“They kept him, my dad. Up at the hospital. He’s all confused.”
Tony’s voice is calm and sympathetic. “He’s been through a lot. Can’t imagine. How long have your parents been married?”
I don’t honestly know the answer to this. “Longer than I’ve been around. Look, my folks aren’t the reason I’m calling. I mean, sort of, but not exactly.”
“How can I help?”
Just like that. Straight-up. No winding twists and turns, just a question requiring an answer.
So I tell him. My face red with embarrassment, sitting on the counter in the steamy bathroom, feeling helpless and stupid and almost out-of-body.
“I’ll be right over,” he says. No difficulty with decision-making for this guy.
“Look, I realize you’re with family and probably don’t want to—”
“No, it’s fine. I was wanting to get out of the house for a bit anyway. I’ll be right there.”
He hangs up.
I’m still standing there with the phone in my hand, appalled by what I’ve just done, when the damn thing rings. It scares the bejeezus out of me, skittering out of my hand and into the sink. When I grab for it, it’s now just wet enough to be slippery and squirts out of my grasp twice before I bobble it and manage to get it in both hands.
I figure it’s probably Tony calling back to cancel, having had an earful from his girlfriend, but it’s Greg.
“Did you find the advance directive?” He doesn’t even ask about Mom and Dad. He is Attorney Greg, and I am now his client.
“Hey, I’m just out of the shower . . .”
“You didn’t, did you?” he says. “You didn’t even look.”
“Dad burned papers, Greg. And he shredded things. Why would he do that?”
Mom told him to. I don’t tell Greg that part, that strange, absurd part. I also don’t tell Greg about the pink blankets and the two babies or my sudden memory of my childhood imaginary friend.
“From what you’re telling me about his current mental state, why doesn’t seem like a valid question. Do you think he burned the advance directive?”
“He might have. I’ve been all through the filing cabinets and haven’t seen it anywhere.”
Greg says nothing. I say nothing. Both of us say nothing for long enough that I think maybe he’s drifted off to sleep, but he’s just thinking.
“And the neighbor?”
“What about her?”
“What does she say about your dad? Is she still making noises about domestic violence? Does she think he has dementia? What exactly did she say to the cops?”
“I haven’t talked to the neighbor.”
“Talk to her. Invite her over for coffee.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Maisey. This is not about your comfort. You want to get your dad clear or not?”
I sigh. I would like this to be about my comfort, but most things in life are not. “I want to get my dad clear.”
“Good. Tomorrow morning. Coffee with the neighbor. And search—I mean really search—for that advance directive.”
“It’s not here, Greg.”
“Try the bank.”
“What?”
“Some people keep important papers in a safe-deposit box. Try that.”
“Which bank? And don’t I need some sort of document to be able to access a box? Like a power of attorney designation or something?”
“I’ll email you a form. Get it printed and get Walter to sign it.”
“I can’t believe you just said that. How can that even be legal?”
He sighs so heavily, I swear I feel the wind move through the phone and into my ear. “This is to keep him out of jail, right? And to take proper care of your mother. It’s not like you’re defrauding somebody out of money.”
Shades of truth. That’s the legal system in action. I don’t like it, don’t want to be part of it. I’m saved from any commitment by the ringing of the doorbell.
“Gotta go, somebody’s here.”
“If it’s that neighbor—”
It’s not the neighbor, though.
It’s rescue, in the form of a decidedly attractive paramedic fireman by the name of Tony.
Leah’s Journal
I’ve never believed in journaling or in visiting a counselor, for that matter. It’s one thing to send a child to therapy and quite another to go yourself. I didn’t tell you about my counseling session, as I didn’t tell you about so many other things. I only went the one time. There was no point going back—the words are lodged too tightly in my chest to be able to speak them to a stranger. So even though I know full well you won’t be reading this, it makes it easier if I pretend that I’m writing it for you.
Dying isn’t easy, as it turns out. Not that I thought it would be, but I did not expect this clamoring of old ghosts, rattling their cages and demanding consideration. Was I right in what I have done? Was there a better way? I need to face up to these questions and the answers if I am to die with any sort of peace.
When I told the counselor I would not be coming back, she suggested that I try a journal. I scoffed, but memories are hounding me now, night and day, and something must be done to lay them to rest. You will never know how much I long to speak them to you, but I don’t have that kind of courage. I’ve asked myself if maybe once the story is written out I could ask you to read it, but even that is beyond me.
No. My first plan is best. When I am done exorcising my demons (if this is even possible), these pages will need to be destroyed.
Still, I find that it is comforting to picture you reading over my shoulder.
My past has been locked away so completely and so long that it had come to feel like it wasn’t mine, my memories no more relevant to me than a book I’d read or a movie seen and forgotten long ago.
No more. Emotions well up inside me at odd moments, as powerful and fresh as if they were brand-new. You are my only defense, that and pure willful stubbornness. I can’t speak to you of this, and my will, it seems, is failing.
How will I keep from spilling it all out to you? Can I persuade you that it’s just grief over my own early demise or maybe pain from a headache? Maybe writing it here will be a means of damage control.
Still, I am evading what I must write. You see how it is? Talking around the edges of things. Never speaking the truth of it. Because if I speak of it, if I speak of any of it, then one of two things will happen: The disaster fended off by my silence will come crashing down on us. On Maisey.
Or nothing will happen, and all my heartbreak will have been for nothing.
I’m not sure which fate would be worse.
Chapter Nine
Tony fears only three things in life: guns, women, and the nightmares that fracture his sleep.
Standing on the Addingtons’ front porch in the not-quite-summer twilight, awaiting a confrontation with two of these items combined, he has a ridiculous urge to race back to his truck and peel rubber right out of here. But his mother has raised him both to honor promises and to assist those in need, and he’s not about to let a little anxiety deter him from his duty.
Maisey is only in town for a week or two to check on her parents, he reminds himself. Hell, she has a kid and is probably married. As for the gun, he’s a crack shot and a gun safety expert. He can handle this.
Still, when the door opens and Maisey looks out at him, her abundant hair wild and untamed and framing those changeable blue-green eyes, his heart kicks up a notch. Sweat dampens the back of his T-shirt, despite a cool breeze.
You can do this. Just keep it light. Disable the weapon. Be polite. Then get the hell out of Dodge.
“Gun squad, reporting for duty.” He touches his fingers to the brim of his cap in a fake salute. “Where is the offending weapon?”
Maisey hesitates, briefly, crossing her arms over her belly, her eyes flickering over him full of questions. Nervous, he thinks. Probably having second thoughts about inviting him into the house now that he’s out of his official capacity. He smiles at her, tries to make his six-foot-three bulk look small and nonthreatening.