Page 98 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“…speech therapy today. Delilah, are you working?”

“Hm?” I pivot and Truett’s hand slips. I miss it so acutely I can hardly take my next breath, let alone answer Roberta’s question.

Truett coughs to cover a breathy chuckle. When I glance up, I find mirth dancing in his gray eyes.

Roberta glances between the two of us and smirks. “I said, Henry and I are going to speech therapy today, then to a doctor’s appointment. Are you working?”

She and Truett are watching me for an answer. Dad continues to stare at his mug with a frown.

“Er, no.” I step out of Truett’s orbit, hoping a little space will clear my mind. Coffee splatters the sides of the sink as I dump it and rinse the mug. “I haven’t told Cameron yet the surgery’s off. Haven’t exactly had the time.” Or the energy. How do I explain what my mom did to my boss? Or to anyone, for that matter. I can’t even explain it to myself.

“Who’s having surgery?” Dad asks, finally glancing away from his coffee cup.

“Mom was. But she’s not anymore.”

He nods, rolling his lips. “Mom.”

“Kimberly,” I explain.

His gaze flits over my face, like the answer to his problem can be found there. “Do I know Kimberly?”

“Yeah, she was you—” I start.

Roberta cradles my elbow as she steps close, and my voice peters out. I’ll never get used to it. How he can be with me one moment and lost the very next. I lean into Roberta, drawing strength from her calm, and blow out a breath. Let the explanation die on my tongue.

Truett busies himself with gathering his wallet from the counter, his flannel overshirt from the back of the couch. But I can tell by the way his head is tipped, his shoulders taut, that he’s listening as intently as we are to see where my dad goes from here.

“Are you Kimberly?” Dad says. He’s squinting at me. “What surgery are you having?

Roberta squeezes my side. “No surgery anymore, Henry. She’s all better.”

He fills his cheeks with air, shaking his head. “I’m glad. I had surgery once. It fucking sucked.”

Truett covers his mouth with his hand. I laugh despite myself, some of the anxiety rattling loose in my chest.

“Jim did it. He’s not even a surgeon!”

Roberta hands me a fresh cup of coffee, then passes another to Truett. I pour creamer in, relieved to find no grounds come floating up from the depths. “What was Jim, if not a surgeon?”

“A damn insurance salesman.” Dad’s eyes are wide and so, so far away. “But get this, he’s not actually an insurance salesman. He just thought he was. He was actually being filmed secretly for this TV show.”

Metal clambers against granite as I drop my stirring spoon on the counter. “You sure his name wasn’t Truman?”

He snaps his fingers and points at me. “You’re absolutely right. Truman. What a strange guy.”

I fill my mind with the memory of my dad’s happy chatter the night we sat and watched The Truman Show till the sun rose and flooded the room with soft morning light. It takes the sting out of this moment, if only for a second.

“Strange indeed.” I swallow past the knot in my throat. “Are you going to be okay going with Roberta today? I can take you, if you’d like.”

“I can drive my truck,” he says, glancing out the window. His brow furrows. “Where’s my truck?”

I’ve never known my dad to have a truck. I’m still stumbling over that question when Roberta shrugs and, without missing a beat, says, “In the shop. But I’m happy to take you, if that’s okay?” She shakes a few pills from his organizer into her palm and retrieves a yogurt from the fridge. “I’ve also got some meds for you. You weren’t feeling too great last night, and these should help.”

His blue eyes lighten as they land on Roberta. “You’re Lucy’s friend.”

She nods, a sad smile playing on her lips. “I am.”

“Okay,” Dad says, accepting her outstretched offering.

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