Page 19 of The Cost of Forgetting You

I pad over to the coffeepot, remove a mug from the cupboard, and pour myself a hefty serving.

“You must be Henry’s daughter!”

I glance over my shoulder to see Roberta watching me, another award-winning smile on her face. Her nose comes neatly to a point, which on anyone else would be a flaw, but with so much softness in her features, it somehow serves her well.

“Yes, sorry.” I finish shoveling a few spoonfuls of sugar into my mug and turn to face them, resting my butt against the counter. “Sorry to be rude, but I didn’t want to interrupt.” And I’ve never had to fire anyone before, so I’m biding my time.

“Nonsense.” Dad sweeps a hand in Roberta’s direction. “This is Roberta. She’s gonna be hanging out with me during the day so you don’t get sick of your old man.” There’s a glassiness to his gaze that belies his chuckle. He watches her thoughtfully, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

I press my lips together, heart aching, and shake my head softly. “I’d never get sick of you, Dad.”

Roberta smiles, but this time it doesn’t touch her eyes. A rare occasion for her, it seems. “Henry and I will be more like coworkers.” She pats his hand where it lies trembling on the table. “Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right.” His voice is full of gravel and grit. It hurts my throat just to hear it.

I tilt my head, studying him. I can’t imagine being sick enough to need help, but aware enough to be ashamed of that fact. All the more reason to keep his care between us. Roberta’s presence, while calming to me, seems to trigger a sad type of shame in him that I itch to soothe away.

“Besides, we’re old pros by now,” Roberta muses. The words drip with melancholy.

I take a sip of my coffee. “How so?”

She glances at my dad as if prompting him to answer. His gaze drifts out the window instead, to that far-off hilltop, as a tear slips silently over his cheek.

There’s a distinct shift in the atmosphere of the room, like how the air turns thick and irritable right before a storm rolls in. Instinct has me checking the cloudless sky on the other side of the windows, but all I find is endless sunshine.

Sunshine that pours in and sets Roberta’s gray streaks alight. She nods, accepting my dad’s nonanswer, and rolls her bottom lip beneath her teeth. “I was Lucy’s caretaker, too.”

The coffee sours in my stomach. “Pardon me?”

Dad winces, his gaze transfixed. Roberta rubs his knuckles gently. “Is everything okay, Henry?”

I forget to inhale. My lungs scream for oxygen, but I can’t bring myself to do this basic bodily function. I’m watching my dad. Waiting, hoping for the punch line to this awful joke. Willing him to make the world sensible again.

For a moment the distant bellowing of cows is the only sound in the room. And then he whispers, “I’d like to see her. Lucy. Will you take me today?”

Without missing a beat, Roberta says, “Lucy’s busy today. Maybe tomorrow?”

Relief courses through me, right up until I check Roberta’s gaze. It’s then that I see the hesitation. The sadness. That relief turns to ice in my veins.

“You bitch!” Dad slams his hand on the table. “Don’t lie to me! She’s not busy!” The corners of his eyes fold, pain wrenching his features. “Why doesn’t she want to see me?”

My hands are trembling. I set my coffee mug down for fear I’ll shatter it. This isn’t my dad. Not any version of him that I knew, at least.

“Where is she?” he asks again. “Don’t lie to me.”

She rubs at her pert nose with her free hand. Compassion softens her expression as she says, “Lucy passed away, Henry.”

He looks almost relieved at this news, like she confirmed what he knew in his heart. Still, he whispers, “She’s gone?”

“That’s right. Lucy’s gone.” Roberta nods. Her voice is silken, and yet it shreds me to pieces. She turns to me, a crescent-moon frown fitting ill on her face. “When her cancer got bad, Truett hired me to help so she could pass comfortably at home.”

The words hit me square in the chest. When I finally inhale, it’s like I’ve swallowed a thousand bees. My throat stings and throbs, lungs much the same.

It’s inconceivable, a world without Lucy Parker.

“I miss her,” Dad whimpers. Quiet tears slowly morph into sobs that rack his entire body. He tugs his navy-blue sleep shirt up to wipe his nose and sucks in a deep breath, only to let out the most heartbreaking wail I’ve ever heard. My stomach hits the floor, cemented there with my feet, as I watch my dad shatter into a million pieces while I’m helpless to stop it.

I’ve seen my mother lose control lots of times. From an early age I learned she was volatile, a volcano waiting to erupt if anything shifted. So I never shifted. I remained the constant in our lives: always dependable, always the same. “Henry is so prone to whimsy, with his music and wild dreams. But my Delilah has her head on her shoulders straight. She’s solid as a rock,” she’d proudly tell her family each time they’d visit, and I’d grin and bear it, all the while swallowing my heart back down when it surged to defend Dad and his dreams. Dreams a part of me understood, if not shared.

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