There was something about my father's hands—something that captivated me. Soft, dark hair dusted the area just above the knuckles, and thick veins stood prominent beneath the weathered skin. His fingers were large and strong, yet quick and clever. They were hands equally capable of crushing or caressing. Powerful hands; gentle hands. The hands of an artist—the hands of a carpenter.
I spent most of my childhood watching those hands. Dad had been carving wood and building furniture since he was thirteen, and yet I swore he did it with more skill and acuity than any man twice his age. I was astounded at how he could turn an ordinary, ugly block of wood into something beautiful, something alive. And I was even more fascinated by the process of it: each careful, tedious stroke of his chisel. Each breath he took. The intense, almost severe look of concentration in his eyes. The beads of sweat that gathered at his forehead—little pearls of his passion. The way his large body hunched over his work—the way his strained and tired muscles shook and yet continued to labor, as though he was a slave to his own masterpiece. I used to sit on the table in his workshop and take guesses at what he was brining to life with his hands—A swan? A buck? A little toy house? I never guessed right, and would often bother him to tell me. "Just wait and see," he would say, without even the slightest bit of annoyance. I think he secretly enjoyed my inquisition. I'd detect a tug at the corner of his lips—the hint of a smile breaking through his mask of concentration—and, delighted, I would start sputtering random and ridiculous guesses, just to see that smile. Eventually I'd guess something like "Cyclops" and he'd start laughing. That was always my prize: his laugh. Warm, deep, honest. Just like the rest of him.
After Mom died, I rarely saw him smile. And never the laugh—no, it seemed in the years following the funeral, that sound faded to my memory. By the time I turned thirteen, I wasn't sure if Dad was still capable of laughing. He slowly shrank into himself—closed up—as though some curtain were being pulled between him and the rest of the world. With every passing day, it got harder for me to see behind that curtain, and harder for him to peer back out. His eyes—the bright, blazing coals in the fire of my childhood—became cold, vulnerable, guarded. I rarely saw him; he shut himself up in his workshop day and night. I was no longer allowed to watch him work. Sometimes in the wee hours of the morning, I'd wake up to the sound of his violin coming from his workshop. Sad, mournful music. Most nights I drowned in that music, cried myself back to sleep. And I know he did the same.
While Dad's depression ran rampant, his business seemed to flourish. When Mom was still alive he usually turned out one piece of furniture a week. After her death, because he did nothing else, Dad was selling multiple dining room sets and bookcases every month. By day he built, by night he sculpted. He was consumed by it. Some days I didn't see him at all; I'd get up alone, eat alone, catch the bus alone. And when I got home from school, the house was dark and quiet. I'd make myself a lousy dinner and go to bed, wondering if I would wake to sounds of his violin. Some nights, I'd open my eyes just in time to see him pass by the bathroom in the hallway. I used to leave the light on the bathroom—not only for my own comfort, but so he wouldn't trip in the dark, narrow hallway. I'd see him cross in front of the gold rectangle and disappear into the pitch-black of his bedroom, which was directly across from mine. He usually left the door open behind him, but some nights, he closed it tight. On those nights, I heard him crying to himself softly. I'd wake up the next morning in a fog, wondering how I let my Dad become a ghost.
Some part of me hated him for it. For neglecting me. For hiding. And yet, I could never seem to get angry at him. How could I hurt my kind, gentle father when he needed me the most? And yet, the more I tried to comfort him, the more I seemed to push him away. By the time I turned fourteen, we were strangers to each other.
It wasn't until my eighteenth birthday that Dad seemed to emerge—if only momentarily—from his dark stupor. When I got home from school he was there waiting at the bus stop—something he hadn't done since I was in elementary school—leaning against his dark green pickup truck. He wasn't smiling, but I could tell he'd made an effort to clean himself up. He'd shaved off his beard, which had accumulated during his many restless hours of working. When I stepped closer to him I could detect faint black stubble in its place. I wondered briefly if I'd ever be able to grow facial hair as fast as him.
"Hey, kid." He said, trying for a smile. It was forced—and a little funny looking. An old habit he was trying to relearn. He wore a plain white T-shirt and faded blue jeans—the ends resting tattered and muddy on his boots. His unruly black hair was momentarily tamed by a gray baseball cap, some feathery strands curling up under the rim. As I had for my entire life, I marveled at Dad's sculpted arms and strong chest, his wide shoulders and chiseled face. I felt a momentary pang of envy that he could look so good even when he no doubt felt like shit.
"Hey Dad," I responded, unable to hide my surprise. I glanced at his truck. "What's going on?"
"Nothing. Well, not nothing. It's your birthday."
I blinked. "Oh yeah. It is." The first of my birthdays that Dad remembered since Mom died.
He seemed to struggle for words. "Well...I thought we could do something. If you want. Just us."
Who else is there but us? I thought. I wasn't the most popular kid in the twelfth grade and Dad hadn't exactly acquired any friends after Mom's death. Besides, because we lived out in the boonies, we rarely saw anyone—our closest neighbor lived a half-mile away.
I found my voice. "Uh...okay. Sure." I had a hard time looking into his eyes; they were so different, so dark, and this was the first time in a long time he had gazed at me for more than a moment. His voice even sounded odd; I had grown so used to the occasional "Hey," or "Bye" or "Please leave me alone".
Dad seemed to sense my discomfort. He glanced around, his eyes unsure of what to do next. I noticed his arms were crossed over his chest tightly—he was uncomfortable too, perhaps even more than me.
Somewhere, I found courage. "That's great, Dad," I said, stepping nearer. "Why don't we go out to eat? That's all I want, really. It's been forever. I don't mind where we go." I took off my backpack and stepped into the front passenger seat of his pickup. I loved that truck—dark green, peeling, neglected-looking. It had character. Like Dad.
Dad seemed relieved. He got in beside me and started the truck. I noticed the play of muscles in his arm as he turned the key. "Okay, sport. Let's go into town and you can pick."
"Cool."
Dad drove with the windows down. As the warm May wind streaked through my hair, fanned over my face, I felt as if some heavy armor-like shell was being lifted from my shoulders. Here I was, with Dad in his pickup, just like old times. I stole a glance over at him. He'd taken the baseball cap off so it wouldn't fly out the window. His untidy hair whipped about his face and ears. He had to shake it from his eyes every so often, and the movement corded the ropes of tendon in his neck. With his strong arm extended, his big hand on the wheel, his skin a light brown in the sun, he looked more god-like than man. I looked away quickly when he caught me watching him.
"What?" he yelled over the wind.
"Nothing," I shouted back. "I just miss this." I gestured to the truck, to the open highway.
"Yeah," he said, his eyes returning to the road. "Me too."
I didn't ask him if he missed all the things we used to do together. I didn't ask him why he'd chosen now to come out of hiding. I didn't ask him if he knew how often I'd cried myself to sleep, wanting him to pay attention to me, wanting his approval, his smile. I didn't say anything else. I only shoved my anger aside and breathed. Hoped.
We didn't talk anymore until we got to the restaurant. I chose a BBQ place. Not because I like BBQ, but because I knew it was Dad's favorite food. The hostess sat us in the corner, and I was thankful for the seclusion. I could tell Dad was very uneasy; it'd been a while since he'd gone out in public. I resisted the urge to give him a comforting pat on the arm as we walked to the table.
