It was a weak liver, sweetheart.

“The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.”

“You have to understand,” your dad says while he’s chopping up garlic in the kitchen. “This was before your mom and I were married. That place is older than me by quite a bit, too.”

He tosses the thinly sliced garlic onto the hot pan full of olive oil. It sizzles and the scent of your childhood, as you always remembered it, hits you. It makes you feel homesick even though you are home.

He tells these stories all the time. Back when he used to travel a lot, especially to camp and hike. His side of the family could have been featured in an outdoors magazine. In fact, you remember seeing Outside magazines lying around on coffee tables as a child.

“This was the night,” he continues, “when I was visiting my uncle up in the mountains. I’m sure you remember—we used to take you up there when you were little.”

You’re on your phone scrolling through some webpage you had been interested in a few days ago. Now you’re not sure why you were compelled to read it.

“Anyway, this cabin had always been abandoned. It’s been there forever, but no one’s seemed to have lived there at all.”

He drains the pasta water and looks down at the pan. “Are you opposed to a little spice?” He holds up a bottle of crushed red pepper.

“You should already know I like spice.” He nods like he was expecting you to say that, and adds a decent amount to the oil.

“The candle wasn’t a trick of the light. I was taken aback at first, but then I figured there could be a squatter, probably seeking shelter. Obviously, I was a bit on edge seeing that, especially not knowing who this person could be.”

You have heard this story before, too. You stare at the garlic softening in the shallow olive oil. Your dad grabs the pasta he drained earlier, and he tosses it into the pan. The sizzling makes your mouth water. He saved a bit of pasta water earlier—he throws that in the pan, too.

“I passed by the cabin the next day. But there was nothing at the window this time. I checked out the area around the cabin, and it did seem like there was someone who had stayed there. I saw discarded and crushed cans of beer lying around in the back. I probably should’ve let my uncle know, but I didn’t want to worry him. He had a weak liver at the time.”

You look up from the pan and at your dad in mild confusion. “Wasn’t it a weak heart?”

He pauses in the middle of sprinkling some freshly grated parmesan over the pasta. It was briefly but you noticed.

“It was a weak liver, my dear.” He smiles at you and claps his hands. “Are you ready to eat?”

You nod, smiling back. As you open the cutlery drawer, you stare at the silverware. They remind you of your dad’s teeth.

--

“I’m pretty sure it was a weak heart, dad.” It is morning, and you got out of bed.

Your dad looks over at you incredulously. He is mixing pancake batter, like he always did. Mom was never the cook in your house. “What are you talking about?” He resumes mixing the pancake mix with a whisk, whoosh whoosh whoosh.

“I mean, the story from yesterday,” you say, leaning by the threshold of the kitchen. He looks thoughtful for a moment.

“I’m pretty sure it was the liver, sweetheart.” Your dad is gentle with his words. “He was supposed to quit drinking, but he never did.”

You pull up a seat at the dining table, the same one as the day before. “Okay then, can you tell me the rest of the story?”

“I don’t know—are you going to poke more holes in the story when I do?”

You pause at that, looking at him. He’s smiling jokingly at you, the light by the window really shining through around him. You laugh it off. “No hole-poking this time.”

He turns to the frying pan and starts pouring the batter carefully. Like with all your dad’s cooking, the nostalgia overwhelms you with every whiff.

Your dad’s eyes seem glued to the pancakes, but he continues. “Where did I leave off in that story?” His voice is a little distant, like he’s fishing for a memory.

“The beer cans behind the cabin.”

He nods and mixes the pancake mixture a few more times. Whoosh whoosh whoosh. “The cans suggested to me that there indeed was someone who was squatting there. But I tried not to think much of it—if a person needs a place to stay for a while, who am I to judge?”

He flips the pancake after a short while. The feeling of closeness you had with him yesterday cannot be replicated. He is more distant now, hardly looking at you while he cooks. Did you really offend him so deeply?

“I was on my way out to hang out by the nearby creek not too far where I was. As I turned my back to the abandoned cabin, I tried not to feel like someone was staring at me as I walked away. But the human mind—it does make you feel that way.

“Every time I passed by the cabin, the candle I saw previously was not lit. And, really, I tried not to think about it too much. Until, of course, I started thinking about it too much.”

He smiles warmly again, this time more genuine. “Do you want blueberries on yours?”

You nod after a moment.

“You always did prefer more fruit on yours, ever since you were little.”

You don’t have a memory of this. “So what did you start thinking about?”

“Oh, right,” he says. “I started thinking—how did he bring these cans of beer to the cabin? Because, the closest market required at least a winding trek down the mountain by car and was still a good seven miles away.

“But maybe this person used to live in this area. This abandoned cabin was not the only one near my uncle—there were others that also existed further up on the mountains, too. And then I also thought... what if this person needs my help?”

Your dad is still, hand holding the spatula. Eventually, smoke rises from the pancakes. “Uh, dad—”

“Oh, shoot.” A couple of pancakes are burnt. He quickly removes most of them off of the griddle. “Whoops, that’s kind of a waste. We still have a couple of good ones.”

“Why don’t we eat first then?” You suggest.

“Yes, that sounds great, sweetheart.” He has the butter and syrup on the granite counter which you move to the dining table. The blueberries are on the side. He probably just forgot to add them in the moment.

--

It’s sunny.

You are outside and on the front patio of the house, watching the neighbors out on the lawn. Not that many of them are out and about—it is around noon, and most of them are at work. It’s odd, being back at your dad’s house. The same green hedges out in the front; it’s been kept almost the same as you remember it... except for the tree. There used to be a tree that had a swing in the back, too. It looks empty without it, and you wonder why it was cut down.

He called one day and asked, Are you ever going to come down for a visit?

