That Dr. Harris waits for me in the small parking lot, next to my mum, who leans against the hood of her car, holding his hand. I rest the bike against the side of the building, then head over to them.
“Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Liam,” he says in that gruff voice I’ve known my entire life, the sound that I heard booming up the stairs when I was in trouble, the sound that I heard shouting Yes! when I won science awards.
The voice has varied. That gruffness was tempered with sweetness after my first broken heart, and again after I first learned the shocking news that I had a son, when he told me that he would help me figure out how to be a great dad.
All of those memories collide at once, and they pummel me with an unexpected wave of emotion. I should be used to those overwhelming feelings when I’m around him these days.
I swallow them down, shove them out of sight, and put on my best chipper face as I join them. He squints at me from behind his glasses, and I hide a wince.
“How’s it going, Liam? Are you ready for today?” He’s all tough and serious. He’s softer with animals, but with his kids, he’s always kept the pedal on the stoic side.
“I am, Dad. Just remind me—is the tailbone still connected to the leg bone?”
He laughs and claps me on the shoulder, his palm wrapping around me. “Good one. It’s the caudal vertebrae.”
My mouth forms an exaggerated O. “Is that what it’s called? I had no idea.”
He shakes his head. “Smart-ass. Anyway, I wanted to bring you this.” He turns around and peers into the car, searching for a few more seconds than usual.
“On the console, love,” my mum says. He reaches inside, grabs a thermos of English breakfast tea—unless I very much miss my guess—then gives it to me.
Just like my mum gave him every day before work, the tradition now handed down from father to son.
A lump forms in my throat at the way he’s trying to make this seem like a normal transition. As if all he’s done is retire and hand over his beloved practice to me.
I take the thermos, trying to keep my tone even, so it’s not as wobbly as I feel. “Thank you.”
He gives me an almost imperceptible nod, then tips his forehead toward the light-blue cottage-style building that houses the veterinary practice that he ran for more than twenty years. “I appreciate you doing this.”
He’s not big on hearts and flowers, so his spoken gratitude is the equivalent of a brass band marching through town in my honor.
“And I appreciate you giving me the chance to help out,” I say, though that hardly seems sufficient. Or accurate—“giving me the chance” implies that he had a choice, that to continue was an option.
It took him long enough to accept the facts and step down. My mum practically begged him.
A few months ago, when he rang me up, potholes in his voice, and asked if I would come home and take over, I didn’t think twice. I simply said yes. I had five business partners at my practice in New York. I was also the junior vet. He ran this practice solo.
Now he stares at the front door, shiny with its fresh coat of white paint. It’s something Mum took care of—hiring painters to spruce up the place. New paint for the new vet.
“Are you ready for next month?” I ask, trying to focus on practical matters—in this case, his third surgery coming up.
He scoffs and waves a hand. “Don’t worry about me.”
“But I do.”
“We all do,” my mum chimes in.
“I’m going to be fine, so let me worry about you.” He takes a few steps toward the door. “Do you have everything you need in there?”
He rattles off all the standard supplies of any veterinary practice, and I simply nod, letting him know that I’m all sorted. At the door, he barrels inside, doing his damnedest to show me around, even though I’ve spent the last week prepping and familiarizing myself with the clinic.
Getting ready to take over his business as my father goes blind.
Twenty minutes later, the vet tech comes in—a pink-haired fifty-something woman with triple ear piercings and a sweet cooing voice that all the dogs seem to love—and we get to work.
The hardest part is when the clients start asking, “Is everything okay with your dad?”
I do my best. Give them a smile and the scripted line. “He just thought it was time. He’s ready for a change. Ready to retire. Now, let’s take a look at Purr-cutio’s teeth.”
My dad doesn’t want to share the true reason, not wanting anyone to feel sorry for him. I’m not going to be the one to say, “Oh, well, it turns out he has this rare disease where he’s going blind, and he’s going to require five surgeries and still lose most of his vision.”
