True North

Chapter 15

Stormy slept late the next morning, having tossed and turned for the better part of the night. She had finally drifted off just after three a.m., and it was shortly before ten when the unmistakable thump-thump-thud of something—or possibly someone—falling down over the stairs yanked her from a sound sleep. She sprang from her bed, Gage's varsity jacket that she had inexplicably taken to sleeping with falling to the floor as she flew across the room and heaved open the door.

"DAD?" she bellowed, frantically brushing the hair out of her face as she leaned out over the banister. "DAD!"

"For Christ's sake!" Walter snapped, glowering up at her from the midway point of the stairs. "What in the hell are you yelling about?"

Stormy rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she pieced together the clues from the scene below: Walter halfway up the stairs, the laundry basket lying on the landing below, clean laundry scattered over the steps in between. Walter stooped over to snatch up a towel that had fallen at his feet and pitched it in disgust toward the basket lying below. He descended to ground level and set about refilling the basket, muttering to himself.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Stormy sighed as she traipsed slowly down over the stairs. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"What I'm trying to do is get some clean towels upstairs before we run out again," her father growled, hurling another item into the basket at his feet. "How many showers do you take in a day, anyhow?"

"We aren't going to run out of towels," Stormy sighed, rolling her eyes and ignoring his efforts to bait her into yet another argument. "I was planning to do laundry today."

"And when were you planning to do it?" Walter challenged, leaning against the banister as he raised a brow in her direction. "At lunchtime, after you finally rolled your carcass out of bed?" Fine beads of sweat covered his upper lip, and Stormy noticed that his breathing was slightly labored.

"Dad, I'll take care of this," she said, taking the basket from him and resting it on her hip. "Why don't you go sit down and take a break?"

"I don't need a 'break'," Walter spat, snatching the basket from her grasp and starting up the stairs. "And I certainly don't need you telling me what to do!"

"I'm not telling you what to do, I'm just...suggesting." Stormy scooted around him on the stairs and latched on to the basket. "You're not even supposed to be doing this, anyhow. Just let me do it."

"I don't need you to do it!" Walter insisted, attempting to wrench the basket out of her hands.

"Dad, let go! Let me do it!"

"I don't need you to do it!" Walter repeated, pulling on the basket. "I can do it myself!"

"No, you can't," Stormy said through gritted teeth, still trying to wrestle the basket away from him.

"Yes. I. Can!" Walter ground out in return. He yanked hard on the basket, pulling Stormy off balance and forcing her to let go to keep herself from falling. The sudden lack of resistance sent the basket sailing out of Walter's grip and over his shoulder, where it again tumbled down the stairs, spilling its contents and coming to rest upside-down on the landing below. He stood staring down at it for a moment and then sank slowly down to sit on the step. Stormy stood two steps above him, staring down at the top of his head.

"Jesus, Dad! What the hell is the matter with you?" Stormy huffed, flouncing down the steps and swinging the basket up onto her hip. She started back up the stairs toward him, flinging the spilled towels into it as she ascended. "I was just trying to help!"

"I DON'T NEED HELP!" Walter roared, and then pulled a shaky hand down the length of his face and sighed heavily. Almost inaudibly, he spoke to the step beneath his feet. "I'm not an invalid."

Stormy raised her head to look at him, suddenly understanding what was behind the outburst. She set the basket down and sank heavily on the step beside her father, both of them staring down at the landing below.

"I know you're not an invalid," she said softly. "But you will be if you don't take it easy for a while. And I know I don't always do things the way that you would do them, but I'm trying, so maybe you could cut me a little slack once in a while." She sighed. "And I suppose I could keep up on things a little better than I have been. Okay?"

Walter rested his elbows on the step behind himself and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment before responding.

"You'll keep up on the laundry?" Walter asked. "And you'll dry the dishes and put them away, instead of leaving them in the rack to dry?"

"Yes, if you'll stop nitpicking about my cooking and the way I fold clothes," Stormy countered.

"Fair enough," Walter shrugged. They sat in silence for a long moment.

"So," Stormy said. "Is it safe for me to take care of the towels now?"

"Well, they aren't going to fold themselves," Walter said, rising from his seat on the step. "And you may as well make yourself useful."

Stormy stood and heaved the basket of towels up into her arms. She headed up the stairs and Walter headed down.

"Don't leave the tags sticking out when you fold them," Walter called after her.

"You're nitpicking," Stormy scolded back over her shoulder.

She closed her bedroom door and set the basket down on the floor, pausing to retrieve Gage's varsity jacket. She pressed her face into the satiny lining, breathing in its scent as she sank down on the edge of her bed. Why was she doing this to herself? Why couldn't she just move on?

He obviously has, she reminded herself.

Stormy thought about her dead mother, wishing that she could talk to her now. Sure, Stormy's father had provided for her material needs while she was growing up, but there are times in life when a girl needs a mom's perspective—her first period, first crush, first heartbreak—and this was one of those times. Stormy hugged the jacket to her chest and wondered what her mother would say, what sort of advice she would have to offer if only she were still alive.

"You're so pathetic," Stormy muttered to herself, hurling the jacket across the room. She batted away a teardrop that hovered on the rim of her lower lid and dove into the task of towel-folding, begrudgingly taking extra care to ensure that the stupid tags weren't hanging out the ends.