Chapter 3 - Eleven Hours Away
The next day was Saturday.
Dad was supposed to be home.
At 5:03 a.m., I heard the front door.
I climbed from bed and looked outside.
His truck was leaving.
No lunchbox.
No work clothes.
Just Dad.
I dressed quickly and rode my bicycle after him.
It was the kind of stupid decision an eight-year-old makes because distance seems smaller when you don't understand maps.
I lost him within five minutes.
But I knew where he might be going.
The cemetery.
My grandfather was buried there.
Dad visited occasionally.
I pedaled until my legs burned.
When I reached the cemetery, the blue truck was parked near the back.
Dad stood beside a grave.
I hid behind a tree.
The stone read:
ROBERT MERCER
1942–1989
BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER
Dad's father.
The grandfather I barely remembered.
Dad stood silently.
Then he said, "I'm trying."
Those two words broke something inside me.
He wasn't talking to himself.
He was talking to his father.
"I know you said it gets easier."
A pause.
"It doesn't."
Dad wiped his face.
"I don't know if I'm doing this right."
I'd never heard him sound uncertain.
At home, Dad always knew.
How to repair a faucet.
How to change oil.
How to make pancakes.
How to stop Emily crying after a nightmare.
But here, alone among the graves, Dad sounded like a child asking his own father for instructions.
"I just want them to have better."
He looked down.
"Better than we did."
I backed away.
My shoe snapped a twig.
Dad turned.
"Michael?"
I froze.
He walked toward me.
"What are you doing here?"
"I followed you."
"On your bicycle?"
I nodded.
"Jesus, Michael."
He looked angry.
Then terrified.
"Do you understand how dangerous that is?"
"I'm sorry."
He grabbed my shoulders.
"You don't follow vehicles on a bicycle. Ever."
"I'm sorry."
His anger disappeared.
He pulled me against his chest.
For several seconds, he held me tightly.
Then he noticed where I'd been standing.
"You heard me?"
I nodded.
Dad looked embarrassed.
It was the first time I'd seen that expression on him.
"Adults have bad days."
"Were you crying?"
"Something got in my eye."
"In both eyes?"
Dad sighed.
"You're your mother's son."
We sat beside Grandpa's grave.
I asked him why he came.
"Sometimes I miss him."
"Did he work early too?"
Dad smiled.
"Earlier."
"What did he do?"
"Coal mine."
That sounded terrifying.
"Was he scared?"
"Probably."
"Did he tell you?"
"No."
"Why?"
Dad stared across the cemetery.
"Men didn't talk much about being scared back then."
"Do they now?"
He laughed softly.
"Not enough."
We sat quietly.
Then I asked the question I'd been carrying.
"Why were you crying in the truck yesterday?"
Dad looked at me.
"You saw that?"
I nodded.
He took a long breath.
"Because I was tired."
"From roofing?"
"From everything."
That was the first honest answer.
He told me the company was cutting hours.
He was worried about money again.
He worried Mom was working too much.
He worried Emily needed braces.
He worried our roof would need replacing.
He worried the truck wouldn't survive another winter.
He worried constantly.
"But you always say everything's okay."
"That's because it usually becomes okay."
"How?"
Dad smiled.
"We make it okay."
On the ride home, my bicycle went into the truck bed.
I sat beside him.
No radio.
Just road noise.
Then Dad said, "Michael?"
"Yeah?"
"You don't have to worry about adult problems."
"But you do."
"That's my job."
"Who worries about you?"
He didn't answer.
That question followed us home.
The years moved.
I turned nine.
Then ten.
Then eleven.
The morning ritual continued.
Sometimes jobs changed.
The roofing company led to a maintenance position.
The maintenance position led to industrial repair.
Eventually Dad earned more than he had at the plant.
But he never stopped leaving early.
By thirteen, I no longer woke every morning.
By sixteen, I slept through everything.
At seventeen, I became embarrassed by Dad.
That's difficult to admit.
He wore work clothes.
My friend's father wore suits.
Dad drove an old truck.
My friend's father had a BMW.
Dad didn't know expensive restaurants.
He didn't understand the music I liked.
He said things like "money doesn't grow on trees," which seemed designed specifically to irritate teenagers.
Then came the argument.
I wanted a car.
Not Dad's truck.
A real car.
A used Mustang.
"I can pay part," I said.
"With what?"
"My savings."
"You have eight hundred dollars."
"It's a down payment."
"On a bad decision."
"You don't understand."
Dad laughed.
"That's usually what people say right before learning I understand perfectly."
I exploded.
"You don't understand anything!"
Mom went silent.
Dad's expression hardened.
"Watch yourself."
"Everybody else has parents who actually let them live!"
"Michael."
"I don't want to spend my whole life like you!"
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Dad looked at me.
"What does that mean?"
I should have stopped.
I didn't.
"Working some miserable job, driving a piece-of-junk truck, always tired, never doing anything."
Mom whispered, "Michael."
But the damage was done.
Dad stared at me for several seconds.
Then nodded once.
"Okay."
He left the room.
No shouting.
No punishment.
That made it worse.
At 4:47 the next morning, the alarm sounded.
For the first time in years, I was already awake.
Bathroom.
Pipes.
Kettle.
Refrigerator.
Spoon.
Boots.
Creak.
Door.
Truck.
I didn't say good morning.
Neither did he.
Three months later, I got the Mustang.
Not because Dad changed his mind.
Because I worked for it.
He found me a summer job at a warehouse.
I hated every minute.
My shift started at six.
The first morning, Dad woke me at 4:45.
"Rise and shine."
"This is inhumane."
"Welcome to capitalism."
We ate breakfast together.
For the first time since childhood, I heard the spoon from the other side of the table.
At 5:20, we left in Dad's truck.
The sky was black.
I was exhausted.
Dad looked completely normal.
"How do you do this every day?"
"Coffee."
"No, seriously."
He shrugged.
"You get used to it."
That summer changed me.
I learned what eleven hours felt like.
I learned what steel-toed boots felt like after standing all day.
I learned how beautiful sitting down could be.
I learned why Dad sometimes came home without wanting to talk.
And I learned something else.
Every Friday, when my paycheck arrived, Dad made me save half.
By August, I had enough.
We bought the Mustang together.
On the drive home, I said, "Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"You know."
He kept driving.
After a moment, he said, "You're seventeen. You're supposed to think your father is an idiot."
"I don't."
"Give it time."
I laughed.
Then he looked at me.
"I'm proud of you."
Those four words meant more than the car.
But life has a cruel habit of teaching gratitude right before reminding you that time is limited.
That winter, Dad began coughing.
At first, nobody worried.
Then the cough didn't stop.
And one morning at 4:47, the alarm rang.
It rang again.
May you like
And again.
For the first time in my life, Dad didn't reach over to silence it.
