. The seasons of cross country and track had been part of their father-daughter narrative for her entire life. “Can you go back to coaching, will you, please?” The weight of his sacrifice was almost too much for her to bear.

“That’s something I’ll evaluate when you graduate. My resignation is indefinite, and I have no desire to return. You’re my priority.”

Apologizing, then making amends, was what she learned, what she must do. Leo held this mantra close to her. “I am going to show you how sorry I am. I will not let you down again, Dad.”

****

The black walnuts crunched underfoot as they walked up the pathway that led to their home. Leo looked over her shoulder as she opened the weathered door and spoke to him, “Now I have to apologize and make amends to Mom.”

She gave him a fragile smile. He noted tears glinting on her dark lashes and his stomach tightly twisted. He loved his daughter, her resilient strength, and her innocent determination. But he also knew all too well how challenges that lie behind rocks can spring, like a rattlesnake unbidden, and poison life’s best intentions.

She pulled a letter out of her book bag and gave an exaggerated shrug. “Well, I can’t make amends. Mom’s dead, but I can say I’m sorry.”

Joseph touched her arm. “Leo, there’s some—”

“It’s okay, Dad.”

He felt unnerved. “What do you have to apologize for?”

“That’s between my mom and me.” She kissed him, a light graze across the stubble of his cheek. She exited the back door. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ve got this, I really do.”

On the crest of their backyard slope overlooking the Tahlequah River, there were two stones now, one for Sandy and one for Emily.

From the kitchen window, Joseph watched his adolescent daughter sitting cross-legged on the rose quartz memorial stone, her head bent down, reading a message, the content of which he would never know. Over the years, he saw her retreat to this special place when she was overwhelmed by life or just needed a quiet space. Joseph wanted her to have a spot to be able to connect and feel close to her mother, and Leo found solace there in moments of joy, frustration, and sorrow. The top of the stone was carved into a bench, an unyielding altar, where Leo had placed countless stuffed animals, wildflower sprigs, art projects, report cards, and even peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Offerings made by an aching daughter. Beneath the bench, on the curved part of the stone that rounded like a just noticeable pregnancy, was a block etching: Emily 7/7/72.

****

Leo was seated at the kitchen table with her father, who was grading biology worksheets. Uncle Paul stood at the stove, flipping grilled sandwiches. The smell of butter and crisping cheese permeated the small kitchen. Leo could see her uncle’s blue, soft-shelled suitcase packed and waiting by the front door from her position at the sturdy, circular, well-worn oak table. His camera case rested by its side.

“Leaving on a business trip tomorrow, Uncle Paul?” For as long as Leo could remember, her uncle left on these business trips, as they called them, several times a month. Often, he would just be gone overnight. Sometimes his work kept him away for a week or more.

Uncle Paul held a spatula in his right hand. He pushed back a shock of peppered gray hair with his wrist, looked at Leo, and smiled. “Yes, I think I’ll be gone for three days this time.”

“Before you go…” Leo reached into her rehabilitation folder and pulled out a list of names. “You guys have to help me choose my outpatient therapist.” The next phase of Leo’s recovery centered around continued counseling. “I must make my first appointment within a week. They just gave me a list of names that accept our insurance. How am I supposed to choose?”

Uncle Paul put a platter of stacked sandwiches on the table and grabbed the list. “Here, let me help.'' He scanned the paper. “They don’t give you much to go on. They list their names and where they went to school, but not much else. Okay, listen and choose.” In a dramatic voice, he switched to what he thought was a passable English accent and started to read, “Dr. M. Wertheimer, Dr. W. Glasser, Dr. J. Baker, Dr. E. Lopez.” He gave the information back to Leo and captured a crispy square.

After a few minutes of companionable silence punctuated by the sounds of a well-appreciated meal, Leo put down her sandwich. She looked at her father and uncle, stating, “Dr. Baker is the one.” She responded to their quizzical expressions with a quick laugh. “Because we could surely use a Baker in this family.”

Uncle Paul guffawed, and Joseph chuckled as he raised his coffee mug. “That’s as good a reason as any. Let’s toast to Dr. J. Baker, whomever they may be, wherever they may be!”

Leo raised her water and Uncle Paul his can of diet soda; and met in the middle of the table, clanking. “To Dr. Baker!”

After Leo replaced her plastic water bottle on the table, her dad’s arm, en route for another sandwich, clipped the edge, sending the container skittering across the floor, rolling until stopped by the refrigerator. She went to retrieve her beverage and saw the edge of a card, knocked off weeks ago, sticking out, dust covered. She retrieved the invitation and blew off the grit.

“Dad, tonight’s Ray’s farewell cookout. The send-off started at four.”

Joseph looked at his watch and the stack of papers waiting to be graded. “Do you still want to go? It’s getting late.”

“It’s only seven, and there’s no end time listed. Sure, we might have missed the barbecue part, but we have to go, Dad. It’s Ray.”

Leo saw her dad trying to gauge how much this meant to her. He nodded as if resigned. “Yes, it’s for Ray. We should go and wish him well.”

Leo ran to change her shirt and met her dad in the driveway. After she jumped into the passenger seat, she buckled her seat belt, and as they pulled out, she smiled. “I bet he doesn’t even recognize me. The last time he saw me was his senior year, when I was twelve. I’ve changed a lot since then.”

She doesn’t remember. Joseph started to say something, then stopped. The day had been long and emotionally charged. Leo was in a good place, and there wasn’t a concrete reason to alter her narrative. Withholding information from his daughter was something with which he’d never been comfortable. But always, any omission was done with the sole intent of protecting Leo, to shield her from hurtful truths. He reached over and turned on the radio. Music spiraled around them and then fled out the open windows.