Flowers in the Basement

"Here," Dad said, passing me the bag of food. "Start eating."

I scarfed down some hot fries. They were salty and delicious.

When we drove up to the house, I was surprised to find that I liked it. A white porch, long private driveway and a charming yellow paint job made it seem almost homey. Dad told me that he'd already had the furniture moved in, and had a bedroom ready for me.

"Thank you," I managed to say.

—

I knew I was an unlikable person. I knew I was hard to deal with, and harder to live with. I was kind of a slob, unorganized, and didn't like picking up after myself. Still, Ben had loved me.

But here I was, driving away and leaving him behind, brokenhearted and humiliated. He'd have to tell everyone that I'd left him.

I got on the freeway, heading west on the 91, blaring music from my car. It wasn't even a genre I liked. I'd just turned on the radio and blasted it, hoping it'd drown out the thoughts in my head.

It didn't work. All I could think about was Ben.

I closed my eyes for a second longer than necessary, overcome with the pain, and that's when it happened.

The accident.

—

The first two days out of the hospital were rough. I didn't have the constant beeping of the monitors anymore, and so it was hard to sleep in all the quiet. The food Dad fed me was blander than the hospital's. He said Wendy's had been a treat, but he was going to keep me on a healthy diet like the doctor ordered. I didn't think it was fair, but I also knew I was under his roof and he didn't have to take me in and look after me. I watched some TV to pass the time, and Dad asked me if I'd like to borrow his laptop. I said I didn't because I was stubborn, and later wished I had accepted his offer. I wondered what my Facebook was like, how many messages I'd gotten. No one knew what had happened to me. I'd probably lost my job, but what did that matter? I couldn't work with these hands.

Dad worked from home on his drop-shipping business. He made calls to his hired team in India, and sometimes disappeared for the day to meet with account representatives of manufacturing companies. He specialized in baby products, selling everything from strollers to diapers. I wouldn't have admitted it to his face, but I liked when he was in the house. It made me feel less alone.

"I'll be out of your hair soon," I said over dinner on the third night.

Dad glanced at me, his fork stilling in his hands.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I won't bother you much longer. I'll get another job soon enough."

"You can't work with those hands," Dad reminded me.

"They'll get better." The doctor had said that those kind of nerves don't grow back. Dad probably knew, but he acted like he didn't.

"Stay as long as you'd like."

—

The furniture in the house was the same furniture I'd grown up with. Dad had just had it shipped over by a moving company. It's strange, being in a new house with old things. Most of the furniture in my room was mine, save for the bed. It was new. Dad had upgraded me to a queen from a twin. I was grateful for it, but some part of me wished I had the comfort of my childhood bed.

It was absurd. I was twenty-five.

I was looking for comfort everywhere because I was hurting... everywhere.

—

I walked in the backyard in the mornings, before noon, before the sun was too high and the day too hot. I'd walk through the vegetable garden that Dad had planted while I was in the hospital. It was still early summer, and there wasn't enough to harvest yet, but I liked seeing them grow.

"Those are the tomatoes," Dad said, coming to stand beside me one day. I was trying to feel the delicate leaves between my fingertips, but I couldn't. I couldn't feel anything, and it devastated me. Dad was standing right next to me, but he didn't know about the war that was in my head.

"They're nice," I said, trying not to look too grim.

"You're stepping on the carrots."

"What?" I looked down and realized he was right. "Sorry," I said, stepping back.

"Now you're stepping on the potatoes, but that's okay," Dad said. "They're underground anyway."

I thought about that, how some things flourished in the darkness. I wondered if that would ever happen to me, if instead of shrinking into nothingness, maybe one day that darkness would help me grow.

—

When I finally logged into my Facebook, I found messages, endless messages. Most of them were from Ben.

"Just please call me," was the last thing he'd sent. I looked at the date. He'd sent it that morning. I went into the kitchen and retrieved the phone for the landline. It took me half an hour to work up the nerve to call him.

"Hello?"

"Ben, hi," I said nervously.

"Hannah, is that you?"

"Yes."

"Where have you been?" His voice had gone cold, as if he'd been carrying anger in him so long that it had frozen.

"I got into a terrible car wreck."

It was almost like I could hear the ice cracking. His voice had warmed considerably when he said, "What are you talking about, Hannah?"

