Page 42 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“The time won’t come!” Sand flies in every direction as I shoot to my feet. “How could you think I would do that? Would you have put Lucy in a home when she was dying?”

My words echo through the meadow, reverberating back to me in harsh staccatos. Tru’s eyes are too dark for me to read, but the muscle in his jaw ticks. It’s enough.

I stumble backward, lungs aching. “I’m sorry, Tru. I didn’t mean to… I know it was different. But I can’t do that. Not to my dad. I can’t abandon him again.”

There it is. My thoroughly guarded secret, laid bare for him to dissect. I’m tempted to cave in on myself, to reel in the words I’ve already spoken, but I force myself to stand still. Not strong, but strong-acting.

Water falls off him in streams as he wades forward, rising from the dark river like some sort of aquatic god. He strides toward me, closing the distance in the time it takes my heart to remember to keep beating. He’s close now. So close I can make out the small bundle of flowers tattooed onto his rib cage, begging my fingers to trace it.

“There wasn’t time for Mom to need a home. Pancreatic cancer moves too quickly. By the time we knew she had it, it was everywhere.”

My hand covers my heart, a pathetic balm that doesn’t begin to soothe the ache. For a moment I forget my confession. I’m too busy drowning in grief.

“You’re right; it’s different with your dad. It may be moving fast, but we’ll still have years with him. Years that won’t always be pleasant.” He grimaces like he’s seeing something I can’t possibly imagine. “At some point he may need care that even Roberta can’t provide. And that’s okay. It doesn’t make you a bad daughter to get him the kind of help he needs. In fact, it makes you the best daughter.”

My chin wobbles. I clamp down on my lip, hopeful to stop the trembling. Truett’s gaze drops to that place. He reaches for me and I flinch. His hand pauses midair, and then his fingertips find my bottom lip, which he tugs from the grasp of my teeth.

His hand drops. “Did you know he was diagnosed a year ago?”

A sharp gasp stings my lungs. “What? W-why? Why would he wait?” So much time lost, I think. Not just the year, but those that preceded it, too.

“He wanted to take care of things first.”

Dad’s words in the voicemail filter through my mind. “I’m getting it all figured out. Well, me and that Parker boy…Truett. You remember him?”

I blink up at that Parker boy. The one I could never forget.

“What kind of things?”

Truett lowers himself to the sandy bank. Once seated, he reaches up for the hem of my shirt and tugs. I allow myself to be pulled down, mostly because my feet are unsteady beneath me. We sit thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, staring out at the brimming river.

“The first thing he said when he got the diagnosis was your name.”

I close my eyes, steeling myself. A sharp, quick breath breaks the barrier of my pinched lips.

“His biggest fear was that you’d give up your life trying to care for him. He wanted to make sure everything was in order so that you didn’t have to be stuck here working things out like…” His voice trails off. When I glance over at him, his mouth is a firm line.

I nudge his shoulder. “Like what?”

He fills his cheeks with air and releases it. “Like you were the parent.”

I briefly forget how to breathe. Awareness brushes over my skin in the form of goose bumps. How often have I thought of myself like that? The parent to two people who had me too young, who made mistakes that I suffered the consequences of. I always assumed Dad didn’t see how his affair affected me, how it forced me to grow up overnight. That he wasn’t thinking of me at all. Mom, I was used to managing. But suddenly both of them were falling apart, and who did that leave to take care of things?

Me. Always me.

“He’d already pulled back at the music school after Mama died. Once he got the diagnosis, he switched entirely to at-home lessons. But even those petered out eventually.” He clears his throat. Swipes his hand under his nose. “I helped him get the tests. Figure out his meds. Filled out the disability application. Made a list of homes to look at when the time came. We made a plan for how this would all end, how he’d afford it. Hell, we even picked out a headstone.”

Tears spill over my cheeks. Disability I thought of, but headstones? Funerals? I never even considered the possibility. My chest feels impossibly tight. “Where does he want to be buried?”

“Remember the little cemetery on top of the hill? It’s where we buried Mama. Your dad asked to be next to her.”

A half-bitten sob passes through my parted lips. I shove my fist against my mouth to cover it, but he hears. Of course he hears. To my surprise, I feel his arms come around me, and one hand presses my head into his chest. He cradles me there, chin tucked against the crown of my head, breath rustling stray strands of my hair. He smells like fresh air and vetiver-scented soap. I drink it in with each gulping sob, desperate for something light in all this darkness.

“He didn’t want to tell you until everything was squared away, so that if you decided to respond at all, to be involved in any way… Well, he wanted you to be able to focus on whatever it is you’re feeling, instead of letting obligation get in the way. Grief. Or relief.” His chin rolls against the crown of my head as he shakes his. “None of the fucking logistics of dying.”

I flinch away from him. Run a hand through my mussed hair. “Relief? Why the fuck would I be relieved?”

He finds my gaze and holds it. “He hadn’t seen you in nine years, Delilah. Neither of us knew what you’d think. Or want.” Each word is clearly articulated, a blade perfectly honed.

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