Page 14 of Thick and Thin

I was near tears as I turned the page, reading two short entries that merely documented what her baby had been doing, noting that she’d received a prescription for an antidepressant and that she was hoping her tests would reveal whatever problem was going on with her “digestive system.”

And then they stopped.

I found myself crying for this woman I’d never actually known but who had found a place in my heart just the same.

Two things I knew for certain as I closed the journal: Sinclair’s father was Augustus—and his mother had not killed herself.

Chapter 6

After I had dad in his recliner back at home, surrounded with a glass of water, a cup of tea, and a little soup—not to mention his remote control—I sat on the sofa not far away. I had my phone handy, having promised to update Sinclair about his progress. I knew he’d still be at work so I wasn’t going to call.

But he had left me a text message, asking how everything had gone.

I texted him back: Dad seems to be handling the infusion okay, but he’s tired. I need to keep an eye on him through tomorrow at least. He has another infusion scheduled for the middle of the month, and I need to be there for that too. But I’m hoping to be back in Denver by Sunday.

After a few minutes, I added, He’ll have two maintenance treatments every year thereafter, and if this works as well as it’s supposed to, he’ll be in much better shape than he is now. I’m hopeful.

I really wanted to tell him about everything I’d learned about his mother—but that would be a conversation better had in person.

Dad was feeling a little more energetic the next day, but we knew the effects from the infusion—the positive ones, anyway—wouldn’t be felt for a while. Instead, there were concerns about infection that we—or he, once I went back to Denver—would have to monitor for. The clinic had sent us home with plenty of information, including what to do in the event of various complications.

At breakfast, he said, “After not feeling hungry yesterday, I think I could eat a horse today.”

“Well, I didn’t see any frozen horse meat in the freezer. Can I make you something else?”

Dad smiled. “You know what sounds good? Lasagna.”

Ah…lasagna was one of the few meals I felt like I was really good at making. A couple of years earlier, I’d followed a recipe on the back of the noodle box, and we loved it so much, I’d cut it out, storing it like a recipe card in a card file we kept in a cabinet in the kitchen. “Do you want garlic bread and salad too?”

“I thought that went without saying.”

I laughed. “Okay. But I didn’t buy any of the ingredients when I was at the store on Tuesday.”

“Then let’s make a trip.”

It was a great idea in theory—but we discovered after breakfast that my father was still exhausted. Although he’d had a burst of energy at first, he seemed to wear out quickly—but that was to be expected. So it would be just me, rather than the two of us.

Before I left, I said, “Text or call if you need me back here.”

As if I hadn’t said a thing, he asked, “Would you buy a pint of ice cream while you’re at it?”

“Rocky road?”

He acted like he was going to tell me a different flavor but then said, “Yes, that sounds good.” So I pulled the list out of my purse and added it, not wanting to forget my father’s celebration meal. I would never say it to him, but I was so proud of how he’d made himself do the treatment despite how his apprehension had grown as the day had approached. I suspected he’d worried because of having to face it alone—but when I took him, he felt braver about it.

As I drove to the store in Sinclair’s beautiful car, I felt nothing but gratitude toward him because he’d finally agreed to let me be here to take care of my dad.

Those two men were the most important men in my life—but they would each probably never know that.

I forced myself to push those thoughts out of my head after I parked the car and walked into the grocery store.

When I walked inside, I grabbed a cart and made my way to the produce section on the right. With Halloween just a few weeks away, they had pumpkins, gourds, and squash on full display—some for carving and others simply for decoration. Running my hand over the smooth orange skin of one of the bigger pumpkins, I considered putting it in the cart to carve.

Until I realized just how foolish that was. Even though I’d probably be back in two weeks to care for my father as he received his second treatment, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it—nor would my father. When I was younger, he’d help me carve my jack-o’-lantern, but I never thought he was much into it. Buying a pumpkin would do nothing but present him with yet another burden.

So I focused. In the produce department, I needed lettuce and tomatoes for the Italian salad I always made as well as fresh garlic for the dressing and the bread. Fortunately, the store was the same, just as it had been on Tuesday, and I’d discovered then that it was like I’d never left. I knew I’d find the Italian sausage along the back wall where all the meat was displayed and the bread would be farther down that way in the bakery section. The noodles and sauce would be past the soda and chips; the cheese and butter would be in dairy just a little farther.

The ice cream would wait for last, because the freezers were close to the register, and I didn’t want it melting as I wandered around.

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