Reading the Water by Christy Hartman
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I was equally relieved and annoyed that my father wasn’t home when we arrived.
His cabin clung to a remote Vancouver Island riverbank like a weed. I don’t know why he bothered locking the door.
“Pretty flower.” Beside me, Stella balanced a peachy-pink bloom in her palm.
“Shit.” I snatched it from my four-year-old’s hand, tucking the decapitated rose back into the pot. “Don’t touch anything.”
Of course my father planted thorns to greet visitors.
Stella’s whimpers caught me like a hook in the gut. She’d been so good on the flight from Toronto, but now my patience was razor-thin.
Resigned, I swung Stella onto my shoulders and went to search for my father.
I knew these trails well. Each summer of my childhood I’d spent two weeks lugging around the fly rod he’d made for my tenth birthday.
We found him hiking back from the river, his prized 12-foot Tenkara rod resting on his shoulder. His faded flannel shirt hung loose on his gaunt frame like a child playing dress-up.
“Hey, Dad,” I called. Stella ducked behind me, hiding her face in my raincoat. “I said we’d be here by two.”
He caught up, breath rattling off the trees. “Lost track of time. Where’s Lance?”
“Nice to see you too. He had to work.” My marriage troubles were off limits.
“Too bad.” He crouched down. “Hey Stella, you like magic tricks?”
She peered around my leg, eyes wide. His hand touched her ear, pulled back, revealing a chartreuse fishing fly. “You’ve been hiding my lucky lure!”
Stella reached for the pretty bit of feathers tied around a silver barb.
“Don’t.” I swatted her hand. “It’s sharp.”
“My granddaughter’s too bright to poke herself.” He winked. Stella giggled.
“Let’s go to the house. Stella’s exhausted. I don’t want her catching a cold.”
My father offered his hand, and Stella folded her fingers around his thumb. I followed a few paces behind.
***
I nursed my third beer on the sofa. Stella and my father had chatted relentlessly through dinner, and I’d finally gotten her to sleep. “So, how long?”
He reclined in his old chair, a mug of Earl Grey beside him. “You’ve always been a blunt one.”
“Tree meets apple.” I let a small smile slip. “Leaving voicemails that you’re dying and want to see us isn’t exactly subtle.”
“I’m glad you came. And Stella.”
I stared at the father I hadn’t seen in six years, frail and tinged yellow by the liver he’d abused for decades. The drunk father who’d chosen my wedding day to confront Mom on the ways she’d ruined his life.
“Mommy.” Stella appeared at the bedroom door. “There’s monsters at the window.”
“You’re not a baby. There’s no monsters.” I drained the last sip from the bottle and scooped her up. “Back to bed.” I waved goodnight to my father and retreated to the bedroom.
***
“Stella’s a smart little thing.” My father poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of me with two aspirin. “You’re too hard on her.”
I bristled. “You shouldn’t be handing out parenting advice.”
“Might learn from my mistakes.” He flipped bacon slices on the stove. “Sins of the father and all that.”
The smell of grease and coffee twisted the remnants of last night’s beer. I barely made it to the bathroom before emptying my stomach into the toilet.
Stella was stretched across the bed, breathing sweet baby snores. Not ready to rejoin my father in the kitchen, I reached into my purse for the whiskey bottle I’d purchased at the duty-free and took a long pull. I laid my cheek on the cool hardwood floor and waited.
***
Stella’s tongue poked out in concentration as she held the plastic rod I’d used at her age. From shore, I watched my daughter with the man who’d barked line tight, tip up, read the water not the fish at me, until one day I simply refused to go back.
“I got one!” Stella’s excitement echoed across the river.
My father held her hands as she wound the plastic reel. They whooped like she’d caught a twenty-pound trout.
“Can we cook it for dinner?” Stella asked, watching my father remove the hook from the minnow.
“We have to let it go.”
“No.” Stella pouted.
“We set the little ones free so they can grow big and strong. We might catch it again, or maybe it will swim all the way to the ocean.”
He eased Stella’s hand into the water. A wave of sadness flowed through me as they released the fish into the current.
***
We walked back to the cabin, Stella skipping ahead.
“Don’t sell this place.” My father’s voice was thick.
“Not exactly great memories here,” I glanced at his drooping shoulders. “But maybe she and I’ll make new ones. Wonder if I can still cast?”
“You were a natural.” He stopped, breathing heavily. “I wish I’d been a better father.”
“Me too.”
He cleared his throat. “Regret’s a heavy load.”
“You been going to therapy?” I interrupted. “Just say what you need to say.”
He chuckled. “I can’t blame booze for everything, but it didn’t help.”
I linked his arm to help him up the hill.
“I hate seeing my demons in you.” His voice wavered.
“I’m really trying to fight them, Dad.” I rested my cheek on the sharp edge of his shoulder. “For Stella… and me.”
***
Stella found the ‘Gone Fishin’ note on the fridge. We grabbed our rods and went to find him.
He was close to shore, sitting with his back against a tree.
“Grandpa’s sleeping.” Stella pointed.
“He is. Shhh. Go pick him some flowers, sweetie.”
Stella happily tottered away, and I crouched beside my father. His arm was slack, but his skin was warm from the morning sun.
“You could’ve said goodbye,” I whispered.
Stella dropped a fistful of dandelions onto Dad’s lap. “For Grandpa.”
“He’ll love them.” I hugged her to me as we sat on the shore, reading the water.
Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home between the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island Canada. She writes about the chasm between love and loss and picking out the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. Christy has been shortlisted for Bath and Bridport Flash Fiction prizes and is a two-time New York City Midnight winner. She has been published by Sky Island Journal, The Good Life Review, Sunlight Press, and others.