Page 125 of The Cost of Forgetting You

It may be best if y’all come home.

“He’s not having a good night.” I glance up at Tru. “I’ve gotta get home.”

“But he was fine earlier?” Tru holds my shoulders as he peers down at my phone. “I wonder what’s got him upset.”

I try to think through all the events of the day. His mood. Possible triggers. My brain is lagging, running on a terrible signal. “I-I don’t know. I thought he was doing okay.” I glance up at Alicia. At Destin, who’s holding her close and studying me with a sympathetic gaze. “I shouldn’t have come out. I’m sorry, guys.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault,” Destin offers.

Alicia reaches for me, but I’m already moving, albeit clumsily, toward the door. I hear their voices but don’t really listen. Hear the voice on the jukebox but not the words. Truett’s footsteps thunder behind me, one after the other, and then he’s ahead of me, opening the door to let me out into the night.

The moon is a sliver, leaving the world blanketed in darkness. Gravel crunches underfoot. We reach the truck in mutual silence, and Truett opens my door. Offers a hand to guide me in. I sit, staring blankly ahead, as he strides around front and climbs inside. The engine rumbles to life, settling my fears inside me like a lullaby.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Truett offers.

I bite at my lip. “You don’t know that.”

For Roberta to ask, it has to be bad. We both know that, deep down. I feel myself bracing before we’ve even left the parking lot.

Silence. We roam dark streets. His headlights strobe the overhang of branches and occasional twinkling yellow gaze in the brush. The metal fence lines and dust-coated mailboxes. Mile after mile, minute after minute. So much of it is monotonous. Enough to get lost if you don’t know your way.

“You know it’s not your fault. This didn’t happen because you took time for yourself.”

To that, I have no response. Because I don’t know. How could anyone say with confidence it isn’t my fault, that my absence isn’t what upset him? Maybe I could’ve noticed, redirected, prevented. If only I’d stayed home, I could have protected him from this.

When we arrive at the house, I hear my dad shouting the minute I open the truck door. The house is old; the walls are thin. It’s a shocking sound, one I never heard before his diagnosis. I take the front steps in twos and I’m at the door, pushing inside in the time it takes Truett to call out my name.

“I don’t wanna go!” Dad shouts. “I don’t know you!”

He’s wearing an old Alabama football jersey and slacks, with house slippers and his robe on top. He glances up as I enter the room and holds up a hand. In it, he’s white knuckling his wallet. “You can have it. Take it. Just don’t hurt the baby!” He throws the wallet and runs down the hall.

I briefly meet Roberta’s gaze before following after him. He slams open my bedroom door and gasps. “The baby! She’s gone!”

“What baby, Dad?”

He turns to me, shock and confusion and horror all warping his features into someone I barely recognize. “I’m not your dad. I’m hers.” He points to the wall, where a photo of me as an infant is hung in a gilded frame. “Where is she?”

“I’m right here, Daddy.” Tears spring forth. I can’t stop them any more than I can stop his confusion. Any more than I can make him remember. “It’s me. Delilah. I’m your daughter.”

Roberta’s hands cup my shoulders. I start, spinning around to find her holding up a phone.

“We need to get him to the hospital. Usually with a sudden shift like this there’s something medical going on. If nothing else, they can give him something to calm him down.”

I open my mouth, then close it. Truett appears just over her shoulder. I can’t look at him as I say, “I can’t drive him. I’ve had too much to drink.”

Shame twists my stomach, and I’m certain I’m going to be sick. The only virus I can blame this time is my own selfishness.

“Stop it! You all need to leave!” Dad yells from behind me. “I’ll call the police.”

“Henry, it’s okay. We’re here to help. We wanna find your baby, too,” Roberta says sweetly. “We’re going to call the authorities and they’ll help.”

“You will?” Dad asks, disbelief breaking his voice.

“You will?” I whisper, glancing at the phone in her hand.

“Yes. In his state, it’s not wise for any of us to drive him. We’d get in a wreck,” Roberta says to me, her voice low. She grabs my hand and pulls me backward. Turning to Dad, she says, “We’re going to call them now. This is Truett.” She pats his arm when he’s within reach. “He’s gonna stay with you while we call.” She peers up at Truett and smiles, though there’s tension tightening her gaze. “We’re gonna step into the kitchen. I’ll be right back.”

I bring myself to look at Truett, and I wish I hadn’t. There are tears spilling from his eyes, which are trained on my dad. He nods. “I’ll stay with you, Henry.”

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