Page 5 of Ruled By Fate

Her father answered the door in bleary confusion. “Brie? What are you doing here?”

She offered him an uncertain smile, suddenly regretting her impulsive decision to come.

“Hi, Dad. You called me, remember? Asked me to stop by before I left? I thought maybe I could spend the night. We could catch up.”

He continued to stare in silence, and she shifted awkwardly on the porch.

“Can I come in?” she finally asked.

He blinked twice, then took a step backward, opening the door. She heard the bottle clink against the doorknob before she saw it. She chose to ignore it and walked into the house.

It had been a while.

Nothing had changed, not since that day. Things had been occasionally cleaned, but nothing had been moved — not one chair rearranged, not one painting rehung — since her mother’s death. There were no photos of life after that fateful day. It was a house locked in time. And it was a mess. Bottles and pizza boxes littered the floor. Takeout containers and unopened mail piled up in corners. Cobwebs occupied every corner of the ceiling.

A pang of guilt shot through Brie’s heart.

If this is how he’s coping now, what will he be like when I’m gone?

He returned to his place on the couch, where the cushions had worn to his imprint years ago — one depression from his elbow, another one for his thigh. She had the sad thought that the couch knew him better than anyone living.

“So, you’re off tomorrow then, huh?” he said, slurring the edges of his words.

He set the half-empty bottle on a side table, a little too hard. She moved a pile of papers and perched on the chair beside him, watching as he turned back to the television as if she wasn’t there. As if he couldn’t bear to look.

“Yes, I’m off tomorrow. Did you open the shop today, Dad?”

“Don’t you worry about the shop or about me. It’s handled, little missy.”

She set down the bag she was carrying on the coffee table. “I brought your favorite. Pastrami on rye and vegetable soup.” She tried to keep her voice light and playful, searching his face for any hint of affection, any sign that coming here had been a good idea.

“I’ll eat when I’m hungry, Brie.”

Her heart sank. “I’m going to get some water. Do you want a glass?”

“I’ll take some ice.” He shook the vodka bottle in her direction.

She tried not to react and went to the kitchen.

Her eyes were naturally drawn to the crack on the island where she and her mother had accidentally chipped the tile sword fighting with wooden spoons. And there was the place where they’d made pancake batter together with cinnamon and bananas. And there was the place where her dad had accidentally burnt her fifth birthday cake, and they’d all laughed.

Stop it, she told herself. You know where this leads, and this is hard enough as it is.

She filled one glass with water, the other with ice, and made her way back to the living room. Her dad hadn’t moved. He took the glass from her hand and poured it high. Too high.

She sat down to sip her water and watched him discreetly. When had his face become so weathered? His cheeks so sunken? His clothes seemed too big for him, and he suddenly reminded her of a small child.

She cleared her throat. “Dad, have you reconsidered my offer?”

“To move to Virginia with you?” He took a swallow of vodka and wiped his chin before turning his attention to the wrapped sandwich he pulled from the bag. “No, thank you.”

“Well, maybe you could plan to visit a few times?” she pressed hopefully. “Come see where I’m living? Who knows, maybe Virginia will start to grow on you.”

“I am never leaving my shop, Brie, and I am never leaving this house.”

She fell silent, ducking her head so he wouldn’t see her lip quiver or the years of emotion clouding behind her eyes. Her only solace was that she wouldn’t cry. She hadn’t cried in years. She didn’t even know if she could.

She recovered herself and retrieved her sandwich from the bag. They ate in silence, watching mindless TV and avoiding eye contact.

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