Page 118 of How to Walk Away

I nodded, though I wasn’t at all sure that I did. “Don’t miss the plane.”

Kit came my way and squeezed me tight. “Call me if you need me.”

“Not if,” I said, “when.”

“At least you’re not bored,” Kit said then.

“Maybe we’ll all be better for knowing,” I said. But as I glanced at my mother, now catatonic in the face of what had just happened, it was hard to imagine how.

***

MY FATHER DIDnot come back for us after the airport. In my whole life, he had never ever not been there when I needed him.

But I got it.

He sent a car service instead.

It took my mother twice as long as anyone could have predicted to pack up and dismantle the décor, and the driver waited in the hall in his driving cap.

My mother, it’s fair to say, couldn’t seem to focus.

I tried to issue suggestions and encouragement from the bed, but she wound up walking around the room, picking things up randomly and setting them back down. She’d pack a few things, only to lose focus and leave others behind in the cabinet.

Meanwhile, nurses and patients popped in and out, saying good-bye.

I didn’t expect to see Ian, of course. Myles probably had security set up around the perimeter. But, despite all the pressing drama of the day, I couldn’t stop looking for him. I hadn’t gone a day and a half without seeing him since we’d met.

The day was a parade of all the faces I’d come to know these past six weeks: farewells from the social worker, and the hospital psychologist, and Priya, and Nina. I saw the spinal surgeon and the dermatologist, and the insurance rep, and two of the orderlies. It was almost like I’d been at summer camp, and now it was time to say good-bye until next summer.

It took forever to go. Then we hit warp speed.

Next, I was rolling over the threshold of my parents’ house, over the new ramp my dad had built for me, mentally thanking him and praising his workmanship while trying to staunch the flow of despair in my chest.

But when I rolled my way into the living room—there was my dad.

He froze when he saw us, and dropped his gaze to the floor. We froze, too.

He had an unzipped duffel bag in one hand—his pajama cuffs and part of a toothbrush sticking out, like he’d been trying to get out before we made it home.

“Hi, Cliff,” my mother said, almost in a whisper.

But my dad just turned his head away and waited for her to leave.

She did, moving past us back toward their bedroom.

Once she was gone, he met my eyes.

“How ya holding up, kiddo?” my dad asked, squatting down in front of me.

I looked at my dad’s duffel bag. “You’re heading out?”

He gave a nod. “I hope that’s okay.”

“I get it,” I said. “I do.”

“I just need a few days. Clear my head.”

Of course. That didn’t surprise me.

---