Page 11 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“Sorry about that.” I deposit my bags to the left of the door and shut it behind me. Dad, who’s opening and closing each kitchen cabinet in turn, doesn’t glance up. “Can I help you find something?”

“Just looking for the cat food.” He stands, strokes his chin with one hand, and rests the other against the base of his spine. “Skittles will be hungry soon.”

My breath hitches. I replay his words in my mind, hoping I simply misheard him, but no. I did not.

Dad’s gaze cuts to me. His features relax, and the fog that seemed to fill his gaze clears. “You hungry? We could go to the Grille. You always liked their shrimp sandwiches.”

There’s a ringing in my ears as my racing pulse calms, leaving quiet in its wake. I nod, tugging this bit of normalcy around my shoulders like a blanket against the cold. “Yeah, Dad. I’d like that.” I point at my bags. “Can I change first? If that’s okay. I’ve been sweating in these clothes all day.”

He smiles, flashing that crooked tooth. “Sure. Your room’s still the same.”

Of course it is. I smile weakly and gather my bags. “Be back in a second.”

The hallway is dim, but when I flick the switch to illuminate my path, nothing happens. Typical. Whenever another light in the house went out, the first bulb we’d steal was from the hall. This, like so much else, has not changed. It makes me acutely aware of the distance between myself and this place, and all the things that have shifted within me as a result. It’s like running on a treadmill. You do all this work just to end up right where you started.

My room, the last on the left, appears untouched at first glance. There are my pictures, tucked into the white frame of my vanity mirror. Heavy curtains to block out the light so my teenage self could sleep in well past noon. Even the bedspread, a purple, floral thing, remains. But the room smells of cleaner. There’s not a speck of dust on any surface.

He may not have known I would come, but I recognize it in this room. The hope. It fills a gap somewhere in my heart, like concrete in a pothole you’d grown so accustomed to giving a wide berth.

I set my things at the foot of my bed, except for my laptop, which I place on the vanity. For the time being, this will make do as a desk. The blinds slap shut when I pull the cord. I strip my tank top from my body. Reapply deodorant that I retrieve from the outer pocket of my backpack. The first T-shirt my hands touch gets tugged over my head. A few pieces of hair have fallen from my ponytail, so I remove the band and redo it, using my hands as a hairbrush to smooth it out.

Dad’s standing by the table when I return to the kitchen. His gaze is lost somewhere on the other side of the breakfast nook windows, on the pasture and the Parkers’ house beyond it.

Do he and Lucy still see each other? Is that why Truett is so determined to be involved? The thought makes my chest physically ache. My eyes burn. In my absence, I imagine another family forming. One with no space for me.

I swipe at my eyes, twin streaks of mascara lining my fingers. When I wipe them on my cutoffs, Dad glances over at me.

“You ready?”

I press my lips together. For the first time since walking through the door, I really take him in. Nine years without seeing him. Eight without hearing his voice. While living them, it felt like an eternity. But looking at my dad, it’s hard to believe so much time has passed. A few extra wrinkles, that peppering of gray hair. But he’s still my father. His fingertips are calloused from plucking guitar strings. There’s a barbecue stain on the pocket of his Fly Hollow Marching Band T-shirt. It stings the back of my throat, the way I missed him. The shame of not having been here, even though being here fills me with guilt.

“Dad,” I whimper, “is it really okay that I came?”

I want permission, I realize. Reassurance. To know that I haven’t ruined my relationship with one parent for another who doesn’t even want me.

His face crumples, eyes filling with unshed tears. “It’s more than okay. It’s everything.”

I want to run to him and cry and cry and cry. To be small and comforted by my father’s embrace. But I don’t. I can’t. Not when he needs me to be strong, to take care of him. Not when there’s still so much hurt festering inside me.

Instead I suck in a deep breath and let it out through my teeth. Wipe my eyes once more and clean them off on my shorts. Something crinkles in my pocket. Pinching it between two fingers, I remove the crumpled business card Truett handed me.

Roberta Dunn is a certified nurse practitioner with over fifteen years of home care experience, according to her business card. She sounds qualified. She also sounds expensive.

I walk over to Dad with every intention of tossing her card in the trash can beside him, but then I notice the kitchen cabinets, still swung open from his earlier search.

I smooth the card out on the counter. Just in case.

Roberta’s name grows blurry as I finally summon the strength to say, “I’m really sorry about the letter.”

“What letter?” Dad asks.

My gaze jolts to his, which is twinkling with mischief.

I swallow and nod, the relief so overwhelming that for a moment I can’t formulate a response. Finally a smile pulls my lips tight. “Ready for shrimp sandwiches?”

He slings an arm around my shoulder and guides me out. “Born ready, sweet pea.”

The door slams shut behind us as he steps into his Converse. I pause, waiting for him to lock it, but he doesn’t. Just starts toward my car while tossing, “You’re driving!” over his shoulder.

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