A Step Of Faith Part 7

Our flight to LAX was broken up by a layover in Cincinnati. The moment my father and I exited the jetway, I took out my phone and dialed Falene's number. It rang once, followed by a phone service message.

We're sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service.

After we'd sat down, my father said, "Falene?"

"She's disconnected her phone. I have no idea where to find her." I looked at my father. "She didn't leave you any contact information?"

"No. Don't you know where she lives?"

"Not anymore. She moved to New York City."

"How hard could it be to find her there?"

I looked at him. "You're kidding, right?"

He nodded. "Yeah." After a moment he said, "I'm surprised that you didn't see it."

I glanced up at him. "See what?"

"That she loves you."

"I wasn't looking," I said.

My father looked at me thoughtfully. "Don't be too hard on yourself. I don't know if you remember, but for Grandpa's seventieth birthday he went back to Utah Beach to see where he had fought on D-Day. Do you know what struck him as most peculiar about the experience? He said, 'I never noticed how beautiful the beach was. I guess a million bullets will change your perspective.' "

"No one's firing bullets at me," I said.

"Don't kid yourself, you've had your own war. With casualties."

I shook my head. "I just can't even think about replacing McKale."

"No, no one can replace McKale. And trying to do so would only bring misery. There's only one reason for remarrying." He held up his index finger. "Just one."

"Love?" I said.

"Joy. You marry because it enhances joy."

I thought over his words. "I just feel so selfish. I've been so consumed with my pain that I ..."

My father put his hand on my knee. "Cut yourself some slack, son. You're ent.i.tled."

"To what? Self-pity?"

"No," he said firmly. "To your grief. Grief isn't a luxury, it's an appropriate response to loss. You don't just will it away. If you allow it to run its course, it will fade with time, but if you ignore it or pretend it doesn't exist, it only gets worse."

I breathed out slowly. "I guess so."

"May I give you some advice?"

"Sure."

"Let it settle. You don't know if Falene will change her mind and come back. And we still don't know how bad this tumor is. Let's focus on one problem at a time."

"All right," I said. "That's good advice."

My father looked content. Few things pleased him more than people liking his advice.I started feeling dizzy again, so I took a Dramamine and slept through the entire next leg of our flight, which touched down in LAX around six o'clock. We picked up our luggage, then I waited with it at the curb while my father brought his car around. We stopped on the way home at a Jack in the Box. I wasn't hungry, so my father ordered his meal to go. Then we continued on to the house of my youth.

Even without her, McKale's home is still a memorial to my first and only love.

Alan Christoffersen's diary

I hadn't been back to Pasadena for more than four years. I was surprised by the depth of emotion I felt at seeing McKale's childhood home next door. The house looked serene and unchanged, as if no one had informed it that its former occupant had pa.s.sed away.

My father carried my pack to the guest room. "I think you should stay here," he said. "It's bigger than your old room. And it's got the connected bathroom. This way I'll be close if you need anything."

"Thank you," I said.

"Can I get you anything now?"

"Dad, I'm home. I can take care of myself."

"Right. Sorry." He carried his hamburger into the front room. "I'm going to watch some TV. They're re-airing the '74 Ali and Foreman t.i.tle fight. The Rumble in the Jungle. You're welcome to join me."

Out of habit, I stopped in the kitchen and lifted the lid of the cookie jar, but there was nothing inside. Probably hadn't been for a decade. "The Rumble in the Jungle?"

"You haven't seen it?"

"Nineteen seventy-four? I wasn't born yet."

"Great. You can bet on Foreman. I'll give you a million-to-one odds."

"That's very generous," I said. "Let me put some laundry in first."

"Let me-"

I raised my hand. "I got it, Dad."

"I was just going to say I need to empty the dryer."

"I'll take care of it. Eat your burger and watch your fight."I retrieved my pack, dumped the contents on the laundry room floor, then put my whites in the washing machine and went to the front room. A crescent of a hamburger was lying on its wrapper on the end table next to my father's La-Z-Boy chair and he was eating a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream. In spite of all the internal turmoil I felt, or perhaps because of it, the scene made me smile. My father was a man of habit. He had the same routine when I was a boy-TV and a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

I got myself a bowl of ice cream, then sat down on the sofa. The fight was in its third round. Truthfully, watching two guys pound each other when your own head is aching isn't terribly amusing. During the sixth round the washing machine's timer buzzed and I got up.

"I'm going to finish my laundry," I said. "Then go to bed."

My father didn't look up. "We need to leave tomorrow a little before nine. We're going to hit traffic."

"I'll be ready."