Things Too Huge to Fix by Saying Sorry by Susan Vaught Page A

wearing frayed jeans shorts and a white tank, both already soaked with sweat. He stayed bent over, plucking out little green bits and dropping them into a pile near the wooden slats that held the dirt and plants.
    I didn’t know anything about gardening. Dirt sort of grossed me out. But I liked eating what Dad grew, and I liked watching him be happy. Dad liked that he didn’t have to take as much medicine during gardening season, because his nerves got calmer when he could work outside. From Marchto October, all he had to take was blood pressure pills, and his time in the garden did the rest.
    I had gotten ready for camp early, before the nurse came. Mom might actually blow a gasket in shock over my promptness. Before I went outside, I checked on Grandma like I always did. She was sleeping peacefully, and not crying, but I couldn’t forget the sound of her weeping the night before. My throat tightened every time I thought about it, so I used Dad’s iPad to play him music to weed by while I read a book I had checked out from camp— Ghost Stories of Oxford . As Julie Miller’s “All My Tears” played in the early light, I read about people thinking they had seen the ghost of a woman at William Faulkner’s home, Rowan Oak. A few minutes later, Dad got my attention when he stood and used a blue bandana to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Then he nodded to me. “Tough song.”
    I closed my ghost story book and focused on the lyrics. It don’t matter where you bury me/I’ll be home and I’ll be free.
    â€œOh,” I mumbled. “Sorry.” I tapped the pause button. “I’ll find something lighter.”
    â€œNo, it’s fine.” He wiped both his cheeks, then folded the bandana and tied it back around his head. He had his beard pulled into a rough braid this morning, and he tugged on it as he looked at me. “That’s exactly what your grandmother believes. You like this version better, or Emmylou Harris?”
    I put down my book and picked up his iPad, scrolled through the song list, found the second version, and playedit for a minute or so. “I don’t know. They’re both good. Do you think Grandma’s right? Does all pain end when you die?”
    â€œI hope so, baby girl.” Dad came over to the garden bench and sat beside me. He smelled like dirt and salt and wild onions and spices from the oil he used on his hair and beard. He kept his eyes on the beds he had been weeding, but he scooted closer, then folded his hands and squeezed them between his knees like he did when something was really bugging him. “I’m sorry I was short with you last night.”
    â€œIt’s okay—” I started, but he cut me off.
    â€œNo, it’s not.” He patted my leg, then went back to squeezing his hands between his own knees and staring out at the garden. “I want you to understand something. Before your mom and I ever got married, we thought about what our children might go through, on account of us being different races. It never occurred to us we’d end up back here in Oxford. In Mississippi, of all places. But Mama started getting older, and—” He sighed. “Man plans, God laughs, you know?”
    I’d heard him say that before, and I knew what he meant. “Oxford’s great, Dad. I love it here.”
    Dad smiled, but he looked skeptical. “I never wanted you to have a rough time of it. Not over me, and the color of my skin—or yours.”
    I touched my skin, which seemed so light compared to his. “Maybe people just think I’m really tan?”
    â€œDon’t joke.”
    â€œOkay, sorry. But I haven’t had a rough time.”
    â€œThen your mother and I, we’ve done some right things.” He stared off into the sky. “What to tell the babies,” he murmured. “That’s always been a question. When to start. How to warn them. How to make