The next hour south on Highway 5 flew by in a daze. Fueled up and full of hope. 

Music: Georgia Satellites, “Keep Your Hands to Yourself.” 

The Paul Newman I remembered wasn’t exactly the Paul Newman I remembered. It’s a nice feeling to be happy when you’re wrong. 

            Oh, to be in a room with Paul and Dad swapping stories from the road.

I considered calling Mom and laughed. I dialed Meredith. She told me to call her whenever I felt a nudge. Not so much James on my shoulder pinching me, but that feeling that something was happening, a question was popping up, help was needed. That’s who Meredith was. Part-time therapist, pseudo-mom. A listener, an activator. Caretaker for my father. 

            Most of my life had been spent assuming I was bothering people. Meredith, unlike Laramie, never sounded put-off. 

            It rang four times. “Hi, Fender.” Her voice was scratchy and weak. She’d been crying. A piano played in the background.

            “Hey, Meredith. How are you?”

            “Like a 2-liter of pop that falls out of your grocery bag. When you twist the cap, it sprays everywhere. That’s most days. Although today wasn’t half bad. Your Dad and I walked to the lighthouse after breakfast. He remembered our conversation from last night, even the smell of the lilies I put in a vase on the kitchen table.”

I’m no saint. Ten years ago, when his memory began to deteriorate, I didn’t know how to process it. We’d already been on the outs over his drinking and my never visiting. I chose the easy way. The cowardly way. I disengaged entirely. 

Paul hated me for it. Deacon understood, but his Christmas cards also offered the same “Better now than never” message postscript. I hadn’t heard from Larry in a decade, not that he had any responsibility to me or my shitty handling of my father’s fading mind. Meredith ended every phone call with, “I don’t agree with you. When things change, let me know.”

Self-preservation and selfishness are first cousins and bad company. 

            “I get it, by the way. Why this trip.” 

            The highway was a numb track of concrete surrounded by trees and buildings and people suffering far worse fates than my father. But he was my dad and my story and all we have are the passing days with each other. 

            “Isn’t Paul’s daughter adorable?” 

            “She’s a smart one. We played Nintendo.” 

            “And you got some of the story. I’m glad. There’s more to come. I’m happy for you, Fender.”

            “Some guy punched me in the eye over a cup of coffee. Was that in the script?”

            Her laugh sounded like broken glass. “No, but I like the addition. No offense.”

            “Remember the time Dad said I had a very punchable face. And I said, yeah, I know, I look just like you.” 

            “I do. Hopefully you can ask him that soon.” 

            I gripped the steering wheel. “I don’t know if I can. Something tells me I don’t have a choice.” 

            “Everyone has a choice. But I wish you all the luck in the world if you visit San Francisco and then Larry, but don’t feel compelled to finish the journey. Call me if that happens so I can order a cup of coffee and punch you in the other eye. How’s your friend James?”

            I didn’t know how to say it, so I spit out what had been occupying my shower thoughts. “I think he’s Dad.” 

            She paused. I swerved around a chunk of shredded tire. “Why do you say that?”

            “He sounds like Dad. He reasons like Dad, and he’s been with me pretty much from the moment I stopped talking to Dad. Sometimes he sings, which is me doing a version of Dad’s voice, so it’s not quite Dad’s voice because I can’t sing. But it’s close enough. And he called me Buck Bonanza, which, you know. And I’ve spent ten years with an old version of Dad in my head when I could’ve been hanging out with the current version of Dad and getting to know him. I’m a piece of shit.”

            The sigh wasn’t loud, but it was there. “He’s still the old Brett, just with different dimensions now. He’s been growing his hair out, so that much will feel the same. And you are not a piece of shit.” 

            I noticed the speedometer at 92, slowed down to 79 and hit cruise control. I wiped my eyes. “I don’t want to lose him.”

            “None of us do. Your past is part of you, Fender. Some people never confront trauma. I’m proud of you.” 

            “Is it trauma if it’s self-induced?”

            “You’re writing this all down, right?”

            Another, bigger chunk of tire somersaulted down the road. I was in the far-left lane. A semi with a full trailer rode in the middle lane. The shoulder was a concrete median six feet from my car. It didn’t make any sense, but I closed my eyes and hoped for the best. I drove over the tire. It hit something under the car – ka-thunk – and exited, stopping before the truck behind me could run it over.

            “I am. I don’t know if it’s any good, but it’s honest. And it’s preserving things I’d forgotten, or never known. Thanks, Meredith. I’m going to go for now. There are tires popping out here like an F1 race. I’ll keep you updated. Tell him.” 

            “Tell him what?”

            “Nothing. I’ll tell him myself. Seriously, what am I going to do when you’re gone?” I felt like a dick. “Sorry. You know what I mean.” 

            “You’re going to use your process and live your life, just like we’ve discussed. You’re a good kid, Fender. Don’t ever stop growing. You’re trying, and that’s more than most people can say.” 

            “Thanks. I hope you feel better.” 

            I hung up and turned on a podcast about movies and listened to people talk about the rewatchability of Footloose. The Loggins Letter resurfaced. I should’ve kept it to show Dad. If I followed through on my quest to Mordor, I’d ask Deacon to bring it. The distance to travel remained, but the sentiment had turned the shade of rosy reflection.

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