Page 120 of To Belong Together
Maybe he wasn’t as ready to pick back up as he’d thought.
He rubbed his face and scratched his neck.
Even if he didn’t feel it right now, the song’s message was good, and he had to stand behind it. The song alluded to faith, and this interview was supposed to be motivational, so he steadied his expression and tried to convince both himself and the camera with the words of hope he recited.
No one will ever loveme as completely as Dad did.
At the thought, Erin gasped in her bed. It was after three in the morning, and she’d only dozed a few minutes. She’d thought her grief over her father intolerable, but the loss of both Dad and John?
God, please, rescue me.
As she fought to breathe, the prayer got even simpler.
God, please. God, please.
And then one calm, foreign thought spoke over her panic.
I love you.
God. God loved her. It was more head knowledge than heart, but the truth held her second after second until her throat loosened. Her lungs relaxed.
Her clock said only a couple of minutes had passed.
God had been faithful to help, and quickly, but what if He grew tired of how often she needed so much reassurance? How would she function moving forward?
Would life get easier, brighter again?
She shifted her legs off the side of the bed, tempted to wander to the garage to be closer to Dad. She could lie on the floor there. Never get up.
Dad wouldn’t have wanted that for her. He might’ve been angry with her for even thinking it.
She stayed in bed, forced her eyes to close, and willed herself to sleep.
To no avail.
After an hour, she flipped on her bedside lamp. The photo displays from the funeral leaned against the wall of her room, begging to be disassembled. The images of Dad reminded her of all she’d lost.
Dad. Belonging.
How was she supposed to navigate the world without him?
She plopped onto the carpet and opened the container that stored her photos and paper keepsakes. She peeled a picture off the display and rifled through the tabs in the box. When she came to the right year, she slid the snapshot in.
One down, about forty to go. After this, she might be tired enough to sleep.
A few pictures came from the same year and were easier to place. She deposited them and reached blindly for the next photo. Her fingers closed on the shot of her with her parents at her high school graduation. She knew the year by heart, but she struggled to find the right tab.
Oh, there, hidden against a greeting card, one of the few memorable enough that she’d kept it.
Her dad had sent it the autumn she’d moved out and started tech school. The sentimental gesture had been out of character for him.
The cover of the card featured a trophy and read, “Congrats.”
She remembered the contents as being encouraging, special to her at the time because he’d gone out of his way, but she didn’t recall what he’d written. The scent of lightly aged paper rose as she opened it now.
The pre-printed message read, “So proud of your success.”
Dad had written in black ink beneath that.
