“Then why would he think they didn’t want him?”
Mom gave a sad little shrug.
“Because every card reminded him how long it had been.”
One summer, she finally told him she’d buy the ticket herself.
Dad said, “Next year.”
Next year became another decade.
I looked at the chair.
“Who sent this?”
Mom didn’t answer.
“Mom.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I know who sent it.”
“Who?”
She took a long time before answering.
Then she said, “I asked her to.”
I stared at her.
“You arranged this?”
“Months ago.”
“Why?”
“The house was being cleared. I called one of the women your father grew up with. We still had her address from the Christmas cards.”
“And she still had his chair?”
Mom nodded.
“She laughed when I asked.”
“What did she say?”
“‘We still have the silly thing.'”
I looked down at the worn blue paint.
Mom wiped her face.
“I thought if he saw it here, maybe he’d finally understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That he hadn’t disappeared from them just because he’d stayed away.”
Her plan had been to put the chair at our kitchen table.
Then ask Dad one more time.
Go home.
See them.
Stop waiting for some imaginary year when returning would finally become easier.
The chair had been shipped three days before the accident.
Dad never knew it was coming.
I looked at Mom.
“Then why did you tell me to throw it away?”
Her face crumpled.