"That day I left you at the rehearsal dinner," I said. "I got into an accident on the 91. I got run over by an eighteen-wheeler and got put in a medically induced coma, and then spent a few months in the hospital getting better."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I guess I wasn't ready to talk."

"Jesus Christ, Hannah. It's not always about you. What about me, huh? How the fuck do you think I was doing? Do you have any idea what it's like to think that your fianceé just left you, stopped showing up for work and disappeared off the face of the earth?"

No, that hadn't occurred to me.

"When it comes to losing my life and all feeling in my hands, it doesn't fucking matter how you feel, Ben. Did you think to ask how I'm doing? If I can still walk? I can, thanks for asking."

"You haven't even given me the chance..."

"I don't owe you anything, Ben. I broke up with you. I ended things," I said. "I did my part."

"That's it, huh? Nearly three years down the drain, all over one two-minute conversation."

"That's it, Ben. I just wanted to let you know."

"I hope you find happiness then, Hannah."

"You too."

I heard him scoff.

"Sure, thanks," he said, and hung up.

—

Ben made me cry, and I was sure I'd made him cry, too. We weren't always like this. Before this whole mess, before I'd lost the feeling in my hands and things had gone to shit, I'd had a life. A man had loved me, we'd had a home together, and we worked at the same job. I'd been really fucking happy.

Until that happiness had begun to turn into terror. Until panic clawed up my throat. Until I thought about my past, and how no one deserved to end up with someone like me: someone who'd fucked their dad.

I've tried to avoid thinking about it for years.

When I was twenty-two-years-old, yes, I fucked my dad. We got drunk on my birthday because out of all days, my birthday was the day my dog died. God, I loved that stupid little guy. I sobbed over him for hours. And so Dad and I buried him in the backyard, said our tearful goodbyes, and then got hammered in the basement bar. We drank until we could barely stand.

And then we laughed.

And then we kissed.

And then we had sex.

—

I woke up with my head throbbing, as if I'd been hit by a truck. The last thing I could remember was Rex dying in my arms. My eyes filled with tears and I opened them, blinking and looking around the room. I was in the basement. Naked. With a warm body next to me.

Fuck.

I'd promised Dad that I'd never bring a guy home, that if I was gonna hook up with someone, it wouldn't be under his roof. How fucked up had I gotten to bring this guy home? I tried elbowing him awake, hoping I could sneak him out before my father woke up.

"Ouch," he hissed.

I know that voice.

I turned in horror, realizing that I was laying naked next to my dad.

Who was also naked.

A moment later, I remembered what had happened and I screamed.

—

"What's wrong?" Dad asked over dinner. I was staring at my hand and trying to flex it. I was failing miserably.

"Nothing," I said, catching his eye. He looked pained, almost as if he pitied me. I tried not to let it piss me off.

"I'm flying down to Philly next week if you wanna come," he said, looking down at his plate. Philadelphia was where our real house was. The one in LA was just a rental.

"Are you leaving for good?"

Dad looked surprised.

"No, why would you think that?"

"I don't know. I'm better now. You can pack up and go back home."

"You are not better."

"My doctor says I can start looking for work soon."

"Your doctor doesn't know shit. You can't even drive."

That made me laugh.

"I don't need to drive to get around."

"But you need hands."

"I've got hands," I said defensively.

Dad bit his lip to keep from saying something he didn't want to.

"You want to come to Philly or not?" he asked.

"Sure."

—

Turns out flying is tough without hands, too. You've gotta hold your luggage, your boarding pass, your ID, and then you've got to buckle in your seatbelt. These were all things I struggled to do.

"Here," Dad said, taking my luggage. He was already carrying my ID and boarding pass. When we got on the plane, he buckled me in. I tried not to let it bother me. I wasn't exactly five-years-old, anymore, but I appreciated him helping me. What I hated was his self-assured assumption that he had to.

It was a five-hour flight from Los Angeles to Philadelphia. When the plane landed, I wanted to brace myself by holding the armrests, but I could barely feel my hands. There was some feeling in them, very faint, but I'd lost most of my nerve endings. The fingertips were especially fucked up. I couldn't feel anything at all.

Dad sensed that I felt hopeless. Without asking, he took my arm and held me in place as the plane landed. I tried not to look too grateful. I wanted to retain my pride.

