I nodded to Dad, unsure what to say. While he returned to the kitchen, I dropped onto one of the living room couches and tucked my feet under me. I recognized the gesture, tucking tight into a safe ball, but I couldn’t force myself to unwind. Soon he joined me, carrying two glasses of red wine and sporting a tense expression. I tucked tighter.
“Thank you.” I reached for the glass. It was an amazingly big, dark, earthy red, most likely a Bordeaux blend, and chewy enough to count as a meal. Although I wasn’t hungry, it was exactly what I needed, rich and grounding. I shifted my attention from the wine to the window and straight upon the top of the illuminated Eiffel Tower. The whole effect—the day, the wine, the company, and the view—was surreal.
Dad still had not spoken.
I turned back to him. “What are you doing here, Dad?”
We both heard my tone. It lay between us sad, defeated, and worn on so many levels. I also had failed to banish a note of wariness. All those feelings of light and hope I tried to envision as my own in the preceding hours vanished when faced with the reality of my dad.
“You’re exhausted,” he replied.
I nodded. I was exhausted. I also felt young, hurt, and very small. In the instant he hugged me, I had realized how much I missed and still needed my dad. Breathing him in had felt like coming home. I wasn’t sure I could withstand another lecture or another walking away. I scrubbed my hand across my eyes. “It’s been an unbelievable week, but you were right, the price has been high. I fly home first thing Friday to get to work.”
“I’m glad you won’t lose your job.”
“Yes, well . . . I’ve been thinking about that.”
His lips parted. It was clear he wasn’t sure what to do with that comment, but I wasn’t ready to deal with it myself so I pressed on. “Why are you here?”
“I drove to Derbyshire.”
It was not the answer I expected.
He continued, “I was headed to the airport Monday, but—I can’t tell you why—I ended up getting a rental and heading to Crich. I think I needed to say goodbye.”
He glanced at me. Speechless, I could only stare. Jason and I had endured a year of Dad “saying goodbye,” so this detour didn’t surprise me as much as it seemed to have surprised him.
“We didn’t stay for my mother’s burial, so you didn’t go, but all the Waite side of my family are buried in Crich. Generations of them. Grandparents, great-grandparents, great-greats. There is so much history there I’ve never felt a part of or appreciated before.” He paused. “She wasn’t there.”
“Grandmother?” I sat straight.
“My aunt. No one had ever put up a gravestone for Caroline Waite. Not a fake one with her death marked at age seven, nor another as if she died when that letter was delivered in 1941. She simply wasn’t there. It was like she never existed.”
Dad leaned forward, elbows resting on knees. He set his wineglass on the table in front of him and steepled his fingers together. I could see the tips of his nails whiten with the pressure.
“I have never been so angry in my life, Caroline, and I’ve carried a lot of anger through the years. Her life mattered. I don’t care what she did. She lived. She was my aunt, my mother’s twin sister, and she had parents who loved her, and they . . . they erased her. They erased her life like it never happened. And . . . I . . . I can’t abide that. There isn’t a minute of Amelia’s life I would want to miss. I could never—never—” He stuttered to a stop and swallowed. “I could never do that . . . I wouldn’t have missed a minute of Amelia’s life.”
Dad drew in a shuddering breath and blew it out through circled lips. It wavered between us and his eyes glistened. It was the closest I’d ever seen my dad to tears. His Adam’s apple rose and sank, catching with the strain, as he thought what to say next.
“I was so angry standing there. I was furious with all of them. Then this wave of red anger like nothing I’ve ever felt turned back on me . . . It’s what I’m doing, isn’t it? Right now. I’m erasing a life.”
I couldn’t reply. Nothing had prepared me for this.
Dad nodded as if I’d asked him to go on, as if we’d had a conversation and sat in agreement. “You had the courage to ask questions and to try to understand. You came to me and I was no better than all of them. I denied her to Mat, then to you. I wanted to erase her like they did, because that’s how I was raised. Without realizing it, I toed the party line.”
He smiled, tiny and flat. “Have you ever read The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde?”
I nodded and felt the clenching in my chest ease. This was the dad I knew. I still couldn’t speak, but felt a yielding in my eyes and posture. He saw it, or at least sensed it, for he blinked in acknowledgment.
“My family was like that. We looked so perfect. All hiding a secret no one could bear, corroding us from the inside . . . until you tried to understand. Your motives were good. You were trying to protect me. But what did I do? I turned on you. I . . . I haven’t been a very good father, Caroline. In that instant on Monday, as I realized I wouldn’t miss a minute of Amelia’s life, I recognized I’ve missed a lot of yours, and I’m throwing my own away.”
He paused again.
“That sounds like a powerful visit.” It was not the most sensitive thing to say or even what I wanted to say, but it was the only thing that occurred to me.
Dad chuckled. It cracked through the tension surrounding us. “Not one I want to go through again. I once read a biography of Saint John of the Cross. I gather he went through a forty-five-year ‘dark night of the soul.’ One afternoon was enough for me.”
He reached for his glass, drank deeply, then returned his attention to me. “I’m no better than my own grandfather, I guess. Caro wrote he could only see one of them. After Amelia’s death, I could only see her, the one I’d lost. That’s how I’ve measured most things in life, by what I’ve lost. Amelia felt like one thing too many and I decided no more—look at the loss that has led to.”
“You’ve read the letters?”
“I went to see you this morning, to apologize, and to say a lot of this. Your mom said I had just missed you again. I didn’t expect her to, but she invited me in and walked me through a selection of the letters and diary entries you’d found. She even invited me back to read them all.” He smiled at something warm and private. “She also fed me a marvelous lunch . . . When did your mom learn to cook?”
I felt my first genuine smile since hugging my dad break free, thinking of Mat and his Alice Waters comment. “I think she went through your ‘dark night of the soul’ a few years ago and came out a chef.”
Dad stilled, pondering this statement, but didn’t ask anything further. Instead, he looped his hand in a small circle as if resetting our conversation back to the letters. “I never knew my mother had scarlet fever. I never knew what she was like as a kid. I only knew her after years of loss. She also had one too many, I expect.” He nodded to me. “Your mom said you remind her of a young Margaret, and maybe an older Caro. You would have done what she did.”