Maybe, Diary, I should listen to Mother

Dad no longer stumbles and falls on our front porch.  Nor does he babble things nobody understands, either.  He and Mother don’t scream at each other.  In fact, Mother giggles sometimes when they’re in their bedroom.  So, Mother thinks everything should be hunky dory.  "Why won't you talk to your father?" she asked while I was eating breakfast.  "He told me he tried to talk to you, but you ran away."
 
I shrugged.  "I don't know."  That was a lie. 
 
"You're only hurting yourself, Gordon.  Let bygones be bygones." 
 
"What does that mean?"
 
"Things that happened in the past ought to be left in the past.  Your father has changed.  You need to forgive him as your brothers and sister and I have." 
 
Doc III hasn't forgiven Dad.  I know that for certain. 
 
If Mother could've danced, she would have, but she has one leg shorter than the other and limps.  Before I was born, she lay in a Rochester, Minnesota, hospital bed for over a year with fractured ribs, hip, and leg bones she suffered in a car accident while Dad was driving drunk.  She has all kinds of metal rods in her leg.  I also learned about Helen, Dad's girlfriend.  The reason I know these things:  They screamed about them in their arguments. 
 
Now, Mother's satisfied because Dad's not drinking.  She thinks I should act as if I'm part of one, big happy family.  That would be the biggest lie, ever.  However, I'm not going to make any stupid, wise guy comments.  I'll keep everything to myself.   
 
If Dad asked me what I thought, though, and I could honestly answer without getting killed, I'd say: "How do I erase all those awful memories?  They're not on a school blackboard that I can erase."
 
He'd probably try to defend himself, but I wouldn't let him.  "Nor can I forget those mornings you whipped me with your belt buckle because I was playing, making noise.  I'm a kid, Dad.  It's natural for a kid to play."
 
Finally, he'd get in a few words.  "I've changed."
 
"Yeah," I'd say.  “You stopped drinking.  For now.  So, what's going to happen tomorrow or next week?  You can't expect me to suddenly change.  Thing is, I don't expect you to suddenly change, either." 
 
Only in my dreams could I have said those things.  So, a few weeks after Mother explained bygones, I sat inside my shack and heard someone outside.  "Gordon, you in there?" 
 
It was Dad.  Scared, I needed to pee. Awfully bad.  I didn't answer, but I saw him.  He was on his knees, looking straight at me through the window that Mister Nelson installed.  "Can we talk?"
 
I wanted him to go away.  Thankfully, he didn’t try to crawl inside.   I would've died on the spot.  "Gordon, besides playing piano, what do you like doing best?"
 
I didn't want to answer, but I thought I'd better.  Or else.  "Fish.  I like to fish at Lake Wazeecha or Nepco lake with Paul and Glen and their dad."
 
"Your birthday's coming up.  Would you like a new fishing rod?"
 
He didn't look angry or drunk.  And I didn’t need to pee anymore.  So, I crawled out.  "I don’t need a new rod, but I’d like a Shakespeare automatic reel.  All you have to do is wind it up and press a lever to reel in the line.  Paul and Glen each have one.  They're neat."
 
Dad smiled.  "Where would I buy this reel?"  His smile was pleasant.  His teeth were kind of white with a few, shiny gold.  His voice was soft and pleasant.    
 
"Monkey Wards.  You don't have to order it through a catalog because they have the reels at the store."
 
Dad chuckled.  "Monkey Wards, eh?" 
 
"It's really Montgomery Wards but everybody I know calls it Monkey Wards."
 
"Shakespeare automatic reel, eh?"
 
"Yes.  For a fly rod."
 
"Maybe you and I could go fishing sometime.  What do you think?"
 
I shrugged, recalling what he had done to my pet frog at Silver Lake years ago.  He used it for bait.  "I guess we could."  
 
"Right now, son, how'd you like a root beer float or an ice cream cone or an Orange Crush?"
 
Son?  He never called me that.  "What do you mean?"
 
"I mean if you want to go, I'm taking your mom, your brothers, Bill and Peter, and sister, Annette.  They're waiting."  He smiled again.  "And you, that is, if you want to go."
 
I could feel the grin stretch my cheeks.  "You bet," I said. 
 
Dad and Mother had single root beer floats.  William and I drank and ate double root beer floats.  We didn't argue.  A miracle.  Crazy Annie ordered a single dip vanilla ice cream cone, and Little Pete couldn't even finish his free baby root beer.  While sitting there, I thought this could be the family I had imagined for years. 
 
Maybe, Diary, I should listen to Mother:  Let the past remain there.  What do you think?  Oh yeah, you can't.  You're a diary.