A Little Help from Dad

Dad’s driveway is meticulously clean again. His shovel had not missed a single flake of the Christmas morning snow. I walk through the door with presents and clothes in the backpack over my right shoulder, much the same way I used to come in the door back in high school. I get a hug from Mom and a handshake from Dad.

“Lunch will be ready in a few minutes, David,” Mom says.

“Yep, it warmed up so nice after the snow that I decided to grill some pork chops instead of making a Christmas ham,” Dad says.

I follow Dad out to the grill. “Hey, Dad, do you have some oil for my snowblower? It needs an oil change.”

Dad nods to the lawn shed at the back of the property. “I have a couple bottles on the shelf at the back. Help yourself.”

I have not been in the lawn shed since the last time I mowed the lawn before moving out for college six years ago. It still smells the same, as if I just finished mowing yesterday. The rakes are where the snow shovels usually are, but everything else is about the exact same as six years ago. I head to the shelf in the back, working around the riding lawn mower. I reach for the plastic jugs of oil and brush something on the shelf. I look down and do a double take. It’s a golf ball with the initials TDS on them. I take it over to the other corner of the lawn shed and open my golf bag. The big pocket always had my towel and shoes, but today there is a sweatshirt on top of it all. I lift it to my face and inhale. It still smells like her.

TDS: Tiffany Dawn Smith was a grade below me in school. As I was getting close to heading off to college, she decided it would be better if I went there single. The problem was she chose to end our relationship on hole six, meaning we still had three more holes to ride in the golf cart together. I don’t remember how I golfed or what we said those three holes, if anything, but that moment still has really shaped my last six years.

I ride out of the lawn shed with the sweatshirt and no oil. My bike could have used some air in the tires, but it will get me the three blocks to her house. I am so used to Dad’s perfectly clean driveway and sidewalks that it doesn’t occur to me that some people may not scoop their sidewalks on Christmas. Tiffany’s dad is one person that did not scoop. I hit the brakes to stop and skid right into her car parked in the driveway. It’s the same Dodge Neon she always had, except it now has the shape of my shoulder in its passenger door.

I roll over and brush the snow off me as I stand up. Tiffany’s family is moving down the front deck stairs, having heard the loud thunk of me hitting her car. “David are you okay?” Tiffany asks.

I nod, and her parents quickly go back in the house, leaving us to try to pretend like it feels like it’s been six years. It feels like yesterday ever since I smelled that sweatshirt.

“I am glad you are okay. Other than not riding bikes, what have you been up to since we last saw each other?” Tiffany asks.

I laugh and pretend like I haven’t looked at her social media weekly since then. It’s actually the only reason I am here. Her relationship status update about a month ago really piqued my interest. “I just finished up my MBA and got a new job at my office.”

“You mean you got a promotion?” She asks.

“Yes, but it sounds lame if I say it that way to you. What are you doing now? Can we catch up over my dad’s pork chops?”

“Sure, let me run in and tell my parents.”

“Hey, take this with you. I found it in my golf bag.” I hand her the sweatshirt, now covered in snow from the crash.

“Oh, thanks. I’ll be right back.”

We walk to my parents. The bike lays forgotten in her driveway. We pick up the conversation like two old friends.

Back in the kitchen, Mom and Dad are watching us walk towards them from the window. “He had called me about a week ago and we talked about changing the oil in his snowblower. The next day I saw Tiffany’s dad and he said she was single again, so I took a golf ball from his bag, one with her initials on it, and put it by the oil.”

Mom looks up at him. “That is pretty good of you to orchestrate something like this.”

“It might not work, but it was sure worth a try. I wouldn’t say no to a grandkid or three.”