Page 41 of First Comes Forever

“Are you afraid that if she’s in Carson’s life, and Mom and Dad connect and find peace, you’ll be left all alone in your anger and unforgiveness?”

Crossing my arms, I shake my head. “Fuck you, man,” I bite out.

He shrugs off my outburst. “It’s just something to think about, Adam. I let go of my anger toward her, and I felt like I could breathe again.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m letting go of this conversation.” I turn on my heel.

“Where are you going?”

“To find Dad,” I mutter.

“Are you pissed at me?”

I don’t answer him, just start walking in the direction Dad did.

“Are you still willing to watch Carson tomorrow?” he calls out.

“Yup,” I shout over my shoulder.

* * *

“Dad?” I ask, lifting my knuckle to the door to his dormitory. It’s ajar, but I knock anyway, so softly, it’s barely audible. “Are you okay?”

The bed creaks, a few soft thuds on the floor, and then he opens the door wide. “I was just headed back your way. I needed a little quiet to—” He taps his temples in lieu of finishing his sentence.

“They’ll be serving dinner soon. Should we grab Alex and head to the dining hall?”

Dad steps backward and beckons me into his room. “You know what? How about just me and you for a moment?”

I follow him and take a deep breath. The room smells strongly of warm apple pie. “Did I interrupt dessert?” I look around at the small round table next to his kitchenette. The single-serve coffee maker is clean and empty. There’s nothing warming in the small microwave.

“It’s a candle.” He points to his nightstand where a large three-wick candle lies. Getting closer, I inhale deeply, noticing the small pools of melted wax around each wick. It’s a pleasant smelling candle, like real pie, not the sickeningly sweet artificial smell of apple. “I came back in here to light it.”

“Why?” I take a seat on his bed.

Dad exhales as he takes a seat in his reading chair. It’s impressive how much furniture they’ve crammed into one room. A shrunken home. “The neurologist was here last week and gave me homework.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Cocky-ass specialists love when they can boss us general practitioners around.”

I don’t find it funny, but I force out a small laugh. “What homework?”

“They’re curious if stimulating my senses will trigger some type of response. When it comes to the brain, you won’t believe how intricately everything is connected. I think the doctors are convinced if I stub my toe the right way, I’ll remember everything. Everyone is just hoping for—”

“Miracles,” I finish for him.

Dad nods. “Alaina, one of my nurses, brought me an apple pie candle. When I smell it, it reminds me of…something.” His nostrils flare as he tries to keep his composure. “I think it helps me remember you guys.”

“What’s it like?” I ask, knowing damn well the answer. I’ve asked so many times before, but I need his reassurance. “Are you ever scared or lonely? Do you wake up and not know who you are?”

“No. It’s not that intense, son. Each day is different, but it’s hard to explain. You know when you misplace your keys?”

“Sure.”

“You distinctly recall that you hung them up, left them on the counter, or in a coat pocket. But when you check, they aren’t there, and it’s hard to distinguish what memories are from earlier that day, or from weeks past. You wonder if your brain is playing tricks on you, or you’re making up memories. It all blurs together. Then, when you eventually find your keys on your clothes dresser, you have no recollection of ever placing them there, or even going into the bedroom in the first place. My memory is like that, all the time. In and out, with brief moments of clarity.”

When he pauses, I realize I’m staring at the mark on my white sneakers. I normally only wear these to the gym. I popped them on today to help Amani move. Hm, I scuffed them on something blue today, apparently.

“Adam?” Dad asks.

I lift my eyes to meet his gaze. “Yeah?”

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