We took a taxi home, since the pick-up truck was in LA. The old house was almost vacant with most of the furniture gone. There were still books in the built-in shelves, and some paintings and photos were on the walls, but otherwise, it seemed mostly bare. My old room had the twin bed in it, and so I slept there the first night while Dad took up an air mattress on the floor of his bedroom. We didn't speak to each other after dinner. Tired, we went straight to bed.

—

Dad met with some friends in Philly, and I went to my favorite joint for a cheesesteak. It was the good stuff with the Cheez Whiz. The walk was short, as the food truck was only three blocks away. I carried the money in my purse, and fumbled with the zipper when I got to the register. I felt my cheeks redden as I struggled to close my fingers around my wallet.

"I got it," said a voice to my right. I turned, taking in the sight of a guy around my age. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt for the heat, and had kind eyes. I smiled and shook my head.

"If you could just help me with my wallet, I can pay for it myself. I, uh, don't have much feeling in my hands, thanks to a burn wound."

He looked down at my hands, seeing the scars.

"Don't worry about it," he said, pulling out his wallet. He ordered himself a cheesesteak to add to my order, two lemonades, and we walked to a park nearby.

"How are you gonna eat this?" he asked, pointing to the cheesesteak.

"I'll manage," I said, pushing my hands together with my arms, holding the cheesesteak in the middle. The guy grinned.

"I'm Jack."

"Hannah."

"H-A-N-N-A-H?" I nodded and he continued. "Your name's a palindrome. That's pretty cool."

I smiled. "Most people don't even know what a palindrome is."

"I don't think you give most people enough credit. The public is smarter than you think they are."

"That could be true," I said, and paused for dramatic effect. "But have you ever even turned on the news?"

He laughed. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"So," I said, "Wanna know how I got these scars?"

"Okay, Joker," Jack said with a chuckle. "How'd you get 'em?"

"A car accident," I said, taking a bite of my cheesesteak.

"Burn wounds from a car accident?"

I swallowed my food. "Yeah. The car caught on fire."

"That's crazy."

"It is."

"Do you want to go out sometime?"

I gave him a sad smile. "I'm only here in Philly for a week. I live in Los Angeles."

"Oh," he said. "That's too bad. I think we would have had a good run of it."

"Yeah? Why do you say that?"

"Because of these," he said, tugging up his jeans. There was scarring on his calves. Burn scars.

"Science project accident," he explained.

"Really?"

"Yeah. My mom was so pissed off that my brother and I burned her gazebo down that she didn't even realize I was on fire."

"How old were you?"

"Nine, but I don't really remember much of that day, anymore."

"I got my scars a few months ago," I said. "It's still pretty fresh in my mind."

Jack sat back on the park bench, leaning against it. He crossed his arms behind his head and seemed to think for a moment.

"Can I get your number? I feel like we could be long-distance friends."

"Sure."

We exchanged numbers, and I promised to get him back for the cheesesteak. We decided to meet at a bar the following evening. We ended it with a hug.

Philly people are nice.

—

When I got home, Dad was in the backyard, staring at the garden that had died in his absence.

"It's a real shame," he said when he noticed me watching him from the sliding glass door.

"It is," I agreed.

"Where'd you go?"

"To get a cheesesteak."

Dad smiled. "I figured you might, but I wasn't sure."

"Am I that predictable?"

"Not usually. Only when it comes to food."

I actually laughed. It was strange, laughing at something Dad said. He glanced at me, and I could see the tiredness in his eyes. His face was still youthful with only a few lines to show his age, but otherwise, he looked just as good as he did twenty years before. I wondered what his secret was, so I asked him.

"How do you stay looking so young?"

"Good genes, I guess," Dad said with a shrug. "You have them, too."

"I'm still young."

"Yeah," Dad said. "You are."

There was a moment of awkward silence. Years ago, on that fucked up night, Dad had told me that I was too young to be kissing him, too young to be sitting on his lap and doing what I was doing, too young for everything that was happening. We'd been so drunk, but somehow, his protective side had still surfaced.

It still didn't stop it from happening.

And I still haven't forgiven him... but things were starting to change.

—

I've always hated maraschino cherries. They're too syrupy, too sweet. And they hurt my eyes because they're bright, bright red.

And yet, they're always in the fridge, no matter where I am or where I go, I can't escape them. Ben loved them, and so does Dad.

It had been over a decade since I'd tried one. I twisted open the jar, stuck my hand inside and fished out a cherry by the stem. I tasted it, closing my eyes, waiting for color to burst behind my eyelids, but nothing happened. They tasted the same. Disgusting, sickly sweet.

