Page 73 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Mom.” I force my tone to remain level, my version of crouching low to approach a cornered animal. “I’m simply trying to understand.”

She mutters unintelligibly—something unholy, I’m sure—then bites out, “What lies is he filling your head with?”

“None, Mom. It’s not like Dad and I are taking a deep dive into our family trauma given his condition.”

She pauses. In the silence, the sound of families enjoying the beautiful day rushes in. I envy them with such intensity that it knocks the breath out of me. I want to stagger from this car, from this conversation, and sink into the cool river below. Build sandcastles and throw Frisbees and just enjoy life for once. I can’t remember the last time I did.

I picture a different part of the river and a shirtless, blond-headed man with water spilling over the contours of his abdomen. A shiver unspools down my spine.

When Mom speaks again, all her guards are up. “So why the third degree then?”

I let loose a captive breath. It stretches my cheeks, and I feel the pull of sticky skin where my tears have dried. “I just asked if there was more to the story, that’s all. Hardly a third degree.”

“Seems to me like the more time you spend there, the more you allow yourself to be manipulated into believing your dad was the victim in all this, when I was the one humiliated in front of the whole town.”

I’m so tired. Tired of being torn between the two of them, never able to decide for myself how I feel or what I want to believe. My bones ache from the weight of her expectations. Her need for absolute loyalty, when Dad has never once tried to convince me of his innocence. If anything, in that first year when he still called, his words were laced with guilt. Shame. When Mom sent him my letter, that must’ve confirmed every deeply held fear he had. That he was unforgivable. And for a long time, I was sure he was. But now?

“I’m not being manipulated. No one is trying to sway me to one side or the other, Mom.” Except you. “Me being here to help care for my sick father is not some jab at you.” My next inhale stings my lungs. Fuels my fire. “Maybe I’m just finally out from under your umbrella of control and you hate that because then you can’t influence my perception of you or Dad. Like you have the past nine years, trying to convince me that he was the villain.” She gasps, but I push on. “And maybe no one was really the villain in the first place. Or everyone was, at least a little bit. Hard to say when you refuse to even discuss things with me. It was my life, too, you know.”

Her choppy sobs fill the speaker. “I gave up everything for you, Delilah. I don’t understand how you could be so cruel to me, saying things like that.”

Just as quickly as anger filled me, it dissipates, leaving me rotten and empty. My chest caves in from the weight of the guilt. “I’m sorry, okay?” I open my eyes. Even with sunglasses, the light is blinding. “I’m under a lot of stress, and I’m just trying to make sense of everything. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

Her cries die on a whimper. A self-soothing hum meant to ease the ache. It’s her signature epilogue. The way she’s ended her crying fits for my entire life. “Delilah, I just don’t think being there is the best thing for you.” Another hum. This time low, contemplative. “Maybe it’s time you come home.”

I exhale, deflating entirely. My shoulders sag. The seat cushions embrace me as I sink in.

I don’t know how to tell her that when I hear that word, I don’t picture the sprawling house the two of us shared. There’s no grand staircase or arched doorways or vaulted ceilings. Home whispers through my ears, and I see live oaks blown by a summer breeze. The heady scent of spring blooms mixed with the earthy aroma of hay and cattle. I’m on a front porch, with Dad’s black Converse kicked off by the door and an old, rusted chain squeaking in tune with the lazy sway of the porch swing it supports.

Despite all the pain, all the uncertainty, when she says come home, I look around at the dark river, and the tall pines, and the bright blue sky, and I think to myself, I’m already here.

I picture Dad playing guitar in his window seat. I feel worn hardwood beneath my bare feet. I see him scanning the kitchen cabinets for cat food he’ll never find. That ache in my chest turns to agony. My home is changing, and I am too, right alongside it. That’s not my mother’s fault. But that doesn’t mean she’s spared from the repercussions.

Rather than try to explain it all, I just sigh and say, “He needs me here, Mom.”

“And I don’t?”

My head meets the headrest with a muffled thud. “Why does it have to be a competition?”

I didn’t mean to say it aloud, and by the hiss of breath coming from her end, I should’ve bitten my tongue.

When she finally speaks, her voice is dripping with indignation. “It’s not, but I certainly know where I’d fall if it was. I’ve got to go, Delilah.”

“Mom—” I start to say, but the call is already cut off. “Fuck.”

I tear my gaze from the river, the trees, the sky. The steering wheel is warm beneath my palms as I back out of my spot, shift into drive, and head toward home.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Delilah

“Please remind me never to store spaghetti sauce in a white container again,” I grumble. The soiled Tupperware is the first thing I see when I open the dishwasher. A deep red stain stares up at me defiantly from the base of the bowl. “Or if I do, only let me store it in this container, since it’s already ruined.”

When I get no response, I peer into the living room to find Dad has drifted off to sleep, mouth gaping, with a dark spot of drool forming on the Ridgefield Family throw pillow he’s propped on. I laugh softly, padding across the room to gather the quilt from the back of the couch and spread it over him. Without thinking, I press a kiss to his forehead.

“Night, Dad,” I whisper.

He stirs, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening for a moment, before his face relaxes back into restful bliss.

---