Gina Gidaro

“I wrote that letter just before I left her. I poured everything into it and never sent it.” 

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Dad gives me one of his looks that says, I've seen things. I raise my eyebrows in disbelief, a safe play when it comes to listening to one of his stories. 

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“Then what happened?” I ask. 

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“Nothing,” he continues. “She never tried to deny the abortion, or the cheating. And never tried to stop me from leaving.” 

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Dad tells me this happened in his early thirties. The love of his life at the time was cheating on him with his best friend, got pregnant and had an abortion. It’s sad, it’s serious, and it’s just another story on how he wants to protect me from heartbreak. Sometimes, his lectures, his “overwhelming life experience” becomes suffocating. Sometimes I just want to be someone else, live somewhere else, do something else. The older I get, the angrier I become. It can’t be like this forever. 

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The older couple sitting a few stools away from us lift their aging bodies and head for the door. They hold hands the whole way out of the doughnut shop. It’s a small place, very local, very low-key. Everyone in Londonderry swears by their homemade doughnuts and their year around ice cream. The bar is a good place to sit, eat, and watch cars go by. 

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“You can think you know a person,” he states. There is a sympathetic look on his face that has become patronizing over the years. “But as soon as that guard is down, so are you.” 

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After a while my butt goes numb, my toast gets cold, and all the people look the same. Forever can’t be here in this small, unkempt town. Forever can’t be patronizing looks and advice I already know. It has been like this for so long and I’ve waited for it to change, but it’s my fault that it hasn’t. 

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“Dad, do you think we get stuck on purpose?” I ask. He hesitates at my topic change. “I mean, because we’re scared. Do you think we let ourselves get stuck, so we don’t fail?” 

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“If you don’t allow yourself into a position of possible failure, then you’ve already failed, don’t you think?” 

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My head bobs up and down lazily. He didn’t really answer my question. I count the fifteenth Ford F150 passing by the shop and hate that every car looks identical these days. I’m stuck on purpose, I think. Stuck in this shop that’s stuck in this town that’s stuck in this state that’s stuck in this country. Stuck in this skin that limits me to this one body, to this one face, that is limited to this one impression I will leave on this one world.

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“Need a touch up?” the waitress asks. My dad lets her fill his styrofoam cup to the brim with steaming coffee. 

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“Thank you. How is business these days?” He asks, striking a conversation with the waitress. 

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“It’s not bad,” she replies. “The new owners have changed quite a few things though.” 

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Her name tag says Lori. It’s crooked and kind of dirty, like she doesn’t care enough to clean it. She smiles a lot when she works, but that doesn’t mean she likes her job. 

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Lori steps away to help another customer and dad slaps his hand down on the counter.  “You ready to head out?” 

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“Sure,” I reply. 

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He leaves a five-dollar tip, and we make our way to our own F150. We drive down the road, past crumpling houses that the county neglects to tear down and abandoned lots that no one dares to invest in. Dad talks about the new Family Dollar that was built recently, how Londonderry is getting with the times. I wonder how I’ll be in five years, and if I will also finally be getting with the times. 

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“Huh,” dad says, turning onto the county road. “Don’t see a lot of that around here.” 

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On the side of the road is a man who looks to have not showered in weeks. His clothes are big and dirty and torn, his hair long and ratty. He holds a cardboard slab with words written on it. 

HELP. LOST. 

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“Should we…” I trail off. Everyone knows you don’t stop for hitchhikers, regardless of the situation. My dad, a gun-wielding, diesel truck driving veteran stops for no one. Not anymore. 

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“It’s okay to be a little stuck sometimes,” dad says, watching the man in his rearview. “The dangerous part is getting comfortable there. After that breakup, I got very comfortable being alone. Had I stayed there, like I planned to, I never would’ve met your mom.” 

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“How did you get unstuck, then?” 

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He looks at me with a one-shoulder shrug. He doesn’t know, which is the most comforting response he’s ever given me.