You replied, Sure, I will. Maybe after this semester, dad.

You used to be quite close. But it seemed as though drifting apart felt natural after moving away for school.

The door opens and out comes your dad, holding two glasses of lemon water with basil leaves. “Thought you could use some company,” he says, handing you a glass as he sits on another chair next to you.

“Thanks,” you say, taking a sip. The water quenches a thirst you hadn’t noticed yet. You gulp down more than you thought you would.

Your dad also takes a sip and lets out a small sigh of relief.

“Do you remember when you used to swing back and forth on a swing set here?”

“Yeah, I was just thinking about that.” You stare at where it used to stand. “It’s not here anymore, and the yard looks so odd without it.”

“There was a second tree,” he says, “Do you remember that?”

You pause right before taking another sip of water. “No,” you say. “Wasn’t there just one tree?” Certainly you would have noticed a second tree.

He shakes his head. “No, there was a second tree just nearby. But that one had to be cut down much earlier, unfortunately. The tree with the swing in it was nearly the same, but it was dominating the other tree. When that happens, you’ll have to cut it down anyway.”

You lean back again, cradling the cool drink in both hands in front of you. You wonder how memories could change so drastically and quickly. This reminds you of the good times in this yard—listening to the sparrows chirping away nearby, the cold splash of water in an inflatable pool.

“Dad,” you say, “Can you finish the story for me? Before I have to go back?”

“Ah, the story,” he says, tapping his finger against the glass idly. “I can do that.”

He drinks the water again, this time setting it down on the small table. “The abandoned cabin.”

“Yes.”

“For a moment, I was scared that I wasn’t helping someone from potential danger. But certainly, this person should have been able to fend for themselves—they did, after all, have the means to bring cans of beer with them.

“But every time I walked past the cabin, it seemed as though there was no one in the cabin. Not even at night did I see that candle again. So I had to assume that the person had left rather quickly. I didn’t have too many days left for my stay at my uncle’s place, so I just tried to enjoy myself for the remaining time.

“I walked out during the night. Retrospectively, this was not smart of me at the time, but I really wanted to cherish the night sky in the mountains before I returned to the city. So I went out, and of course, I had to pass by the abandoned cabin at night, too. But, there was no candle. And there was no sound either. I walked by, staring at the windows for signs of life. But nothing.”

You clutch your drink a little tighter.

“I walk in the direction of the nearby creek, looking up at the sky briefly. The sky is bursting with stars, and it actually looks a lot brighter than you would think. I look back at the cabin one time, for some reason. The dilapidated roof with its worn shingles and the chipped paint falling apart.

“I was about to look away when I see myself staring out of the cabin window.”

Your dad’s hands clamps together, betraying the sense of composure still in his voice. “The man looked exactly like me, not disheveled, just like... me. A carbon copy. I saw something glint under the moonlight and realized he was smiling with all his teeth at me. I ran as fast as I could away from the comfort of my home, through the woods which I knew relatively well. The candle in the window was lit.”

You look at your dad. You really look at him.

“I didn’t know what to do, so I just stayed out in the woods until it was dawn. When I finally worked up the courage to walk back past the cabin, I almost wanted to know whether I had imagined the exchange.”

He takes another sip of his drink. “I saw the cabin, the window where I saw the candle. But it looked completely empty from the outside. I didn’t want to look. But I couldn’t not look. I remember opening the door, courage borrowed from the sun lighting the way in. The way in. It had to have been my imagination.”

Your hands start to shake, the partially melted ice in the water rattling lightly against the glass.

“But I saw him on the floor, crouched on the floor with his hands together in prayer. My heart was in my throat, and I could’ve vomited. All I did was just close the door slowly, my eyes not leaving the body as I walked backwards out of the cabin. I walked calmly as possible to my uncle’s cabin, resisting every urge to look back. When I arrived, my uncle was still asleep, and I stepped in as quietly as possible. I sat on the recliner and cried. I washed up before he could wake up and see that I had been crying. I made breakfast. And that was the end of that.”

Your heartbeat is in your ears. You stare ahead at the front yard, observing the neighbors. You both sit in silence for a few more minutes.

“But dad,” you start shakily, “That’s not the story you told me before.” You set down the glass as though it’s hot and stand abruptly. “Why are you telling me a different story from before?”

“What do you mean, sweetheart?” he asks, eyes genuinely confused. He takes another sip of the drink, sighing contentedly.

“You always told the same stories, and they were always the same. So why are you changing it now?” You worry for a moment that maybe you had gone too far. After all, people can change their stories over time. Maybe he’s just joking. Maybe you’re the one misremembering.

He gives you a long look, gaze steady and unmoving. He breathes deeply.

“I am telling you who I am.”

He launches forward and back into the house slamming the door shut so loud that it echoes in the quiet neighborhood. You hear him say inside. “Let me show you how it went when I opened the door.”

You scream in pure shock. You can hear the crashing of the floor lamp. Do you choose to look inside? Yes, you look inside through the windows, and you catch a glimpse of him bringing down full trash bags from upstairs, footsteps thudding rapidly and urgently. “It’s me! It’s me! It’s me, your dad!” You see him opening up the trash bags—beer cans swarm the sparkly clean hardwood floors.

You look around outside. You wonder if you should run, and as your eyes dart around, you spy the axe out by the front of the yard—the same one that he used to cut down the tree. A neighbor who heard the commotion is looking over your shared fence. You trudge over and quietly grab the axe in your hand.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

You can’t hear that. Your hand shakes as you grasp the doorknob and push the door open. Your dad is on the floor, hands in prayer and crouching down on the floor. “It’s me, your dad.”

In a daze, you swing the axe up and back down. That’s not your dad. That’s not your dad.

--

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