She turned on the radio, and classical music flooded the car as she drove the short ride home. When she arrived back at her father's house, she walked in the front door and flicked on the light She had so many memories of this house, many of them pleasant. Her parents had rarely fought, and although she was aware of her mother's deep unhappiness with her father, Kim had had a happy childhood. There was summer camp, and birthday parties, ice-skating, skiing, and tennis. Unfortunately, her father had been so busy with work that she had few memories of him.
Kim put her purse down and walked into the kitchen.
The same heavy dark oak cabinets. The same fake brick vinyl floor. She opened up the refrigerator, looking for a bottle of wine. Nothing. Her father obviously still did not drink.
She shook her head. Her poor father--didn't drink, exercised regularly, ate healthy foods, and he's in the hospital with a heart condition. She wondered if he had even known that he was critically ill before his most recent attack. She guessed not. Her father would have ignored the signs that he was once again having heart troubles, just as he ignored everything else that did not fit into his tightly structured world.
She poured herself a glass of water, made a mental note to pick up a bottle of wine tomorrow, and wandered toward her father's office, otherwise known as the den.
She flicked on the light and peeked inside. Her father's heavy mahogany desk sat in the corner. Kim noticed some pictures on top and walked over. She picked them up and turned them around. They were pictures of her, taken the summer before she left.
Kim set the pictures back down on his desk and sighed. If he had loved her, why hadnt he bothered to try to maintain a relationship with her? How could he cut her off, disown her as he had? Maybe not disown her totally, she reminded herself, remembering the child support payments that her mother had received regularly. But certainly he had cut off contact with her. She had written him letters that he had never bothered responding to.
Kim sat behind his desk and opened up the top drawer. Paper clips, pens, everything neatly arranged. Everything in its place. She pulled open the large drawer to the right. Two pictures that she had painted with watercolors in grade school were neatly placed at the top of the drawer. Kim smiled as she picked them up. One was a picture of the sun and the earth, the other a picture of what she knew was supposed to be a little girl standing next to her father. To Daddy, Happy father's day, was written in neat cursive handwriting on the bottom. She set the pictures down and glanced back inside the drawer. She saw a group of letters neatly robber-banded together. She knew they were hers immediately. It looked as though her father had saved every single letter she had ever sent him. She picked up the bundle and took the rubber band off. Taking the top letter out of its envelope, she saw that it was dated Christmas of 1982. She scanned through the letter, which was basically filled with details of her plans for Christmas. It was boring, really, just details of where she and her friends had shopped and what the weather was like. What was extraordinary about the letter was where the blue ink had run. The letter had tear marks on it, as though her father had cried when reading it.
Kim quickly folded the letter up and put it back on top of the bundle. Slipping the rubber band back on top she put the bundle back in the drawer. After she replaced the pictures she had drawn, she picked up her water and turned off the light.
Back in her room, Kim tried to busy herself with unpacking but was unable to stop thinking about her father. She needed to understand the feelings that were flooding through her. The guilt, the anger, the confusion. If her father had loved her, why hadn't he made more of an effort to stay in touch with her?
Kim took out her portable easel and the painting she had been trying to finish.
She needed to express her feelings the only way she knew how. The same way she had when she was six years old. She wanted to paint a picture for her dad.
Chapter Five
Kim waited inside the lobby. She tried to appear as casual as she could, even though her heart was racing. Why was she so nervous? It's not as if this was... a date or something. It was merely a chance to get out of the hospital and do something different.
The elevator doors opened, and Tony walked out with his skates swung over his shoulders. He was wearing jeans and big heavy construction boots. He had his hands tucked into his Patagonia jacket. "Hi, Kim," he said with a smile.
"Hi... Dr. Hoffman," she replied. Tony grinned at her. "Cmon," he said, nodding toward the exit. As soon as they stepped outside, he said, "Can you call me Tony now? I mean, we're not in the hospital anymore."
"I don't know," she said with a laugh. "I can try."
"Are you bundled up warm?" he asked.
"Warm enough."
"Good," he said. "Because I had to bring the motorcycle today."
His motorcycle? It couldn't be any warmer than thirty degrees. "Don't you have a car?" she asked suspiciously.
"I have a car, but it's got a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it, so it's continually in the shop. I need to go pick it up, but I haven't had a chance to get over there. Up until recently, though, it's been a great car. I can't quite bring myself to trade it in. Anyway," he said, nodding to the left, "my bike is right over there."
"We can take my car. Or rather, my dad's car," Kim offered hopefully.
"I like the fresh air. Do you mind? The park isn't far. It's right up the street."
"No," she said, resigned to making the best of the situation. "It's fine." He stopped at his motorcycle and slipped his skates into one of the containers he had fastened on the back. He handed her a helmet. "You keep an extra one?" she asked. Smooth operator.