But I can't help doing that to myself. Giving things I hate another try.

Maybe that was why I wasn't fighting so hard anymore.

I wanted to give Dad another chance.

—

The next night, I met Jack at a bar that was a fifteen-minute walk away. I probably could've hitched a cab, but I wanted to take in the fresh evening air. I had my hands in my pockets so that people wouldn't see the scars. It was nice to pretend for a moment that nothing had changed, that I was still a kid living in Philly with her cool young dad.

"Hey, Hannah!" Jack said, greeting me as if it had been ten years since we'd seen each other. He gave me a tight hug and bought me a drink. We found a seat at a table in the back of the bar.

"Want something to eat?" I did, so we ordered trash-can nachos, which are just nachos that are piled in a bucket and then turned upside down. It was a delicious tower of corn chips, cheese, jalapeños, shredded beef and a spicy creamy sauce. Jack and I shared it while we chatted about our lives. He was pretty surprised when he heard that I'd been a drilling engineer.

"Don't they pay you guys the big bucks?"

I thought about the cool quarter of a million I had sitting in the bank. I'd saved it over a three-year period.

"Pay's okay," I lied. "What about you? What do you do?"

"Nothing exciting. I'm a car salesman."

"I can see that. You're pretty charming."

He grinned. "Thanks."

We shared a few more drinks, and I drank a little more than I should have.

"I'll take you home," Jack offered. I let him because I was afraid to make the walk on my own. Drunk me didn't exactly make the best choices.

"Come on, I'll get us a cab."

—

I walked into a dark house. It was almost midnight, and I needed to pee. I stumbled through the darkness, making my way to the downstairs bathroom. I turned the doorknob with my wrist and made a beeline for the toilet. After I'd relieved myself, I turned on the light and looked at myself in the mirror.

"Get a grip, Hannah," I slurred. My words came out funny, like I was in a fun house and my voice had distorted with the mirrors. I washed my hands in silence, swaying where I stood.

"Hannah? Is that you?"

I stepped out of the bathroom, and found Dad standing there with a baseball bat, his eyes wide with panic. I howled with laughter, and in a moment, he was laughing, too. He dropped the bat, walked over and wrapped his arms around me. I forgot to be mad. I was laughing too hard.

"It's nice to hear your laugh," Dad said.

"It's nice to hear yours," I said, surprising us both.

"Do you really mean that?"

We weren't laughing anymore.

"Yeah, Dad. I do."

Dad took my face in his hands.

"Do you know how long I've waited to get through to you?"

Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes.

"I... I'm still mad at you, Dad," I said. "You... You treated me like I was a mis-mistake."

I couldn't stop trembling. Dad kissed my forehead.

"I love you, Hannah. You're not the mistake. What I did was the mistake."

"You didn't do anything," I said shrilly.

"I let it happen."

"I wanted it to fucking happen! I wanted it, Daddy!"

"Daddy," he repeated. "You haven't called me that since you were little."

"I feel little right now, okay?" I said defensively. "I feel so... small. Like I did after... After. As if my feelings didn't matter."

"Of course they matter," Dad said. "Your feelings matter to me more than anything."

"Then why do you keep hurting me? Why do you keep denying this—this attraction between us?"

Dad closed his eyes and sighed.

"It's wrong, Hannah. It's unhealthy. It's unnatural. It's illegal. It's—It's fucked up, okay? It makes me feel like a fucking pervert. I don't have any trouble finding women, and yet I want my own fucking daughter? I can't even look at myself in the mirror. It's just so wrong."

"No," I said. "What's wrong is this. Denying it. Criminalizing it. Ruining it."

He shook his head stubbornly.

"Hannah, I'm not discussing this with you."

"Back to square one again," I spat. "Things will never change between us."

"I'd rather you consider me your enemy than your lover. My job is to protect you, not please you. And I most certainly shouldn't be pleasing myself."

"Whatever," I said, pushing him away.

"Hannah—"

"What. The. Fuck. Ever." I shoved him, swaying dangerously. Dad caught me by the elbow but I smacked him off.

"Stop this. You'll hurt yourself," he said angrily.

"I'm already hurt. What's a little more?" I said, wiping away fresh hot tears. "I'm gonna go." I made for the front door and Dad blocked my path.